onour of entertaining him. He went from matinees
to soirees, and in ten days he appeared at thirty-four different
entertainments.

At length he became thoroughly tired and exhausted by this enormous
fete-ing. He longed to be away and at home with his wife and
children. He took leave of his friends and admirers with emotion,
and, notwithstanding the praises and acclamations he had received at
Bordeaux, he quietly turned to pursue his humble occupation at Agen.

It was one of the most remarkable things about Jasmin, that he was
never carried off his feet by the brilliant ovations he received. Though
enough to turn any poor fellow's head, he remained simple and natural to
the last. As we say in this country, he could "carry corn" We have said
that "Gascon" is often used in connection with boasting or gasconading.
But the term was in no way applicable to Jasmin. He left the echo of
praises behind him, and returned to Agen to enjoy the comforts of his
fireside.

He was not, however, without tempters to wean him from his home and his
ordinary pursuits. In 1836, the year after his triumphal reception at
Bordeaux, some of his friends urged him to go to Paris--the centre of
light and leading--in order to "make his fortune."

But no! he had never contemplated the idea of leaving his native town.
A rich wine merchant of Toulouse was one of his tempters. He advised
Jasmin to go to the great metropolis, where genius alone was recognised.
Jasmin answered him in a charming letter, setting forth the reasons
which determined him to remain at home, principally because his tastes
were modest and his desires were homely.

"You too," he said, "without regard to troubling my days and my nights,
have written to ask me to carry my guitar and my dressing-comb to the
great city of kings, because there, you say, my poetical humour and my
well-known verses will bring torrents of crowns to my purse. Oh, you
may well boast to me of this shower of gold and its clinking stream. You
only make me cry: 'Honour is but smoke, glory is but glory, and money is
only money!' I ask you, in no craven spirit, is money the only thing for
a man to seek who feels in his heart the least spark of poetry? In my
town, where everyone works, leave me as I am. Every summer, happier than
a king, I lay up my small provision for the winter, and then I sing like
a goldfinch under the shade of a poplar or an ash-tree, only too happy
to grow grey in the land which gave me b