In winter, when the insect takes an enforced rest, the study of numismatics affords me some delightful moments. I love to interrogate its metal disks, the records of the petty things which men call history. In this soil of Provence, where the Greek planted the olive-tree and the Roman planted the law, the peasant finds coins, scattered more or less everywhere, when he turns the sod. He brings them to me and consults me upon their pecuniary value, never upon their meaning. What matters to him the inscription on his treasure-trove! Men suffered of yore, they suffer to-day, they will suffer in the future: to him all history is summed up in that! The rest is sheer futility, a pastime of the idle. I do not possess this lofty philosophy of indifference to things of the past. I scratch the piece of money with my finger-nail, I carefully strip it of its earthy rind, I examine it with the magnifying-glass, I try to decipher its lettering. And my satisfaction is no small one when the bronze or silver disk has spoken. For then I have read a page of humanity, not in books, which are chroniclers open to suspicion, but in records which are, in a manner, living and which were contemporary with the persons and the facts. This bit of silver, flattened with the die, speaks to me of the Vocontii. [1] ‘VOOC ... VOCUNT,’ says the inscription. It comes from the small neighbouring town of Vaison, where Pliny the naturalist [2] sometimes spent a holiday. Here perhaps, at his host’s table, the celebrated compiler learnt to appreciate the Beccafico, [3] famous among the Roman epicures and still renowned to-day, under the name of Grasset, among our Provençal gastronomers. It is a pity that my bit of silver says nothing of these events, more memorable than any battle. It shows on one side a head and on the other a galloping horse, all barbarously inaccurate. A child trying its hand for the first time with a sharp-pointed stone on the fresh mortar of the walls would produce no more shapeless design. No, of a surety, those bold Allobroges were no artists. How greatly superior to them were the foreigners from Phocæa! Here is a drachma of the Massalietes: [4] ΜΑΣΣΑΛΙΗΤΩΝ. On the obverse, a head of Diana of Ephesus, chub-faced, full-cheeked, thick-lipped. A receding forehead, surmounted by a diadem; an abundant head of hair, streaming down the neck in a cascade of curls; heavy ear-drops, a pearl necklace, a bow slung over the shoulder. Thus was the idol decked by the hands of the pious Syrian. To tell the truth, it is not æsthetic. It is sumptuous, if you will, and preferable, after all, to the donkey’s-ears which our modern beauties wear perched upon their heads. What a singular freak is fashion, so fertile in the means of uglification! Commerce knows nothing of loveliness, says this divinity of the traders; it prefers profit, embellished with luxury. So speaks the drachma.