But still more important were his works of charity, which endeared him to the people through the South of France. It was right and reasonable that his fellow-citizens should desire to take part in the honours conferred upon their beloved poet. He had already experienced their profound sympathy during his self-sacrificing work, but they now wished to testify their public admiration, and to proclaim the fact by some offering of intrinsic value.

The Society of Saint-Vincent de Paul—whom he had so often helped in their charitable labours—first started the idea. They knew what Jasmin had done to found schools, orphanages, and creches. Indeed, this was their own mission, and no one had laboured so willingly as he had done to help them in their noble work. The idea, thus started by the society, immediately attracted public attention, and was received with universal approval.

A committee was formed, consisting of De Bouy, mayor; H. Noubel, deputy; Aunac, banker; Canon Deyche, arch-priest of the cathedral; Dufort, imperial councillor; Guizot, receiver-general; Labat, advocate-general; Maysonnade, president of the conference of Saint-Vincent de Paul; Couturier, the engineer, and other gentlemen. A subscription was at once opened and more than four thousand persons answered the appeal.

When the subscriptions were collected, they were found so great in amount, that the committee resolved to present Jasmin with a crown of gold. Five hundred years before, Petrarch had been crowned at Rome in the name of Italy, and now Jasmin was to be crowned at Agen, in the name of Meridional France. To crown a man, who, during his lifetime had been engaged in the trade of barber and hair-dresser, seemed something extraordinary and unique. To the cold-blooded people of the North there might appear something theatrical in such a demonstration, but it was quite in keeping with the warm-hearted children of the South.

The construction of the crown was entrusted to MM. Fannieres of Paris, the best workers of gold in France. They put their best art and skill into the crown. It consisted of two branches of laurel in dead gold, large and knotted behind, like the crowns of the Caesars and the poets, with a ruby, artistically arranged, containing the simple device: La Ville d'Agen, a Jasmin! The pendants of the laurel, in dead silver, were mixed with the foliage. The style of the work was severe and pure, and the effect of the chef d'oeuvre was admirable.

The public meeting, at which the golden crown was presented to Jasmin, was held on the 27th of November, 1856, in the large hall of the Great Seminary. Gilt banners were hung round the walls, containing the titles of Jasmin's principal poems, while the platform was splendidly decorated with emblems and festoons of flowers. Although the great hall was of large dimensions, it could not contain half the number of people who desired to be present on this grand occasion.

An immense crowd assembled in the streets adjoining the seminary.

Jasmin, on his arrival, was received with a triple salvo of applause from the crowd without, and next from the assembly within. On the platform were the members of the subscription committee, the prefect, the Bishop of Agen, the chiefs of the local government, the general in command of the district, and a large number of officers and ecclesiastics.

Jasmin, when taking his place on the platform saluted the audience with one of his brilliant impromptus, and proceeded to recite some of his favourite poems: Charity; The Doctor of the Poor; Town and Country; and, The Week's Work of a Son. Then M. Noubel, in his double capacity of deputy for the department, and member of the subscription committee, addressed Jasmin in the following words:

"Poet, I appear here in the name of the people of Agen, to offer you the testimony of their admiration and profound sympathy. I ask you to accept this crown! It is given you by a loving and hearty friend, in the name of your native town of Agen, which your poetry has charmed, which rejoices in your present success, and is proud of the glory of your genius. Agen welcomed the first germs of your talent; she has seen it growing, and increasing your fame; she has entered with you into the palaces of kings; she has associated herself with your triumphs throughout; now the hour of recognising your merits has arrived, and she honours herself in crowning you.

"But it is not merely the Poet whom we recognise to-day; you have a much greater claim to our homage. In an age in which egoism and the eager thirst for riches prevails, you have, in the noble work which you have performed, displayed the virtues of benevolence and self-sacrifice. You yourself have put them into practice. Ardent in the work of charity, you have gone wherever misery and poverty had to be relieved, and all that you yourself have received was merely the blessings of the unfortunate. Each of your days has been celebrated for its good works, and your whole life has been a hymn to benevolence and charity.

"Accept, then, Jasmin, this crown! Great poet, good citizen, you have nobly earned it! Give it an honoured place in that glorious museum of yours, which the towns and cities of the South have enriched by their gifts. May it remain there in testimony of your poetical triumphs, and attest the welcome recognition of your merits by your fellow-citizens.

"For myself, I cannot but be proud of the mission which has been entrusted to me. I only owe it, I know, to the position of deputy in which you have placed me by popular election. I am proud, nevertheless, of having the honour of crowning you, and I shall ever regard this event as the most glorious recollection of my life."

After this address, during which M. Noubel was greatly moved, he took the crown of gold and placed it on the head of the poet. It is impossible to describe the enthusiasm of the meeting at this supreme moment. The people were almost beside themselves. Their exclamations of sympathy and applause were almost frantic. Jasmin wept with happiness. After the emotion hard subsided, with his eyes full of tears, he recited his piece of poetry entitled: The Crown of my Birthplace.{2}

In this poem, Jasmin took occasion to recite the state of poverty in which he was born, yet with the star of poetry in his breast; his dear mother, and her anxieties about his education and up-bringing; his growth; his first efforts in poetical composition, and his final triumph; and at last his crown of gold conferred upon him by the people of Agen—the crown of his birthplace.

"I feel that if my birthplace crowns me, In place of singing. . . I should weep!"

After Jasmin had recited his touching poem, he affectionately took leave of his friends, and the assembly dispersed.

Endnotes to Chapter XVIII.

{1} There is a Gascon proverb which says:

"Qu'a vingt ans nouns po, Qu'a trent ans noun sa, Qu'a cranto noun er, Qu'a cincanto se paouso pa, Sabe pa que pot esper."

"Who at twenty does nothing; Who at thirty knows nothing; Who at forty has nothing; Who at fifty changes nothing: For him there is no hope."

{2} Perhaps this might be better rendered "The Crown of my Infancy;" in Gascon, "La Courouno del Bres."



CHAPTER XIX. LAST POEMS—MORE MISSIONS OF CHARITY.

This was the last occasion on which Jasmin publicly appeared before his fellow-townsmen; and it could not perhaps have been more fitting and appropriate. He still went on composing poetry; amongst other pieces, La Vierge, dedicated to the Bishop of Algiers, who acknowledged it in a complimentary letter. In his sixty-second year, when his hair had become white, he composed some New Recollections (Mous Noubels Soubenis), in which he again recalled the memories of his youth. In his new Souvenirs he only gives a few fresh stories relating to the period of his infancy and youth. Indeed they scarcely go beyond the period covered by his original Souvenirs.

In the midst of his various honours at Paris, Toulouse, and Agen, he did not forget his true mission, the help and relief of the afflicted. He went to Albi, and gave a recitation which produced 2000 francs. The whole of this sum went to the poor. There was nothing for himself but applause, and showers of flowers thrown at his feet by the ladies present.

It was considered quite unprecedented that so large a sum should have been collected in so poor a district. The mayor however was prepared for the event. After a touching address to the poet, he presented him with a ring of honour, with the arms of the town, and the inscribed words: "Albi a Jasmin."

He went for the same purpose, to Castera in the Gers, a decayed town, to recite his poems, in the words of the cure, for "our poor church." He was received as usual with great enthusiasm; and a present of silver was given to him with the inscribed words: "A Jasmin, l'Eglise du Castera reconnaissante!" Jasmin answered, by reciting an impromptu he had composed for the occasion.

At Bordeaux, one of his favourite cities, he was received with more than the usual enthusiasm. There he made a collection in aid of the Conference of Saint-vincent de Paul. In the midst of the seance, he appeared almost inspired, and recited "La Charite dans Bordeaux"—the grand piece of the evening. The assembly rose en masse, and cheered the poet with frantic applause. The ladies threw an avalanche of bouquets at the hero of the fete.

After quiet had been restored, the Society of Saint-vincent de Paul cordially thanked Jasmin through the mouth of their President; and presented him with a magnificent golden circlet, with this inscription: "La Caritat dins Bourdeau!"

Among his other recitations towards the close of his life, for the purpose of collecting money for the relief of the poor, were those at Montignac in Perigord; at Saint-Macaire; at Saint-Andre de Cubzac, and at Monsegur. Most of these were remote villages far apart from each other. He had disappointed his friends at Arcachon several years before, when he failed to make his appearance with the Abbe Masson, during their tour on behalf of the church of Vergt, owing to the unpunctuality of the steamboat; but he promised to visit them at some future period.

He now redeemed his promise. The poor were in need, and he went to their help. A large audience had assembled to listen to his recitations, and a considerable sum of money was collected. The audience overwhelmed him with praises and the Mayor of Teste the head department of the district—after thanking Jasmin for his admirable assistance, presented him with a gold medal, on which was inscribed: "Fete de Charite d'Arcachon: A Jasmin." These laurels and medals had become so numerous, that Jasmin had almost become tired of such tributes to his benevolence.

He went to Bareges again, where Monseigneur the Bishop of Tarbes had appealed to him for help in the erection of an hospital. From that town he proceeded to Saint-Emilion and Castel-Naudary, to aid the Society of Mutual Help in these two towns. In fact, he was never weary of well-doing. "This calamitous winter," he wrote in January, 1854, "requires all my devotion. I will obey my conscience and give myself to the help of the famished and suffering, even to the extinction of my personal health."

And so it was to the end. When his friends offered him public entertainments, he would say, "No, no! give the money to the poor!" What gave Jasmin as much pleasure as any of the laurels and crowns conferred upon him, was a beautifully bound copy of the 'Imitation of Christ,' with the following inscription: "A testimony from the Bishop of Saint-Flour, in acknowledgment of the services which the great poet has rendered to the poor of his diocese."

No poet had so many opportunities of making money, and of enriching himself by the contributions of the rich as well as the poor. But such an idea never entered his mind. He would have regarded it as a sacrilege to evoke the enthusiasm of the people, and make money; for his own benefit, or to speculate upon the triumphs of his muse. Gold earned in this way, he said, would have burnt his fingers. He worked solely for the benefit of those who could not help themselves. His poetry was to him like a sweet rose that delighted the soul and produced the fruits of charity.

His conduct has been called Quixotic. Would that there were more

Quixotes in the world! After his readings, which sometimes produced from two to three thousand francs, the whole of the proceeds were handed over to those for whose benefit they had been given, after deducting, of course, the expenses of travelling, of which he kept a most accurate account.

It is estimated that the amount of money collected by Jasmin during his recitations for philanthropic objects amounted to at least 1,500,000 francs (equal to 62,500 sterling). Besides, there were the labour of his journeys, and the amount of his correspondence, which were almost heroic. M. Rabain{1} states that from 1825 to 1860, the number of letters received by Jasmin was more than twelve thousand.

Mr. Dickens, in giving the readings from his works in Great Britain, netted over 35,000 sterling, besides what he received for his readings in America. This, of course, led quite reasonably to the enhancing of his fortune. But all that Jasmin received from his readings was given away—some say "thrown away"—to the poor and the needy. It is not necessary to comment on such facts; one can only mention and admire them.

The editor of Le Pays says: "The journeys of Jasmin in the South were like a triumphal march. No prince ever received more brilliant ovations. Flowers were strewn in his way; the bells rang out on his appearance; the houses were illuminated; the Mayors addressed him in words of praise; the magistrates, the clergy followed him in procession. Bestowed upon a man, and a poet, such honours might seem exaggerated; but Jasmin, under the circumstances, represented more than poetry: he represented Charity. Each of his verses transformed him into an alms-giver; and from the harvest of gold which he reaped from the people, he preserved for himself only the flowers. His epics were for the unfortunate. This was very noble; and the people of Agen should be proud of their poet."{2}

The account which Jasmin records of his expenses during a journey of fifty days, in which he collected more than 20,000 francs, is very remarkable. It is given in the fourth volume of 'Les Papillotes,' published in 1863, the year before his death, and is entitled, "Note of my expenses of the journey, which I have deducted from the receipts during my circuit of fifty days."

On certain occasions nothing whatever was charged, but a carriage was probably placed at his disposal, or the ticket for a railway or a diligence may have been paid for by his friends. On many occasions he walked the distance between the several places, and thus saved the cost of his conveyance. But every item of expense was set forth in his "Note" with the most scrupulous exactness.

Here is the translation of Jasmin's record for his journeys during these fifty days:—"... At Foix, from M. de Groussou, President of the Communion of Bienfaisance, 33 fr., 50 c. At Pamiers, nil. At Saint-Girons, from the President of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, 16 fr. At Lavaur, from M. the Mayor, 22 fr. At Saint-Sulpice, nil. At Toulouse, where I gave five special seances, of which the two first, to Saint-Vincent de Paul and the Prefecture, produced more than 1600 fr., nil. My muse was sufficiently accounted for; it was during my reception as Maitre-es-jeux. At Rodez, from the President of the Conference of Saint-Vincent de Paul, 29 fr. 50c. At Saint-Geniez, nil. At Saint-Flour, from M. Simon, vicar-general, 22 fr. 50 c. At Murat, nil. At Mauriac, nil. At Aurillac, from M. Geneste, mayor, for my return to Agen, 24 fr. Total, 147 fr. 50 centimes."

Thus, more than 20,000 francs were collected for the poor, Jasmin having deducted 147 fr. 50 c. for the cost of his journeys from place to place. It must also be remembered that he travelled mostly in winter, when the ground was covered with snow. In February, 1854, M. Migneret, Prefect of Haute-garonne, addressed a letter to Jasmin, which is worthy of preservation. "It is pleasant," he said, "after having enjoyed at night the charms of your poetry, to begin the next day by taking account of the misfortunes they relieve. I owe you this double honour, and I thank you with the greatest gratitude.... As to our admiration of your talent, it yields to our esteem for your noble heart; the poet cannot be jealous of the good citizen."{3}

Notwithstanding the rigour of the season, and the snow and wind, the like of which had not been known for more than twenty years, Jasmin was welcomed by an immense audience at Rodez. The recitation was given in the large hall of the Palais de Justice, and never had so large a collection been made. The young people of the town wished to give Jasmin a banquet, but he declined, as he had to hurry on to another place for a similar purpose. He left them, however, one of his poems prepared for the occasion.

He arrived at Saint-Flour exhausted by fatigue. His voice began to fail, partly through the rigours of the climate, yet he continued to persevere. The bishop entertained him in his palace, and introduced him personally to the audience before which he was to give his recitations. Over the entrance-door was written the inscription, "A Jasmin, le Poete des Pauvres, Saint-fleur reconnaissante!" Before Jasmin began to recite he was serenaded by the audience. The collection was greater than had ever been known. It was here that the bishop presented Jasmin with that famous manual, 'The Imitation of Christ,' already referred to.

It was the same at Murat, Mauriac, and Aurillac. The recitation at Aurillac was given in the theatre, and the receipts were 1200 francs. Here also he was serenaded. He departed from Aurillac covered with the poor people's blessings and gratitude.

At Toulouse he gave another entertainment, at the instance of the Conference of Saint-Francois Xavier. There were about 3000 persons present, mostly of the working classes. The seance was prolonged almost to midnight. The audience, most of whom had to rise early in the morning, forgot their sleep, and wished the poet to prolong his recitations!

Although the poor machine of Jasmin's body was often in need of rest, he still went about doing good. He never ceased ministering to the poor until he was altogether unable to go to their help. Even in the distressing cold, rain, and wind of winter—and it was in winter more than in summer that he travelled, for it was then that the poor were most distressed—he entirely disregarded his own comfort, and sometimes travelled at much peril; yet he went north and south, by highways and byways, by rivers and railways, in any and every direction, provided his services could be of use.

He sacrificed himself always, and was perfectly regardless of self. He was overwhelmed with honours and praises. He became weary of triumphs—of laurels, flowers, and medals—he sometimes became weary of his life; yet he never could refuse any pressing solicitation made to him for a new recital of his poems.

His trials, especially in winter time, were often most distressing. He would recite before a crowded audience, in a heated room, and afterwards face the icy air without, often without any covering for his throat and neck. Hence his repeated bronchial attacks, the loss of his voice, and other serious affections of his lungs.

The last meeting which Jasmin attended on behalf of the poor was at the end of January 1864, only three months before his death. It was at Villeneuve-sur-Lot, a town several miles north of Agen. He did not desire to put the people to the expense of a conveyance, and therefore he decided to walk. He was already prematurely old and stooping.

The disease which ended his life had already made considerable progress. He should have been in bed; nevertheless, as the poor needed his help, the brave old man determined to proceed to Villeneuve. He was helped along the road by some of his friends; and at last, wearied and panting, he arrived at his destination.

The meeting was held in the theatre, which was crowded to suffocation.

No sooner had Jasmin reached the platform, amidst the usual triumphant cheering, than, after taking a short rest, he sprang to his feet and began the recitation of his poems. Never had his voice seemed more spirited and entrancing. He delighted his audience, while he pleaded most eloquently for the relief of the poor.

"I see him now," wrote one of his friends, "from behind the side-scenes of the theatre, perspiring profusely, wet to the skin, with a carafe of water to allay the ardent thirst occasioned by three hours of splendid declamation."

In his then critical state, the three hours' declamation was enough to kill him. At all events, it was his last recitation. It was the song of the dying swan. In the midst of his triumphs, he laid down his life for the poor; like the soldier who dies with the sound of victory in his ears.

Endnotes to Chapter XIX.

{1} 'Jasmin, sa Vie et ses OEuvres.' Paris, 1867.

{2} Le Pays, 14th February, 1854.

{3} 'Las Papillotos de Jasmin,' iv. 56.



CHAPTER XX. DEATH OF JASMIN—HIS CHARACTER.

After his final recitation at Villeneuve, Jasmin, sick, ill, and utterly exhausted, reached Agen with difficulty. He could scarcely stand. It was not often that travelling had so affected him; but nature now cried out and rebelled. His wife was, of course, greatly alarmed. He was at once carefully put to bed, and there he lay for fifteen days.

When he was at length able to rise, he was placed in his easy chair, but he was still weak, wearied, and exhausted. Mariette believed that he would yet recover his strength; but the disease under which he laboured had taken a strong hold of him, and Jasmin felt that he was gradually approaching the close of his life.

About this time Renan's 'Life of Jesus' was published. Jasmin was inexpressibly shocked by the appearance of the book, for it seemed to him to strike at the foundations of Christianity, and to be entirely opposed to the teachings of the Church. He immediately began to compose a poem, entitled The Poet of the People to M. Renan,{1} in which he vindicated the Catholic faith, and denounced the poisonous mischief contained in the new attack upon Christianity. The poem was full of poetic feeling, with many pathetic touches illustrative of the life and trials of man while here below.

The composition of this poem occupied him for some time. Although broken by grief and pain, he made every haste to correct the proofs, feeling that it would probably be the last work that he should give to the world. And it was his last. It was finished and printed on the 24th of August, 1864. He sent several copies to his more intimate friends with a dedication; and then he took finally to his bed, never to rise again. "I am happy," he said, "to have terminated my career by an act of faith, and to have consecrated my last work to the name of Jesus Christ." He felt that it was his passport to eternity.

Jasmin's life was fast drawing to a close. He knew that he must soon die; yet never a word of fear escaped his lips; nor was his serenity of mind disturbed. He made his preparations for departure with as much tranquillity and happiness, as on the days when he was about to start on one of his philanthropic missions.

He desired that M. Saint-Hilaire, the vicar of the parish, should be sent for. The priest was at once by the bedside of his dying friend. Jasmin made his replies to him in a clear and calm voice. His wife, his son, his grand-children, were present when he received the Viaticum—the last sacrament of the church. After the ceremony he turned to his wife and family, and said: "In my last communion I have prayed to God that He may keep you all in the most affectionate peace and union, and that He may ever reign in the hearts of those whom I love so much and am about to leave behind me." Then speaking to his wife, he said, "Now Mariette,—now I can die peacefully."

He continued to live until the following morning. He conversed occasionally with his wife, his son, and a few attached friends.

He talked, though with difficulty, of the future of the family, for whom he had made provision. At last, lifting himself up by the aid of his son, he looked towards his wife. The brightness of love glowed in his eyes; but in a moment he fell back senseless upon the pillow, and his spirit quietly passed away.

Jasmin departed this life on the 5th of October, 1864, at the age of sixty-five. He was not an old man; but the brightest jewels soonest wear their setting. When laid in his coffin, the poem to Renan, his last act of faith, was placed on his breast, with his hands crossed over it.

The grief felt at his death was wide and universal. In the South of France he was lamented as a personal friend; and he was followed to the grave by an immense number of his townspeople.

The municipal administration took charge of the funeral. At ten o'clock in the morning of the 8th October the procession started from Jasmin's house on the Promenade du Gravier. On the coffin were placed the Crown of Gold presented to him by his fellow-townsmen, the cross of Chevalier of the Legion of Honour, and that of Saint-Gregory the Great. A company of five men, and a detachment of troops commanded by an officer, formed the line.

The following gentlemen held the cords of the funeral pall:—

M. Feart, Prefect of the Lot-et-Garonne; M. Henri Noubel, Deputy and Mayor of Agen; General Ressayre, Commander of the Military Division; M. Bouet, President of the Imperial Court; M. de Laffore, engineer; and M. Magen, Secretary of the Society of Agriculture, Sciences, and Arts. A second funeral pall was held by six coiffeurs of the corporation to which Jasmin had belonged. Behind the hearse were the Brothers of the Christian Doctrine, the Sisters of Saint-Vincent de Paul, and the Little Sisters of the Poor.

The mourners were headed by the poet's son and the other members of his family. The cortege was very numerous, including the elite of the population. Among them were the Procureur-General, the Procureur-imperial, the Engineer-in-chief of the Department, the Director of Taxes, many Councillors-General, all the members of the Society of Agriculture, many officers of the army, many ecclesiastics as well as ministers of the reformed worship. Indeed, representatives of nearly the whole population were present.

The procession first entered the church of Saint Hilaire, where the clergy of the four parishes had assembled. High mass was performed by the full choir. The Miserere of Beethoven was given, and some exquisite pieces from Mozart. Deep emotion was produced by the introduction, in the midst of this beautiful music, of some popular airs from the romance of Franconnette and Me Cal Mouri, Jasmin's first work. The entire ceremony was touching, and moved many to tears.

After the service had been finished, the procession moved off to the cemetery—passing through the principal streets of the town, which were lined by crowds of mournful spectators. Large numbers of people had also assembled at the cemetery. After the final prayer, M. Noubel, Deputy and Mayor of Agen, took the opportunity of pronouncing a eulogium over the grave of the deceased. His speech was most sympathetic and touching. We can only give a few extracts from his address:

"Dear and great poet," he said, "at the moment when we commit to the earth thy mortal remains, I wish, in the name of this town of Agen, where thou wert born and which thou hast truly loved, to address to thee a last, a supreme adieu. Alas! What would'st thou have said to me some years ago, when I placed upon thy forehead the crown—decreed by the love and admiration of thy compatriots—that I should so soon have been called upon to fulfil a duty that now rends my heart. The bright genius of thy countenance, the brilliant vigour in thine eyes, which time, it seemed, would never tarnish, indicated the fertile source of thy beautiful verses and noble aspirations!

"And yet thy days had been numbered, and you yourself seemed to have cherished this presentiment; but, faithful to thy double mission of poet and apostle of benevolence, thou redoubled thy efforts to enrich with new epics thy sheaf of poetry, and by thy bountiful gifts and charity to allay the sorrows of the poor. Indefatigable worker! Thou hast dispensed most unselfishly thy genius and thy powers! Death alone has been able to compel thee to repose!

"But now our friend is departed for ever! That poetical fire, that brilliant and vivid intelligence, that ardent heart, have now ceased to strive for the good of all; for this great and generous soul has ascended to Him who gave it birth. It has returned to the Giver of Good, accompanied by our sorrows and our tears. It has ascended to heaven with the benedictions of all the distressed and unfortunate whom he has succoured. It is our hope and consolation that he may find the recompense assured for those who have usefully and boldly fulfilled their duty here below.

"This duty, O poet, thou hast well fulfilled. Those faculties, which God had so largely bestowed upon thee, have never been employed save for the service of just and holy causes. Child of the people, thou hast shown us how mind and heart enlarge with work; that the sufferings and privations of thy youth enabled thee to retain thy love of the poor and thy pity for the distressed. Thy muse, sincerely Christian, was never used to inflame the passions, but always to instruct, to soothe, and to console. Thy last song, the Song of the Swan, was an eloquent and impassioned protest of the Christian, attacked in his fervent belief and his faith.

"God has doubtless marked the term of thy mission; and thy death was not a matter of surprise. Thou hast come and gone, without fear; and religion, thy supreme consoler, has calmed the sufferings of thy later hours, as it had cradled thee in thy earlier years.

"Thy body will disappear, but thy spirit, Jasmin, will never be far from us. Inspire us with thy innocent gaiety and brotherly love. The town of Agen is never ungrateful; she counts thee amongst the most pure and illustrious of her citizens. She will consecrate thy memory in the way most dignified to thee and to herself.

"The inhabitants of towns without number, where thou hast exercised thy apostolate of charity, will associate themselves with this work of affection and remembrance. But the most imperishable monument is that which thou hast thyself founded with thine own head and hands, and which will live in our hearts—the creations of thy genius and the memory of thy philanthropy."

After the Mayor of Agen had taken leave of the mortal remains of the poet, M. Capot, President of the Society of Agriculture, Sciences, and Arts, gave another eloquent address. He was followed by M. Magen, Secretary to the same society. The troops fired a salute over the grave, and took leave of the poet's remains with military honours. The immense crowd of mourners then slowly departed from the cemetery.

Another public meeting took place on the 12th of May, 1870, on the inauguration of the bronze statue of Jasmin in the Place Saint Antoine, now called the Place Jasmin. The statue was erected by public subscription, and executed by the celebrated M. Vital Dubray. It stands nearly opposite the house where Jasmin lived and carried on his trade. Many of his old friends came from a considerable distance to be present at the inauguration of the statue. The Abbe Masson of Vergt was there, whose church Jasmin had helped to re-build. M. l'Abbe Donis, curate of Saint-Louis at Bordeaux, whom he had often helped with his recitations; the able philologist Azais; the young and illustrious Provencal poet Mistral; and many representatives of the Parisian and Southern press, were present on the occasion. The widow and son of the poet, surrounded by their family, were on the platform. When the statue was unveiled, a salvo of artillery was fired; then the choir of the Brothers of the Communal Christian School saluted the "glorious resurrection of Jasmin" with their magnificent music, which was followed by enthusiastic cheers.

M. Henri Noubel, Deputy and Mayor of Agen, made an eloquent speech on the unveiling of the statue. He had already pronounced his eulogium of Jasmin at the burial of the poet, but he was still full of the subject, and brought to mind many charming recollections of the sweetness of disposition and energetic labours of Jasmin on behalf of the poor and afflicted. He again expressed his heartfelt regret for the departure of the poet.

M. Noubel was followed by M. l'Abbe Donis, of Bordeaux, who achieved a great success by his eulogy of the life of Jasmin, whom he entitled "The Saint-vincent de Paul of poetry."

He was followed by the Abbe Capot, in the name of the clergy, and by M. Magen, in the name of the Society of Agriculture, Sciences, and Arts. They were followed by MM. Azais and Pozzi, who recited some choice pieces of poetry in the Gascon patois. M. Mistral came last—the celebrated singer of "Mireio"—who, with his faltering voice, recited a beautiful piece of poetry composed for the occasion, which was enthusiastically applauded.

The day was wound up with a banquet in honour of M. Dubray, the artist who had executed the bronze statue. The Place Jasmin was brilliantly illuminated during the evening, where an immense crowd assembled to view the statue of the poet, whose face and attitude appeared in splendid relief amidst a blaze of light.

It is unnecessary further to describe the character of Jasmin. It is sufficiently shown by his life and labours—his genius and philanthropy. In the recollections of his infancy and boyhood, he truthfully describes the pleasures and sorrows of his youth—his love for his mother, his affection for his grandfather, who died in the hospital, "where all the Jasmins die." He did not even conceal the little tricks played by him in the Academy, from which he was expelled, nor the various troubles of his apprenticeship.

This was one of the virtues of Jasmin—his love of truth. He never pretended to be other than what he was. He was even proud of being a barber, with his "hand of velvet." He was pleased to be entertained by the coiffeurs of Agen, Paris, Bordeaux, and Toulouse. He was a man of the people, and believed in the dignity of labour. At the same time, but for his perseverance and force of character, he never could have raised himself to the honour and power of the true poet.

He was born poor, and the feeling of inherited poverty adhered to him through life, and inspired him with profound love for the poor and the afflicted of his class. He was always ready to help them, whether they lived near to him or far from him. He was, in truth, "The Saint-Vincent de Paul of poetry." His statue, said M. Noubel, pointing up to it, represented the glorification of genius and virtue, the conquest of ignorance and misery.

M. Deydou said at Bordeaux, when delivering an address upon the genius of Jasmin—his Eminence Cardinal Donnet presiding—that poetry, when devoted to the cause of charity, according to the poet himself, was "the glory of the earth and the perfume of heaven."

Jasmin loved his dear town of Agen, and was proud of it. After his visit to the metropolis, he said, "If Paris makes me proud, Agen makes me happy." "This town," he said, on another occasion, "has been my birthplace; soon it shall be my grave." He loved his country too, and above all he loved his native language. It was his mother-tongue; and though he was often expostulated with for using it, he never forsook the Gascon. It was the language of the home, of the fireside, of the fields, of the workshop, of the people amongst whom he lived, and he resolved ever to cherish and elevate the Gascon dialect.

"Popular and purely natural poetry," said Montaigne in the 16th century, "has a simplicity and gracefulness which surpass the beauty of poetry according to art." Jasmin united the naive artlessness of poetry with the perfection of art. He retained the simplicity of youth throughout his career, and his domestic life was the sanctuary of all the virtues.

In his poems he vividly described filial love, conjugal tenderness, and paternal affection, because no one felt these graces of life more fervently than himself. He was like the Italian painter, who never went beyond his home for a beautiful model.

Victor Hugo says that a great man is like the sun—most beautiful when he touches the earth, at his rising and at his setting. Jasmin's rising was in the depths of honest poverty, but his setting was glorious. God crowned his fine life by a special act of favour; for the last song of the poet was his "act of faith"—his address to Renan.

Jasmin was loyal, single-minded, self-reliant, patient, temperate, and utterly unselfish. He made all manner of sacrifices during his efforts in the cause of charity. Nothing was allowed to stand in the way of his missions on behalf of the poor. In his journey of fifty days in 1854, he went from Orthez—the country of Gaston Phoebus—to the mountains of Auvergne, in spite of the rigours of the weather. During that journey he collected 20,000 francs. In all, as we have said, he collected, during his life-time, more than a million and a half of francs, all of which he devoted to the cause of philanthropy.

Two words were engraved on the pedestal of his statue, Poetry and Charity! Charity was the object and purpose of his heroic programme. Yet, in his poetry he always exhibited his tender-hearted gaiety. Even when he weeps, you see the ray of sunlight in his tears. Though simple as a child in ordinary life, he displayed in his writings the pathos and satire of the ancient Troubadours, with no small part of the shrewdness and wit attributed to persons of his calling.

Although esteemed and praised by all ranks and classes of people—by king, emperor, princes, and princesses; by cardinals and bishops; by generals, magistrates, literary men, and politicians—though the working people almost worshipped him, and village girls strewed flowers along his pathway—though the artisan quitted his workshop, and the working woman her washing-tub, to listen to his marvellous recitations, yet Jasmin never lost his head or was carried away by the enthusiastic cheers which accompanied his efforts, but remained simple and unaffected to the last.

Another characteristic of him was, that he never forsook his friends, however poor. His happiest moments were those in which he encountered a companion of his early youth. Many still survived who had accompanied him while making up his bundle of fagots on the islands of the Garonne. He was delighted to shake hands with them, and to help, when necessary, these playmates of his boyhood.

He would also meet with pleasure the working women of his acquaintance, those who had related to him the stories of Loup Garou and the traditions of the neighbourhood, and encouraged the boy from his earliest youth. Then, at a later period of his life, nothing could have been more worthy of him than his affection for his old benefactor, M. Baze, and his pleading with Napoleon III., through the Empress, for his return to France "through the great gate of honour!"

Had Jasmin a fault? Yes, he had many, for no one exists within the limits of perfection. But he had one in especial, which he himself confessed. He was vain and loved applause, nor did he conceal his love.

When at Toulouse, he said to some of his friends, "I love to be applauded: it is my whim; and I think it would be difficult for a poet to free himself from the excitement of applause." When at Paris, he said, "Applaud! applaud! The cheers you raise will be heard at Agen." Who would not overlook a fault, if fault it be, which is confessed in so naive a manner?

When complimented about reviving the traditions of the Troubadours, Jasmin replied, "The Troubadours, indeed! Why, I am a better poet than any of the Troubadours! Not one of them could have composed a long poem of sustained interest, like my Franconnette."

Any fault or weakness which Jasmin exhibited was effaced by the good wishes and prayers of thousands of the poor and afflicted whom he had relieved by his charity and benevolence. The reality of his life almost touches the ideal. Indeed, it was a long apostolate.

Cardinal Donnet, Archbishop of Bordeaux, said of him, that "he was gifted with a rich nature, a loyal and unreserved character, and a genius as fertile as the soil of his native country. The lyre of Jasmin," he said, "had three chords, which summed up the harmonies of heaven and earth—the true, the useful, and the beautiful."

Did not the members of the French Academy—the highest literary institution in the world—strike a gold medal in his honour, with the inscription, "La medaille du poete moral et populaire"? M. Sainte-Beuve, the most distinguished of French critics, used a much stronger expression. He said, "If France had ten poets like Jasmin—ten poets of the same power and influence—she need no longer have any fear of revolutions."

Genius is as nothing in the sight of God; but "whosoever shall give a cup of water to drink in the name of Christ, because they belong to Christ, shall not lose his reward." M. Tron, Deputy and Mayor of Bagnere-du-luchon, enlarged upon this text in his eulogy of Jasmin.

"He was a man," he said, "as rich in his heart as in his genius. He carried out that life of 'going about doing good' which Christ rehearsed for our instruction. He fed the hungry, clothed the naked, succoured the distressed, and consoled and sympathised with the afflicted. Few men have accomplished more than he has done. His existence was unique, not only in the history of poets, but of philanthropists."

A life so full of good could only end with a Christian death. He departed with a lively faith and serene piety, crowning by a peaceful death one of the strangest and most diversified careers in the nineteenth century. "Poetry and Charity," inscribed on the pedestal of his statue in Agen, fairly sums up his noble life and character.

Endnotes for Chapter XX.

{1} 'Lou Poeto del Puple a Moussu Renan.'



APPENDIX.

JASMIN'S DEFENCE OF THE GASCON DIALECT.

To M. SYLVAIN DUMON, Deputy-Minister, who has condemned to death our native language.

There's not a deeper grief to man Than when our mother, faint with years, Decrepit, old, and weak, and wan, Beyond the leech's art appears; When by her couch her son may stay, And press her hand, and watch her eyes, And feel, though she survives to-day, Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.

It is not thus, believe me, Sir, With this enchantress, we will call Our second mother. Frenchmen err, Who cent'ries since proclaimed her fall! Our mother tongue, all melody, While music lives, shall never die.

Yes! still she lives, her words still ring, Her children yet her carols sing; And thousand years may roll away Before her magic notes decay.

The people love their ancient songs, and will While yet a people, love and keep them still. These lays are like their mother—they recall Fond thoughts of brother, sister, friends, and all The many little things that please the heart— Those dreams and hopes, from which we cannot part; These songs are as sweet waters, where we find Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind. In every home, at every cottage door, By every fireside, when our toil is o'er, These songs are round us, near our cradles sigh, And to the grave attend us when we die.

Oh! think, cold critic! 'twill be late and long Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song! There are who bid this music sound no more, And you can hear them, nor defend—deplore! You, who were born where the first daisies grew, Have 'fed upon its honey, sipp'd its dew, Slept in its arms, and wakened to its kiss, Danced to its sounds, and warbled to its tone— You can forsake it in an hour like this! Weary of age, you may renounce, disown, And blame one minstrel who is true—alone!

For me, truth to my eyes made all things plain; At Paris, the great fount, I did not find The waters pure, and to my stream again I come, with saddened and with sobered mind; And now the spell is broken, and I rate The little country far above the great.

For you, who seem her sorrows to deplore, You, seated high in power, the first among, Beware! nor make her cause of grief the more; Believe her mis'ry, nor condemn her tongue. Methinks you injure where you seek to heal, If you deprive her of that only weal.

We love, alas! to sing in our distress; For so the bitterness of woe seems less; But if we may not in our language mourn, What will the polish'd give us in return? Fine sentences, but all for us unmeet— Words full of grace, even such as courtiers greet: A deck'd out miss, too delicate and nice To walk in fields; too tender and precise To sing the chorus of the poor, or come When Labour lays him down fatigued at home.

To cover rags with gilded robes were vain— The rents of poverty would show too plain.

How would this dainty dame, with haughty brow, Shrink at a load, and shudder at a plough! Sulky, and piqued, and silent would she stand As the tired peasant urged his team along: No word of kind encouragement at hand, For flocks no welcome, and for herds no song!

Yet we will learn, and you shall teach— Our people shall have double speech: One to be homely, one polite, As you have robes for different wear; But this is all:—'tis just and right, And more our children will not bear, Lest flocks of buzzards flit along, Where nightingales once poured their song.

There may be some who, vain and proud, May ape the manners of the crowd, Lisp French, and maim it at each word, And jest and gibe to all afford; But we, as in long ages past, Will still be poets to the last!{1}

Hark! and list the bridal song, As they lead the bride along: "Hear, gentle bride! your mother's sighs, And you would hence away! Weep, weep, for tears become those eyes." ——"I cannot weep—to-day."

Hark! the farmer in the mead Bids the shepherd swain take heed: "Come, your lambs together fold, Haste, my sons! your toil is o'er: For the setting sun has told That the ox should work no more."

Hark! the cooper in the shade Sings to the sound his hammer made: "Strike, comrades, strike! prepare the cask. 'Tis lusty May that fills the flask: Strike, comrades! summer suns that shine Fill the cellars full of wine."

Verse is, with us, a charm divine, Our people, loving verse, will still, Unknowing of their art, entwine Garlands of poesy at will. Their simple language suits them best: Then let them keep it and be blest.

Let the wise critics build a wall Between the nurse's cherished voice, And the fond ear her words enthral, And say their idol is her choice. Yes!—let our fingers feel the rule, The angry chiding of the school; True to our nurse, in good or ill, We are not French, but Gascon still.

'Tis said that age new feeling brings, Our youth returns as we grow old; And that we love again the things Which in our memory had grown cold. If this be true, the time will come When to our ancient tongue, once more, You will return, as to a home, And thank us that we kept the store.

Remember thou the tale they tell Of Lacuee and Lacepede,{2} When age crept on, who loved to dwell On words that once their music made; And, in the midst of grandeur, hung, Delighted, on their parent tongue.

This will you do: and it may be, When weary of the world's deceit, Some summer-day we yet may see Your coming in our meadows sweet; Where, midst the flowers, the finch's lay Shall welcome you with music gay; While you shall bid our antique tongue Some word devise, or air supply, Like those that charm'd your youth so long, And lent a spell to memory.

Bethink you how we stray'd alone Beneath those elms in Agen grown, That each an arch above us throws, Like giants, hand-in-hand, in rows. A storm once struck a fav'rite tree, It trembled, shook, and bent its boughs,— The vista is no longer free: Our governor no pause allows; "Bring hither hatchet, axe, and spade, The tree must straight be prostrate laid!"

But vainly strength and art were tried, The stately tree all force defied; Well might the elm resist and foil their might, For though his branches were decay'd to sight, As many as his leaves the roots spread round, And in the firm set earth they slept profound.

Since then, more full, more green, more gay, The crests amid the breezes play: And birds of every note and hue Come trooping to his shade in Spring; Each summer they their lays renew, And while the years endure they sing.

And thus it is, believe me, sir, With this enchantress—she we call Our second mother; Frenchmen err Who, cent'ries since, proclaimed her fall.

No! she still lives, her words still ring, Her children yet her carols sing; And thousand years may roll away Before her magic notes decay.

September 2nd, 1837.

Endnotes to JASMIN'S DEFENCE OF THE GASCON DIALECT.

{1} Jasmin here quotes several patois songs, well known in the country.

{2} Both Gascons.



THE MASON'S SON.{1}

{LA SEMMANO D'UN FIL.}

Riches, n'oubliez pas un seul petit moment Que des pauvres la grande couvee Se reveille toujours le sourire a la bouche Quand elle s'endort sans avoir faire!

(Riche et Pauvre.)

The swallows fly about, although the air is cold, Our once fair sun has shed his brightest gold. The fields decay On All-saints day. Ground's hard afoot, The birds are mute; The tree-tops shed their chill'd and yellow leaves, They dying fall, and whirl about in sheaves.

One night, when leaving late a neighb'ring town, Although the heavens were clear, Two children paced along, with many a moan— Brother and sister dear; And when they reached the wayside cross Upon their knees they fell, quite close.

Abel and Jane, by the moon's light, Were long time silent quite; As they before the altar bend, With one accord their voices sweet ascend.

"Mother of God, Virgin compassionate! Oh! send thy angel to abate The sickness of our father dear, That mother may no longer fear— And for us both! Oh! Blessed Mother, We love thee, more and more, we two together!"

The Virgin doubtless heard their prayer, For, when they reached the cottage near, The door before them opened wide, And the dear mother, ere she turned aside, Cried out: "My children brave, The fever's gone—your father's life is safe! Now come, my little lambs, and thank God for His grace."

In their small cot, forthwith the three, To God in prayer did bend the knee, Mother and children in their gladness weeping, While on a sorry bed a man lay sleeping— It was the father, good Hilaire! Not long ago, a soldier brave, But now—a working mason's slave.

II.

The dawn next day was clear and bright, The glint of morning sunlight Gleamed through the windows taper, Although they only were patched up with paper.

When Abel noiseless entered, with his foot-fall slight, He slipped along to the bedside; He oped the little curtain, without stirring of the rings; His father woke and smiled, with joy that pleasure brings.

"Abel," he said, "I longed for thee; now listen thou to me: We're very poor indeed—I've nothing save my weekly fee; But Heaven has helped our lives to save—by curing me. Dear boy, already thou art fifteen years— You know to read, to write—then have no fears; Thou art alone, thou'rt sad, but dream no more, Thou ought'st to work, for now thou hast the power! I know thy pain and sorrow, and thy deep alarms; More good than strong—how could thy little arms Ply hard the hammer on the stony blocks? But our hard master, though he likes good looks, May find thee quite a youth; He says that thou hast spirit; and he means for thy behoof. Then do what gives thee pleasure, Without vain-glory, Abel; and spend thy precious leisure In writing or in working—each is a labour worthy, Either with pen or hammer—they are the tools most lofty; Labour in mind or body, they do fatigue us ever— But then, Abel my son, I hope that never One blush upon you e'er will gather To shame the honour of your father."

Abel's blue eyes were bright with bliss and joy— Father rejoiced—four times embraced the boy; Mother and daughter mixed their tears and kisses, Then Abel saw the master, to his happiness, And afterwards four days did pass, All full of joyfulness. But pleasure with the poor is always unenduring.

A brutal order had been given on Sunday morning That if, next day, the father did not show his face, Another workman, in that case, Would be employed to take his place! A shot of cannon filled with grape Could not have caused such grief, As this most cruel order gives To these four poor unfortunates.

"I'm cured!" Hilaire cried; "let me rise and dress;" He tried—fell back; and then he must confess He could not labour for another week! Oh, wretched plight— For him, his work was life! Should he keep sick, 'twas death! All four sat mute; sudden a my of hope Beamed in the soul of Abel. He brushed the tear-drops from his een, Assumed a manly mien,

Strength rushed into his little arms, On his bright face the blushes came; He rose at once, and went to reason With that cruel master mason.

Abel returned, with spirits bright, No longer trembling with affright; At once he gaily cries, With laughing mouth and laughing eyes:—

"My father! take your rest; have faith and courage; Take all the week, then thou shalt work apace; Some one, who loves thee well, will take thy place, Then thou may'st go again and show thy face."

III.

Saved by a friend, indeed! He yet had friends in store! Oh! how I wish that in this life so lonely.... But, all will be explained at work on Monday; There are good friends as yet—perhaps there's many more.

It was indeed our Abel took his father's place. At office first he showed his face; Then to the work-yard: thus his father he beguiled. Spite of his slender mien, he worked and always smiled. He was as deft as workmen twain; he dressed The stones, and in the mortar then he pressed The heavy blocks; the workmen found him cheerful. Mounting the ladder like a bird: He skipped across the rafters fearful. He smiled as he ascended, smiled as he descended— The very masons trembled at his hardiness: But he was working for his father—in his gladness, His life was full of happiness; His brave companions loved the boy Who filled their little life with joy. They saw the sweat run down his brow, And clapped their hands, though weary he was now.

What bliss of Abel, when the day's work's o'er, And the bright stars were shining: Unto the office he must go, And don his better clothing— Thus his poor father to deceive, who thought he went a-clerking. He took his paper home and wrote, 'midst talk with Jane so shyly, And with a twinkling eye he answered mother's looks so slyly.

Three days thus passed, and the sick man arose, Life now appeared to him a sweet repose. On Thursday, tempting was the road; At midday, Friday, he must walk abroad.

But, fatal Friday—God has made for sorrow.

The father, warmed up by the sun's bright ray, Hied to the work-yard, smiling by the way; He wished to thank the friend who worked for him, But saw him not—his eyes were dim— Yet he was near; and looking up, he saw no people working, No dinner-bell had struck, no workmen sure were lurking. Oh, God! what's happened at the building yard? A crowd collected—master, mason—as on guard. "What's this?" the old man cried. "Alas! some man has fallen!" Perhaps it was his friend! His soul with grief was burning. He ran. Before him thronged the press of men, They tried to thrust him back again; But no; Hilaire pressed through the crowd of working men. Oh, wretched father—man unfortunate; The friend who saved thee was thy child—sad fate! Now he has fallen from the ladder's head, And lies a bleeding mass, now nearly dead!

Now Hilaire uttered a most fearful cry; The child had given his life, now he might die. Alas! the bleeding youth Was in his death-throes, he could scarcely breathe; "Master," he said, "I've not fulfilled my task, But, in the name of my poor mother dear, For the day lost, take father on at last."

The father heard, o'erwhelmed he was with fear, Abel now saw him, felt that he was near, Inclined his head upon his breast, and praying— Hand held in hand, he smiled on him while dying.

For Hilary, his place was well preserved, His wages might perhaps be doubled.

Too late! too late! one saddened morn The sorrow of his life was gone; And the good father, with his pallid face, Went now to take another place Within the tomb, beside his much loved son.

Endnotes to THE MASON'S SON.

{1} Jasmin says, "the subject of this poem is historical, and recently took place in our neighbourhood."



THE POOR MAN'S DOCTOR.

{LOU MEDICI DES PAURES.}

Dedicated to M. CANY, Physician of Toulouse.

With the permission of the Rev. Dr. J. Duncan Craig, of Glenagary, Kingston, Dublin, I adopt, with some alterations, his free translation of Jasmin's poem.

Sweet comes this April morning, its faint perfumes exhaling; Brilliant shines the sun, so crisp, so bright, so freshening; Pearl-like gleam and sparkle the dew-drops on the rose, While grey and gnarled olives droop like giants in repose.

Soundeth low, solemnly, the mid-day bell in th' air, Glideth on sadly a maiden sick with care; Her head is bent, and sobbing words she sheds with many a tear, But 'tween the chapel and the windmill another doth appear.

She laughs and plucks the lovely flowers with many a joyous bound, The other, pale and spiritless, looks upward from the ground; "Where goest thou, sweet Marianne, this lovely April day?" "Beneath the elms of Agen—there lies my destined way.

"I go to seek this very day the Doctor of the Poor.{1} Did'st thou not hear how skilfully he did my mother cure? Behold this silver in my hand, these violets so sweet, The guerdon of his loving care—I'll lay them at his feet.

"Now, dost thou not remember, my darling Marianne, How in our lonely hut the typhus fever ran? And we were poor, without a friend, or e'en our daily bread, And sadly then, and sorrowful, dear mother bowed her head.

"One day, the sun was shining low in lurid western sky, All, all, our little wealth was gone, and mother yearned to die, When sudden, at the open door, a shadow crossed the way, And cheerfully a manly voice did words of comfort say:

"'Take courage, friends, your ills I know, your life I hope to save.' 'Too late!' dear mother cried; 'too late! My home is in the grave;

Our things are pledged, our med'cine gone, e'en bread we cannot buy.' The doctor shudder'd, then grew pale, but sadly still drew nigh.

"No curtains had we on our bed: I marked his pallid face; Five silver crowns now forth he drew with melancholy grace—

'Poor woman, take these worthless coins, suppress your bitter grief! Don't blush; repay them when you can—these drops will give relief.'

"He left the hut, and went away; soon sleep's refreshing calm Relieved the patient he had helped—a wonder-working balm; The world now seemed to smile again, like springtide flowers so gay, While mother, brothers, and myself, incessant worked away.

"Thus, like the swallows which return with spring unto our shore, The doctor brought rejoicing back unto our vine-wreathed door; And we are happy, Isabel, and money too we've made; But why dost weep, when I can laugh?" the gentle maiden said.

"Alas! alas! dear Marianne, I weep and mourn to-day, From your house to our cottage-home the fever made its way; My father lies with ghastly face, and many a raving cry— Oh, would that Durand too might come, before the sick man die!"

"Dear Isabel, haste on, haste on—we'll seek his house this hour! Come, let us run, and hasten on with all our utmost power. He'll leave the richest palace for the poor man's humble roof— He's far from rich, except in love, of that we've had full proof!"

The good God bless the noble heart that careth for the poor; Then forth the panting children speed to seek the sick man's cure; And as beneath our giant elms they pass with rapid tread, They scarcely dare to look around, or lift their weary head. The town at last is reached, by the Pont-Long they enter, Close by the Hue des Jacobins, near Durand's house they venture. Around the portals of the door there throngs a mournful crowd; They see the Cross, they hear the priests the Requiem chaunt aloud.

The girls were troubled in their souls, their minds were rent with grief; One above all, young Marianne, was trembling like a leaf: Another death—oh, cruel thought! then of her father dying, She quickly ran to Durand's door, and asked a neighbour, crying:

"Where's the good doctor, sir, I pray? I seek him for my father!" He soft replied, "The gracious God into His fold doth gather The best of poor folks' doctors now, to his eternal rest; They bear the body forth, 'tis true: his spirit's with the blest."

Bright on his corpse the candles shine around his narrow bier, Escorted by the crowds of poor with many a bitter tear; No more, alas! can he the sad and anguished-laden cure— Oh, wail! For Durand is no more—the Doctor of the Poor!

Endnotes to THE POOR MAN'S DOCTOR.

{1} In the last edition of Jasmin's poems (4 vols. 8vo, edited by Buyer d'Agen) it is stated (p. 40, 1st vol.) that "M. Durand, physician, was one of those rare men whom Providence seems to have provided to assuage the lot of the poorest classes. His career was full of noble acts of devotion towards the sick whom he was called upon to cure. He died at the early age of thirty-five, of a stroke of apoplexy. His remains were accompanied to the grave by nearly all the poor of Agen and the neighbourhood."



MY VINEYARD.{1}

{MA BIGNO.}

To MADAME LOUIS VEILL, Paris.

Dear lady, it is true, that last month I have signed A little scrap of parchment; now myself I find The master of a piece of ground Within the smallest bound— Not, as you heard, a spacious English garden Covered with flowers and trees, to shrine your bard in— But of a tiny little vineyard, Which I have christened "Papilhoto"! Where, for a chamber, I have but a grotto. The vine-stocks hang about their boughs, At other end a screen of hedgerows, So small they do not half unroll; A hundred would not make a mile, Six sheets would cover the whole pile.

Well! as it is, of this I've dreamt for twenty years— You laugh, Madame, at my great happiness, Perhaps you'll laugh still more, when it appears, That when I bought the place, I must confess There were no fruits, Though rich in roots; Nine cherry trees—behold my wood! Ten rows of vines—my promenade! A few peach trees; the hazels too; Of elms and fountains there are two. How rich I am! My muse is grateful very; Oh! might I paint? while I the pencil try, Our country loves the Heavens so bright and cheery.

Here, verdure starts up as we scratch the ground, Who owns it, strips it into pieces round; Beneath our sun there's nought but gayest sound. You tell me, true, that in your Paris hot-house, You ripen two months sooner 'neath your glass, of course. What is your fruit? Mostly of water clear, The heat may redden what your tendrils bear. But, lady dear, you cannot live on fruits alone while here! Now slip away your glossy glove And pluck that ripened peach above, Then place it in your pearly mouth And suck it—how it 'lays your drouth— Melts in your lips like honey of the South!

Dear Madame, in the North you have great sights— Of churches, castles, theatres of greatest heights; Your works of art are greater far than here. But come and see, quite near The banks of the Garonne, on a sweet summer's day, All works of God! and then you'll say No place more beautiful and gay! You see the rocks in all their velvet greenery; The plains are always gold; and mossy very, The valleys, where we breathe the healthy air, And where we walk on beds of flowers most fair!

The country round your Paris has its flowers and greensward, But 'tis too grand a dame for me, it is too dull and sad. Here, thousand houses smile along the river's stream; Our sky is bright, it laughs aloud from morn to e'en. Since month of May, when brightest weather bounds For six months, music through the air resounds— A thousand nightingales the shepherd's ears delight: All sing of Love—Love which is new and bright. Your Opera, surprised, would silent hearken, When day for night has drawn aside its curtain, Under our heavens, which very soon comes glowing. Listen, good God! our concert is beginning! What notes! what raptures? Listen, shepherd-swains, One chaunt is for the hill-side, the other's for the plains.

"Those lofty mountains Far up above, I cannot see All that I love; Move lower, mountains, Plains, up-move, That I may see All that I love."{2}

And thousand voices sound through Heaven's alcove, Coming across the skies so blue, Making the angels smile above— The earth embalms the songsters true; The nightingales, from tree to flower, Sing louder, fuller, stronger. 'Tis all so sweet, though no one beats the measure, To hear it all while concerts last—such pleasure! Indeed my vineyard's but a seat of honour, For, from my hillock, shadowed by my bower, I look upon the fields of Agen, the valley of Verone.{3} How happy am I 'mongst my vines! Such pleasures there are none.

For here I am the poet-dresser, working for the wines. I only think of propping up my arbours and my vines; Upon the road I pick the little stones— And take them to my vineyard to set them up in cones, And thus I make a little house with but a sheltered door— As each friend, in his turn, now helps to make the store. And then there comes the vintage—the ground is firm and fast, With all my friends, with wallets or with baskets cast, We then proceed to gather up the fertile grapes at last.

Oh! my young vine, The sun's bright shine Hath ripened thee All—all for me! No drizzling showers Have spoilt the hours. My muse can't borrow; My friends, to-morrow Cannot me lend; But thee, young friend, Grapes nicely drest, With figs the finest And raisins gather Bind them together! Th' abundant season Will still us bring A glorious harvesting; Close up thy hands with bravery Upon the luscious grapery!

Now all push forth their tendrils; though not past remedy, At th' hour when I am here, my faithful memory Comes crowding back; my oldest friends Now make me young again—for pleasure binds Me to their hearts and minds. But now the curtained night comes on again.

I see, the meadows sweet around, My little island, midst the varying ground, Where I have often laughed, and sometimes I have groaned.

I see far off the leafy woodland, Or near the fountain, where I've; often dreamed; Long time ago there was a famous man{4} Who gave its fame to Agen. I who but write these verses slight Midst thoughts of memory bright.

But I will tell you all—in front, to left, to right, More than a hedgerow thick that I have brought the light, More than an apple-tree that I have trimmed, More than an old vine-stalk that I have thinned To ripen lovely Muscat. Madame, you see that I look back upon my past, Without a blush at last; What would you? That I gave my vineyard back— And that with usury? Alack! And yet unto my garden I've no door— Two thorns are all my fence—no more! When the marauders come, and through a hole I see their nose, Instead of taking up a stick to give them blows, I turn aside; perhaps they never may return, the horde! He who young robs, when older lets himself be robbed!

Endnotes to MY VINEYARD.

{1} Jasmin purchased a little piece of ground, which he dedicated to his "Curl-papers" (Papilhoto), on the road to Scaliger's villa, and addressed the above lines to his lady-admirer in Paris, Madame Louis veill.

{2} From a popular song by Gaston Phebus.

{3} Referring to Verona, the villa of Scaliger, the great scholar.

{4} Scaliger.



FRANCONNETTE.

FIRST PART.

Blaise de Montluc—Festival at Roquefort—The Prettiest Maiden—The Soldier and the Shepherds—Kissing and Panting— Courage of Pascal—Fury of Marcel—Terrible Contest.

'Twas at the time when Blaise the murderous Struck heavy blows by force of arms. He hewed the Protestants to pieces, And, in the name of God the Merciful, Flooded the earth with sorrow, blood, and tears.

Alas! 'twas pitiful—far worse beyond the hills, Where flashing gun and culverin were heard; There the unhappy bore their heavy cross, And suffered, more than elsewhere, agonising pain, Were killed and strangled, tumbled into wells; 'Tween Penne and Fumel the saddened earth was gorged. Men, women, children, murdered everywhere, The hangman even stopped for breath; While Blaise, with heart of steel, dismounted at the gate Of his strong castle wall, With triple bridge and triple fosse; Then kneeling, made his pious prayers, Taking the Holy Sacrament, His hands yet dripping with fraternal blood!{1}

Now every shepherd, every shepherd lass, At the word Huguenot shuddered with affright, Even 'midst their laughing courtship. And yet it came to pass That in a hamlet, 'neath a castled height, One Sunday, when a troop of sweethearts danced Upon the day of Roquefort fete, And to a fife the praises sang Of Saint James and the August weather— That bounteous month which year by year, Through dew-fall of the evening bright, And heat of Autumn noons doth bring Both grapes and figs to ripening.

It was the finest fete that eyes had ever seen Under the shadow of the leafy parasol, Where aye the country-folk convene. O'erflowing were the spaces all, From cliff, from dale, from every home Of Montagnac and Sainte-Colombe, Still they do come, Too many far to number; More, ever more, while flames the sunshine o'er, There's room for all, their coming will not cumber, The fields shall be their chamber, and the little hillocks green The couches of their slumber.

What pleasure! what delight! the sun now fills the air; The sweetest thing in life Is the music of the fife And the dancing of the fair. You see their baskets emptying Of waffles all home-made. They quaff the nectar sparkling Of freshest lemonade. What crowds at Punchinello, While the showman beats his cymbal! Crowds everywhere! But who is this appears below? Ah! 'tis the beauteous village queen! Yes, 'tis she; 'tis Franconnette! A fairer girl was never seen.

In the town as in the prairie, You must know that every country Has its chosen pearl of love. Ah, well! This was the one— They named her in the Canton, The prettiest, sweetest dove.

But now, you must not fancy, gentlemen, That she was sad and sighing, Her features pale as any lily, That she had dying eyes, half-shut and blue, And slender figure clothed with languishing, Like to a weeping willow by a limpid lake. Not so, my masters. Franconnette Had two keen flashing eyes, like two live stars; Her laughing cheeks were round, where on a lover might Gather in handfuls roses bright; Brown locks and curly decked her head; Her lips were as the cherry red, Whiter than snow her teeth; her feet How softly moulded, small and fleet; How light her limbs! Ah, well-a-day! And of the whole at once I say, She was the very beau-ideal Of beauty in a woman's form, most fair and real.

Such loveliness, in every race, May sudden start to light. She fired the youths with ready love, Each maiden with despair. Poor youths, indeed! Oh! how they wished To fall beneath her feet! They all admired her, and adored, Just as the priest adores the cross— 'Twas as if there shone a star of light The young girl's brow across!

Yet, something vexing in her soul began to hover; The finest flower had failed her in this day of honour. Pascal, whom all the world esteemed, Pascal, the handsomest, whose voice with music beamed, He shunned the maid, cast ne'er a loving glance; Despised! She felt hate growing in her heart, And in her pretty vengeance She seized the moment for a brilliant dart Of her bright eyes to chain him. What would you have? A girl so greatly envied, She might become a flirt conceited; Already had she seemed all this, Self-glorious she was, I fear, Coquetting rarely comes amiss, Though she might never love, with many lovers near! Grandmother often said to her, "Child, child!" with gentle frown, "A meadow's not a parlour, and the country's not a town, And thou knowest well that we have promised thee lang syne To the soldier-lad, Marcel, who is lover true of thine. So curb thy flights, thou giddy one, The maid who covets all, in the end mayhap hath none." "Nay, nay," replied the tricksy fay, With swift caress, and laughter gay, "There is another saw well-known, Time enough, my grannie dear, to love some later day! 'She who hath only me, hath 'none.'"

Now, such a flighty course, you may divine, Made hosts of melancholy swains, Who sighed and suffered jealous pains, Yet never sang reproachful strains, Like learned lovers when they pine, Who, as they go to die, their woes write carefully On willow or on poplar tree. Good lack! thou could'st not shape a letter, And the silly souls, though love-sick, to death did not incline, Thinking to live and suffer on were better! But tools were handled clumsily, And vine-sprays blew abroad at will, And trees were pruned exceeding ill, And many a furrow drawn awry.

Methinks you know her now, this fair and foolish girl; Watch while she treads one measure, then see her dip and twirl! Young Etienne holds her hand by chance, 'Tis the first rigadoon they dance; With parted lips, right thirstily Each rustic tracks them as they fly, And the damsel sly Feels every eye, And lighter moves for each adoring glance. Holy cross! what a sight! when the madcap rears aright Her shining lizard's head! her Spanish foot falls light, Her wasp-like figure sways And swims and whirls and springs again. The wind with corner of her 'kerchief plays. Those lovely cheeks where on the youths now gaze, They hunger to salute with kisses twain!

And someone shall; for here the custom is, Who tires his partner out, salutes her with a kiss; The girls grow weary everywhere, Wherefore already Jean and Paul, Louis, Guillaume, and strong Pierre, Have breathless yielded up their place Without the coveted embrace.

Another takes his place, Marcel the wight, The soldier of Montluc, prodigious in his height, Arrayed in uniform, bearing his sword, A cockade in his cap, the emblem of his lord, Straight as an I, though bold yet not well-bred, His heart was soft, but thickish was his head. He blustered much and boasted more and more, Frolicked and vapoured as he took the floor Indeed he was a very horrid bore. Marcel, most mad for Franconnette, tortured the other girls, Made her most jealous, yet she had no chance, The swelled-out coxcomb called on her to dance. But Franconnette was loth, and she must let him see it; He felt most madly jealous, yet was maladroit, He boasted that he was beloved; perhaps he did believe it quite—

The other day, in such a place, She shrank from his embrace!

The crowd now watched the dancing pair, And marked the tricksy witching fair; They rush, they whirl! But what's amiss? The bouncing soldier lad, I wis, Can never snatch disputed kiss! The dancing maid at first smiles at her self-styled lover, "Makes eyes" at him, but ne'er a word does utter; She only leaped the faster! Marcel, piqued to the quick, longed to subdue this creature, He wished to show before the crowd what love he bore her; One open kiss were sweeter far Than twenty in a corner! But, no! his legs began to fail, his head was in a trance, He reeled, he almost fell, he could no longer dance; Now he would give cockade, sabre, and silver lace, Would it were gold indeed, for her embrace!

Yet while the pair were still afoot, the girl looked very gay— Resolved never to give way! While headstrong Marcel, breathless, spent, and hot in face, He reeled and all but fell; then to the next gave place! Forth darted Pascal in the soldier's stead, They make two steps, then change, and Franconnette, Weary at last, with laughing grace, Her foot stayed and upraised her face! Tarried Pascal that kiss to set? Not he, be sure! and all the crowd His vict'ry hailed with plaudits loud. The clapping of their palms like battle-dores resounded, While Pascal stood among them quite confounded!

Oh, what a picture for the soldier who so loved his queen! Him the kiss maddened! Measuring Pascal with his een, He thundered, "Peasant, you have filled my place most sly; Not so fast, churl!"—and brutally let fly With aim unerring one fierce blow, Straight in the other's eyes, doubling the insult so.

Good God!{2} how stings the madd'ning pain, His dearest happiness that blow must stain, Kissing and boxing—glory, shame! Light, darkness! Fire, ice! Life, death! Heaven, hell! All this was to our Pascal's soul the knell Of hope! But to be thus tormented By flagrant insult, as the soldier meant it; Now without fear he must resent it! It does not need to be a soldier nor a "Monsieur," An outrage placidly to bear. Now fiery Pascal let fly at his foe, Before he could turn round, a stunning blow; 'Twas like a thunder peal, And made the soldier reel; Trying to draw his sabre, But Pascal, seeming bigger, Gripped Marcel by the waist, and sturdily Lifted him up, and threw his surly Foe on the ground, breathless, and stunned severely.

"Now then!" while Pascal looked on the hound thrown by him, "The peasant grants thee chance of living!" "Despatch him!" cried the surging crowd. "Thou art all cover'd o'er with blood!" But Pascal, in his angry fit of passion, Had hurt his wrist and fist in a most serious fashion.

"No matter! All the same I pardon him! You must have pity on the beaten hound!" "No, finish him! Into morsels cut him!" The surging, violent crowd now cried around. "Back, peasants, back! Do him no harm!" Sudden exclaimed a Monsieur, speaking with alarm; The peasants moved aside, and then gave place To Montluc, glittering with golden lace; It was the Baron of Roquefort!

The frightened girls, like hunted hares, At once dispers'd, flew here and there. The shepherds, but a moment after, With thrilling fife and beaming laughter, The brave and good Pascal attended on his way, Unto his humble home, as 'twere his nuptial day.

But Marcel, furious, mad with rage, exclaimed, "Oh! could I stab and kill them! But I'm maimed!" Only a gesture of his lord Restrained him, hand upon his sword. Then did he grind his teeth, as he lay battered, And in a low and broken voice he muttered: "They love each other, and despise my kindness, She favours him, and she admires his fondness; Ah, well! by Marcel's patron, I'll not tarry To make them smart, and Franconnette No other husband than myself shall marry!"

SECOND PART.

The Enamoured Blacksmith—His Fretful Mother—The Busking Soiree—Pascal's Song—The Sorcerer of the Black Forest— The Girl Sold to the Demon.

Since Roquefort fete, one, two, three months have fled; The dancing frolic, with the harvest ended; The out-door sports are banished— For winter comes; the air is sad and cold, it sighs Under the vaulted skies. At fall of night, none risks to walk across the fields, For each one, sad and cheerless, beelds Before the great fires blazing, Or talks of wolfish fiends{3} amazing; And sorcerers—to make one shudder with affright— That walk around the cots so wight, Or 'neath the gloomy elms, and by farmyards at night.

But now at last has Christmas come, And little Jack, who beats the drum, Cries round the hamlet, with his beaming face: "Come brisken up, you maidens fair, A merry busking{4} shall take place On Friday, first night of the year!"

Ah! now the happy youths and maidens fair Proclaimed the drummer's words, so bright and rare. The news were carried far and near Light as a bird most fleet With wings to carry thoughts so sweet. The sun, with beaming rays, had scarcely shone Ere everywhere the joyous news had flown; At every fireside they were known, By every hearth, in converse keen, The busking was the theme.

But when the Friday came, a frozen dew was raining, And by a fireless forge a mother sat complaining; And to her son, who sat thereby, She spoke at last entreatingly: "Hast thou forgot the summer day, my boy, when thou didst come All bleeding from the furious fray, to the sound of music home? How I have suffered for your sorrow, And all that you have had to go through. Long have I troubled for your arm! For mercy's sake Oh! go not forth to-night! I dreamt of flowers again, And what means that, Pascal, but so much tears and pain!"

"Now art thou craven, mother! and see'st that life's all black, But wherefore tremble, since Marcel has gone, and comes not back!" "Oh yet, my son, do you take heed, I pray! For the wizard of the Black Wood is roaming round this way; The same who wrought such havoc, 'twas but a year agone, They tell me one was seen to come from 's cave at dawn But two days past—it was a soldier; now What if this were Marcel? Oh, my child, do take care! Each mother gives her charms unto her sons; do thou Take mine; but I beseech, go not forth anywhere!"

"Just for one little hour, mine eyes to set On my friend Thomas, whom I'm bound to meet!"

"Thy friend, indeed! Nay, nay! Thou meanest Franconnette, Whom thou loves dearly! I wish thou'd love some other maid! Oh, yes! I read it in thine eyes! Though thou sing'st, art gay, thy secret bravely keeping, That I may not be sad, yet all alone thou'rt weeping— My head aches for thy misery; Yet leave her, for thine own good, my dear Pascal; She would so greatly scorn a working smith like thee, With mother old in penury; For poor we are—thou knowest truly.

"How we have sold and sold fill scarce a scythe remains. Oh, dark the days this house hath seen Since, Pascal, thou so ill hast been; Now thou art well, arouse! do something for our gains Or rest thee, if thou wilt; with suffering we can fight; But, for God's love, oh! go not forth to-night!"

And the poor mother, quite undone, Cried, while thus pleading with her son, Who, leaning on his blacksmith's forge The stifling sobs quelled in his gorge. "'Tis very true," he said, "that we are poor, But had I that forgot?... I go to work, my mother, now, be sure!"

No sooner said than done; for in a blink Was heard the anvil's clink, The sparks flew from the blacksmith's fire Higher and still higher! The forgeman struck the molten iron dead, Hammer in hand, as if he had a hundred in his head!

But now, the Busking was apace, And soon, from every corner place The girls came with the skein of their own making To wind up at this sweethearts' merry meeting.

In the large chamber, where they sat and winded The threads, all doubly garnished, The girls, the lads, plied hard their finger, And swiftly wound together The clews of lint so fair, As fine as any hair.

The winding now was done; and the white wine, and rhymsters, Came forth with rippling glass and porringers, And brought their vivid vapours To brighten up their capers— Ah! if the prettiest were the best, with pride I would my Franconnette describe.

Though queen of games, she was the last, not worst, It is not that she reigned at present, yet was first.

"Hold! Hold!" she cried, the brown-haired maid, Now she directed them from side to side— Three women merged in one, they said— She dances, speaks, sings, all bewitching, By maiden's wiles she was so rich in; She sings with soul of turtle-dove, She speaks with grace angelic; She dances on the wings of love— Sings, speaks, and dances, in a guise More than enough to turn the head most wise!

Her triumph is complete; all eyes are fixed upon her, Though her adorers are but peasants; Her eyes are beaming, Blazing and sparkling, And quite bewitching; No wonder that the sweetheart lads are ravished with her!

Then Thomas rose and, on the coquette fixing His ardent eyes, though blushing, In language full of neatness, And tones of lute-like sweetness, This song began to sing:

THE SYREN WITH A HEART OF ICE.

"Oh, tell us, charming Syren, With heart of ice unmoved, When shall we hear the sound Of bells that ring around, To say that you have loved? Always so free and gay, Those wings of dazzling ray,

Are spread to every air— And all your favour share; Attracted by their light All follow in your flight. But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again?

"You've seen how full of joy We've marked the sun arise; Even so each Sunday morn When you, before our eyes, Bring us such sweet surprise. With us new life is born: We love your angel face, Your step so debonnaire, Your mien of maiden grace, Your voice, your lips, your hair, Your eyes of gentle fire, All these we now admire! But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again?

"Alas! our groves are dull When widowed of thy sight, And neither hedge nor field Their perfume seem to yield; The blue sky is not bright When you return once more, All that was sad is gone, All nature you restore, We breathe in you alone; We could your rosy fingers cover With kisses of delight all over! But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again?

"The dove you lost of late, Might warn you by her flight, She sought in woods her mate, And has forgot you quite; She has become more fair Since love has been her care. 'Tis love makes all things gay, Oh follow where she leads— When beauteous looks decay, What dreary life succeeds! And ah! believe me, perfect bliss, A joy, where peace and triumph reign, Is when a maiden, loved like this, Has learnt 'tis sweet to love again!"

The songster finished, and the ardent crowd Of listeners clapped their hands in praises loud.

"Oh! what a lovely song!" they cried. "Who is the poet?" "'Tis Pascal," answered Thomas, "that has made it!" "Bravo! Long live Pascal!" exclaimed the fervent crowd.

Nothing said Franconnette; but she rejoiced—was proud— At having so much love evoked, And in a song so touching, Before this crowd admiring.

Then she became more serious as she thought of Pascal; "How brave he is! 'Tis all for him; he has not got his equal! How he paints love! All praise him without doubt; And his sweet song—so touching!" for now by heart she knows it. "But if he loves at last, why does he hide away?" Then turning suddenly, she says— "Thomas, he is not here, away he stays; I would him compliment; can he not come?" "Oh! now he cannot; but remains at home."

Then spoke the jealous Lawrence: "Pascal knows He cannot any other songs compose; Poor fellow! almost ruined quite he is; His father's most infirm—stretched out, and cannot rise; The baker will not give him bread, he is constrained to debts."

Then Franconnette grew pale, and said, "And he so very good! Poor lad! how much he suffers; and now he wants his food!"

"My faith!" said Lawrence, a heart of goodness aping, "They say that now he goes a-begging!" "You lie!" cried Thomas, "hold thy serpent's tongue! Pascal, 'tis true, is working, yet with harm, Since, for this maiden, he has suffered in his arm; But he is cured; heed not this spiteful knave! He works now all alone, for he is strong and brave." If someone on the girl his eyes had set, He would have seen tears on the cheeks of Franconnette.

"Let's 'Hunt the Slipper!"' cried the maids; Round a wide ring they sat, the jades. Slipper was bid by Franconnette, But in a twinkle, Marionette— "Lawrence, hast thou my slipper?" "No, demoiselle!" "Rise then, and seek it now, ah, well!" Lawrence, exulting in his features, Said, "Franconnette, hast thou my slipper?" "No, sir!" "'Tis false!" It was beneath her seat! "Thou hast it! Rise! Now kiss me as the forfeit!"