At midnight, on the 15th, everybody sits down in the courtyard to a great banquet, with which the fête is terminated. This banquet is specially given to await the descent of the goddess of the moon. The myth will have it, that on that day she leaves her celestial abode to come down and listen to the wishes of the mortals. Needless to say, that nobody ever yet saw the graceful inhabitant of our satellite; but it is difficult to drive out of the people’s minds traditions which have been handed down for centuries from father to son.
A story is, however, told of an old woman who was favoured one night with a visit from the Chinese Diana, who asked her what she wanted, and who promised to grant all that she could wish for. Dazzled by the splendour of the costume and the imposing beauty of the lady, the old woman stood speechless, and could not say a word. At last, encouraged by the kindly insistence of the queen of the moon, the old woman summoned up enough courage to carry her hand to her mouth, meaning thereby that she only wished to have enough to eat for the rest of her life.
The apparition made a sign of acquiescence, and remounted to heaven. The next morning the old woman was seen wearing a gigantic, full beard. The goddess had not understood her gesture.
The moon is the patroness of poetry. Autumn, moreover, the most beautiful of seasons, with its wealth of chrysanthemums and oleas of sweet perfume in flower, furnishes also subjects dear to the poets. This fête is accordingly more aristocratic and more literary than the others, which have little to offer but popular pleasures. Thus, to celebrate it, pretence is made of transforming the terrestrial abodes into so many crystal palaces to harmonise with the splendours which are believed to exist in the celestial regions.
I have said that the moon is the patroness of poetry. It is she, indeed, who, from the earliest ages, has at all times known how to inspire poets—now with sad, now with joyous songs. It is she who unites in common contemplation the looks and the thoughts of lovers separated by long distances from each other; it is she who consoles the unhappy despairing in their solitudes. The most intimate secrets of the heart are confided to her, the softest and sweetest wishes are formed before her transparent mirror. Who shall then be astonished if poetry cherish this kindly queen of the night?
Here are some verses dedicated to this star by our poets:
“Raising my glass to drink with the moon,
I notice that we are three—
The moon, my shadow, and myself.
The moonlight comes right up to my bed,