The pistol-shots begin again,
the dogs howl louder than ever at sight of the unclean _paien_, thus
borne in triumph. The children salute him derisively with wooden clogs
tied at the ends of strings.
But why this ovation to such a revolting personage? They are marching to
the conquest of the sacred cabbage, the emblem of matrimonial fecundity,
and this besotted drunkard is the only man who can put his hand upon
the symbolical plant. Therein, doubtless, is a mystery anterior to
Christianity, a mystery that reminds one of the festival of the
Saturnalia or some ancient Bacchanalian revel. Perhaps this _paien_, who
is at the same time the gardener _par excellence_, is nothing less than
Priapus in person, the god of gardens and debauchery,--a divinity
probably chaste and serious in his origin, however, like the mystery of
reproduction, but insensibly degraded by licentiousness of manners and
disordered ideas.
However that may be, the triumphal procession arrives at the bride's
house and marches into her garden. There they select the finest cabbage,
which is not quickly done, for the ancients hold a council and discuss
the matter at interminable length, each pleading for the cabbage which
seems to him the best adapted for the occasion. The question is put to a
vote, and when the choice is made, the _gardener_ fastens his rope
around the stalk and goes as far away as the size of the garden permits.
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