Jasmin: Barber, Poet, Philanthropist

ith rapidity; he elaborated his poems by degrees; he arranged the plot of his story, and then he clothed it with poetical words and images. While he walked a

stulate with him for using this almost dead and virtually illiterate patois. Why not write in classical French? M. Dumon, his co

language of the French, while the Langue d'Oc remained merely a patois. Do not therefore sing in th

ty as long as it has been spoken by our ancestors? I hope not; at least I wish it may be less spoken. Yet I love its artless and picturesque expressions, its lively recollections of customs and manners which have

been Gaul, but now it became France. The force of centralisation which has civilised Europe, covering this immense chaos, has brought to light, after more than a hundred years, this most magnificent creation the French monarchy and the French language. Let us lament, if you will, that the po

you have restored and perhaps even created; yet you do not feel that it is the national language; this powerful inst

d been denounced by M. Dumon as a patois. He endeavoured to express himself in the most characteristic and poetical style, as evidence of the vitality of his native Gascon. He compared it to a widowed mother who dies, and also to

t a deeper

mother, fain

old, and w

leech's a

couch her

hand, and wa

ough she rev

is hope to-

thus, beli

nchantress-

mother: Fre

since, procla

r-tongue-

c lives ca

lives, her wo

n yet her c

nd years m

r magic n

their ancient

ple, love and k

as their moth

mother, sister,

things that pl

hopes, from whic

as sweet water

arkling wave tha

e, at ev'ry

side, when ou

round us-near

ave attend us

critics! 'twill

sweep away this

bid this music

ar them, nor d

rn where its fir

its honey, s

rms, and waken

ounds, and warb

ke it in an h

its age, ren

instrel who is

er language. Even the last editor of Jasmin's poems-Boyer d'Agen-does not translate them into French poetry, but into

he local authorities to be rooted up. The labourers worked away, but their pick-axes became unhafted. They could not up-root the tree; they grew tired and forsook the work. When the summer came, g

gue shall not and must not die. The mother-tongue recalls our own dear mother, sisters, friends, and crowds of bygone associations, which press into o

e," he said to M. Dumon, "love to hear my songs in their native dialect. You have enough poetry in classical French; leave me to please my compatriots in the dialect which they love. I cannot give up this harmonious language, our second mother, even t

o, while Jasmin was merely reviving a gradually-expiring dialect. Drouilhet de Sigalas has said that Dante lived at the sunrise of his language, while Jasmin lived at its sunset. Indeed, Gascon was not a written language, and J

in words. Nearly five years had elapsed since he recited The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille to the citizens of Bordeaux; since then he had written a few poetical themes, b

, Truelle, occupied the town in April 1562; but Blaize de Montluc, "a fierce Catholic," as he is termed by M. Paul Joanne, assailed the town with a strong force and recaptured it. On entering the place, Montluc found that the inhabitants had fled with the garrison, and "the terrible chief was greatly disappointed at not finding any person in Agen to

d with terror. Montluc's castle of Estellac, situated near the pretty village of Estanquet, near Roquefort-famous for its cheese-still exists; his cabinet is preserved, and his

Franconnette was a village beauty. Her brilliant eyes, her rosy complexion, her cherry lips, her lithe and handsome figure, brought all the y

er affections; but, like beauties in general, s

luc's castle of Estellac on the votive festival of St. Jacques at Roquefort. Franconnette was there, as well as Marcel and Pascal, her special admirers. Dancing began to the music of the fife; but Pascal, the handsomest of the young men, seemed to avoid the

onnette, then another; but she tired them all. Then came Marcel, the soldier, wearing his sabre, with a cockade in his cap-a tall and stately fellow, determined to win the reward. But he too, after much whirling and dancing, was at last tired out: he was about to fall with di

d then dealt him a thundering blow between the eyes. Pascal was not felled; he raised his arm, and his fist descended on Marcel's head like a bolt. The sol

o separate. This terrible encounter put an end to the fete. The girls fled like frightened doves. The young men escorted Pascal to his home preceded by the fifers. Marcel was

came the Feast of Lovers, called the Buscou,{4} on the last day of the year, where, in a large chamber, some hundred distaffs were turning, and boys and girls, with nimble fingers, were winding thread of the fi

in silent dejection; and soon the anvil was ringing and the sparks were flying, while away down in the village the busking went merrily on. "If the prettiest were always the most sensible,"

the coquette, he began in tones of lute-like sweetness the following song, entitled 'The Syre

olo pa

al co d

go, di

en tind

amisto

r farib

parpail

o que m

n cami

te

d'acos,

nhur p

os d'est

n sat p

d sheph

th heart

us, tel

en for

hou sh

free a

you flu

ber you

y path

hy f

comes of thi

ess it ne

to be lov

'er can l

own language, the more difficult it is to reproduce it in another. But the spirit of the son

ly sang The Syren to music of his own co

e. Franconnette was unwontedly touched by the song. "But where is Pascal?" she said. "If he loves, why does he not appear?" "Oh," said Laurent, another of his rivals, in a jealous and piqued tone, "he is too poor, he is obliged to stay at home, his father is so infirm tha

hallenged by Laurent, and after many rounds the girl was tired, and Laurent claimed the kisses that she had forfeited. Franconnette flew away like a bird; Laurent

and the young people were about to disperse when, at this unlucky moment, the door was burst open and a

nnette. Behold, she is accursed! While in her cradle her father, the Huguenot, sold her to the devil. He has punished Pas

friends at once held aloof from her. They called out to her, "Begone!" All in a maze the girl shuddered and sickened; she became senseless

on. The news spread abroad that the girl was accursed and sold to the Evil One, and she was avoided by everybody. She felt herself doomed. At length she reac

ir own. The nightingales, more curious than the rest, flew into the maid's garden; they saw her straw hat on a bench, a rake and watering-pot among the neglected jonquils, and the rose branches running riot. Peering yet further and peeping into the cottage door, the curious birds discovered an old woman asleep i

as defended her everywhere, and boldly declared her to be the victim of a brutal plot. She now realised how great was his goodness, and her proud spirit was softened even to tears. The grandmother put in a good word fo

nicants avoided her. The churchwarden, Marcel's uncle, in his long-tailed coat, with a pompous step, passed her entirely by, and refused her the heavenly meal. Pascal was there and came to her help. He went forward to the

lessed bread to the ancient dame, and retires to her chamber to give herself up, with the utmost gratefulne

mon. All seem to believe the hideous tale, and no one takes her part save Pascal and her gran

the Angelus at the appropriate hours. The report had spread abroad that Franconnette would entreat the Blessed Virgin to save her from the demon. The strangers were more kind to her than her immediate neighbours, and from many a pitying heart the prayer went up that a miracle might be wrought in favour o

er; but scarcely had it touched the lips of the orphan when a terrible peal of thunder rent the heavens, and a bolt of lightning struck the spire of the church, extinguishing her taper as well as the altar lights. This was a most unlucky coin

stroyed the belfry; the church of Roquefort was demolished by a bolt of lightning, the spire of Saint Pierre was ruined. The storm was followed by a tempest of hail and rain. A

" Franconnette rushed to the door and pleaded for mercy. "Go back," cried the crowd, "you must both roast together." They set fire to the rick outside and then proceeded to fire the thatch of the c

t last, after refusing any marriage under present circumstances, she clung to Pascal. "I would have died alone," she said, "but since you will have it so, I resist no longer. It is our fate; we will die together." Pascal was willing to die with her, and turning to Marcel

h occasions. The rustics shuddered at heart over the doom of Pascal. The soldier Marcel marched at the head of the wedding-party. At the church an old woman appeared, Pascal's mother. She flung her arms about him and adjured him to fly from his false

"I can do no more," he said; "your mother has conquered me. Franconnette is good, and pure, and tr

ou with his mischievous tale, and chance did the rest. When we both demanded her, she confes

your wife and your mother! You need have no more fear of me. It is better th

into each other's arms. "And now," said Jasmin, in concluding his poem, "I must lay

s to Ch

to M. Dumon will be found in the

edoc,' par Paul Joann

the suspension bridge over the Garonne, a little to the south of Agen. A number of men and women of the working-class were assembled on the grassy sward, and were dancing, whirling, and pirouettin

ng, was a kind of bee, at which the young people assembled, bringing the thread of their late spinning, which was divided into skeins of the proper size by a broad and thin plate of steel

rt Costello in 'Bear

emigrants to Canada, where it existed not long ago. The crown of the sacramental bread

ed for its legends and miracles, to which num

The bridge was destroyed and repaired many times, and one of the piles on which the bridge was built is still to be seen. It is attributed to Napoleon I. that he caused the first bridge of stone to be erected, for the purpose of facilitating the passage of his troops to Spain. The work