And this ame du Midi, spirit of Provence, the genius of his race that he has striven to express, what is it?  How shall it be defined or formulated?  Alphonse Daudet, who knew it, and loved it, whose Parisian life and world-wide success did not destroy in him the love of his native Provence, who loved the very food of the Midi above all others, and jumped up in joy when a southern intonation struck his ear, and who was continually beset with longings to return to the beloved region, has well defined it.  He was the friend of Mistral and followed the poet’s efforts and achievements with deep and affectionate interest.  It is not difficult to see that the satire in the “Tartarin” series is not unkind, nor is it untrue.  Daudet approved of the Felibrige movement, though what he himself wrote in Provencal is insignificant.  He believed that the national literature could be best vivified by those who most loved their homes, that the best originality could thus be attained.  He has said:[17]—­

“The imagination of the southerners differs from that of the northerners in that it does not mingle the different elements and forms in literature, and remains lucid in its outbreaks.  In our most complex natures you never encounter the entanglement of directions, relations, and figures that characterizes a Carlyle, a Browning, or a Poe.  For this reason the man of the north always finds fault with the man of the south for his lack of depth and darkness.

“If we consider the most violent of human passions, love, we see that the southerner makes it the great affair of his life, but does not allow himself to become disorganized.  He likes the talk that goes with it, its lightness, its change.  He hates the slavery of it.  It furnishes a pretext for serenades, fine speeches, light scoffing, caresses.  He finds it difficult to comprehend the joining together of love and death, which lies in the northern nature, and casts a shade of melancholy upon these brief delights.”

Daudet notes the ease with which the southerner is carried away and duped by the mirage of his own fancy, his semi-sincerity in excitement and enthusiasm.  He admired the natural eloquence of his Provencals.  He found a justification for their exaggerations.

“Is it right to accuse a man of lying, who is intoxicated with his own eloquence, who, without evil intent, or love of deceit, or any instinct of scheming or false trading, seeks to embellish his own life, and other people’s, with stories he knows to be illusions, but which he wishes were true?  Is Don Quixote a liar?  Are all the poets deceivers who aim to free us from realities, to go soaring off into space?  After all, among southerners, there is no deception.  Each one, within himself, restores things to their proper proportions.”

Daudet had Mistral’s love of the sunshine.  He needed it to inspire him.  He believed it explained the southern nature.

Concerning the absence of metaphysics in the race he says:—­