"There's not a deeper grief to man
Than when his 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 revives to-day,
Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.
It is not thus, believe me, sir,
With this enchantress—she will call
Our second mother: Frenchmen err,
Who, cent'ries since, proclaimed her fall!
Our mother-tongue—all melody—
While music lives can never die.
Yes! she still 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 as their mother; they recall
Fond thoughts of mother, sister, friends, and all
The many little things that please the heart,
The dreams, the 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 ev'ry home, at ev'ry cottage door,
By ev'ry 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 critics! '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 its 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!
Yes, weary of its age, renounce—disown—
And blame one minstrel who is true—alone!"{1}

This is but a paraphrase of Jasmin's poem, which, as we have already said, cannot be verbally translated into any other language. Even the last editor of Jasmin's poems—Boyer d'Agen—does not translate them into French poetry, but into French prose. Much of the aroma of poetry evaporates in converting poetical thoughts from one language into another.

Jasmin, in one part of his poem, compares the ancient patois to one of the grand old elms in the Promenade de Gravier, which, having in a storm had some of its branches torn away, was ordered by the 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, glorious verdure again clothed the remaining boughs; the birds sang sweetly in the branches, and the neighbours rejoiced that its roots had been so numerous and the tree had been so firmly planted.

Jasmin's description of his mother-tongue is most touching. Seasons pass away, and, as they roll on, their echoes sound in our ears; but the loved tongue shall not and must not die. The mother-tongue recalls our own dear mother, sisters, friends, and crowds of bygone associations, which press into our minds while sitting by the evening fire. This tongue is the language of our toils and labours; she comes to us at our birth, she lingers at our tomb.

"No, no—I cannot desert my mother-tongue!" said Jasmin. "It preserves the folk-lore of the district; it is the language of the poor, of the labourer, the shepherd, the farmer and grape-gatherers, of boys and girls, of brides and bridegrooms. The people," 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 though it has been condemned for three hundred years. Why! she still lives, her voice still sounds; like her, the seasons pass, the bells ring out their peals, and though a hundred thousand years may roll away, they will still be sounding and ringing!"

Jasmin has been compared to Dante. But there is this immense difference between them. Dante was virtually the creator of the Italian language, which was in its infancy when he wrote his 'Divine Comedy' some six hundred years ago, 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 Jasmin had to collect his lexicon, grammar, and speech mostly from the peasants who lived in the neighbourhood of Agen. Dante virtually created the Italian language, while Jasmin merely resuscitated for a time the Gascon dialect.

Jasmin was not deterred by the expostulations of Dumon, but again wrote his new epic of Franconnette in Gascon. It took him a long time to clothe his poetical thoughts 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, but he was mainly thinking and dreaming, and at times writing down his new epic Franconnette. It was completed in 1840, when he dedicated the poem to the city of Toulouse.

The story embodied in the poem was founded on an ancient tradition. The time at which it occurred was towards the end of the sixteenth century, when France was torn to pieces by the civil war between the Huguenots and the Catholics. Agen was then a centre of Protestantism. It was taken and retaken by both parties again and again. The Huguenot captain, 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 slaughter."{2} Montluc struck with a heavy hand the Protestants of the South. In the name of the God of Mercy he hewed the Huguenots to pieces, and, after spreading desolation through the South, he retired to his fortress at Estellac, knelt before the altar, took the communion, and was welcomed by his party as one of the greatest friends of the Church.

The civil war went on for ten years, until in August 1572 the massacre of Saint Bartholomew took place. After that event the word "Huguenot" was abolished, or was only mentioned 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 tomb and statue are to be seen in the adjoining garden. The principal scenes of the following story are supposed to have occurred at Estanquet, a few miles to the south of Agen.

Franconnette, like The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille, is a story of rivalry in love; but, though more full of adventure, it ends more happily. Franconnette was a village beauty. Her brilliant eyes, her rosy complexion, her cherry lips, her lithe and handsome figure, brought all the young fellows of the neighbourhood to her feet. Her father was a banished Huguenot, but beauty of person sets differences of belief at defiance.