ere 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.

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