Barber, Poet, Philanthropistt
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Samuel Smiles >> Barber, Poet, Philanthropistt
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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.
Footnotes 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.
Footnotes 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."
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