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beneath his own famous portrait by thing of interest in all that discussion, Watts, with his guests and friends dis- but this other little trivial sentence : posed around him, the music, which he “ You must travel now, and learn liked so much at all times, and more something !" which was not seriously especially of late, pealing down from meant, and so which I cannot even the organ loft opposite, I sat just pretend to take seriously, was really behind him on his left, and got his very last word in life to me. my last mental photograph of him The rest of our day was spent in which I would not change for any visits, services, society. With Lord other. Knowledge, sympathy, kind- Russell I visited Warren at Magdalen, ness, strength, they were all beautifully and Abbott at Headington, in his blent in his aspect. The peace of a peaceful home upon the hill where the finished course seemed to be in him master was destined to stay later, and and about him.

feel the first symptoms of his illness. As we listened, I remembered how It was a happy Oxford Sunday. Monhe had once said to me: “One of the day morning, ou my way to Russell's charms of music is its vagueness ; it room for early breakfast before we says, different things to different peo- went down together, I walked to the ple ; nobody can say it doesn't mean garden entrance of the master's house that or the other ;” and I wondered to leave my card at a quarter before what the music said to him in his eight. There by the open door I met happy mood. It may have sounded my old friend Miss Knight-his houselike the lapping of eternity's tide, keeper - who kindly offered to take me nearer and nearer.

straight to his room, “to have a talk When the recital was over, and the with him," as she said. But I refused company had dwindled, he talked to us to go up, and contented myself with all — last words, to some, had we but writing to him once more from London. known it, but his words, like most I am sorry — and not sorry. I might unaffected last words, were singularly have got some word of wisdom from simple. I know that, after all our sol- him, I should assuredly have got some emn talks, his very last words to me word of kindness; but I should have were almost “chaff,” as he understood lost that last picturesque impression of it. Lady Morley and I were telling his apotheosis in the hall of his own him that we had met in Rome, and he building. A line of one of Gounod's said to me suddenly : “Do you talk songs sings in my head when I think Italian ?" I said, “Yes,” that I had of it : “ Le sage vit en paix.” To have done more in the way of talking Italian been there, and to have seen that than of seeing Italy at that time (allud- peace, is to be thankful. On the 6th ing to an illness in Rome). “Well, of October I went down by the special you must travel now, and learn some train from Paddington to the master's thing,he said with a little laugh, as funeral at Oxford ; Lord Winchilsea he took my arm.

and I, who arrived at the last moment, I had enjoyed a rather considerable being (perhaps for that very reason) talk with him before, the subjects of most fortunate iu getting front places which were, however, purely personal ; where we had both been used to play we had talked of many friends living in the chapel just in the chanceland dead, and afterwards I had ex- corner, the harmonium in old days ! pressed the wish some of us had felt The coffin was half way up the chapel that he should have had a service in the aisle. We passed it almost for us in Balliol chapel“ like family unaware in the different light, as we prayer," instead of sending us all off, were shown to our seats. Farmer was as he did in the afternoon, to Magdalen playing now upon this other organ and New. “ Dear me,” he said at like the one in Hall, of the master's length, “I wish I'd had it; I thought giving — but he was out of hearing it no one would care." There was some-l forever ; the favorite airs were woven

LIVING AGE, VOL. IV. 192

into a dreamy dirge, breaking the

From The Contemporary Review. “ Dead March” with “I know that my

POETS OF PROVENCE. Redeemer livetlı."

In fair Provence, the land of flowers The congregation was most represen- and sunshine, there dwells a raos as tative, but the service, of which so yet untainted by any touch of what, for many accounts were written in the want of a better name, we may call the papers, was not religiously impressive. spirit of our fin de siècle ; a race not The funeral procession 1 wound through morbid, not pessimistic, nor tired of the fellows' garden and the garden this weary world, but genial, joyous, quad, up St. Giles's and Jericho to the and full of fire and vigorous life. By unlovely cemetery ground, in a crowd them the question, “Is life worth livof great length but desultory and scat- ing ?would hardly be asked ; it tered in form. I walked with Alfred answers itself, for who would choose Milner, who had been my very first but live in a world so full of warmth Balliol associate ; behind us were some and light and beauty as theirs ? Among foreign princes, Siamese or Japanese, the children of the sun, poetry springs oddly like some who had been at the up as naturally as the flowers grow college in our time, but I suppose a their life is a poem ; they sing of love, later generation. Practically the same. of the nature around them, of sowing We were hustled round the grave; the and of reaping and of the legends of scouts held the multitudinous wreaths the countryside, and through all their like aprons ; a little rain fell. It was songs the sunlight glows. They are all over,

what did it matter how ? lineal descendants of the troubadours Many an old friend was met there, but who brought into the courts of unoulthey were each and all a friend the tured kings and the halls of a rude less, and their meeting was to be never nobility the leavening breath of art. again at the master's bidding. It was It is not of these troubadours of the just a year ago.

olden time that it is my intention to The last time we all met once speak in this paper, except in so far as more together — but only in his name, it is necessary, in order to understand was at the great memorial meeting on the great poetic movement of the latter the 2nd of December in the theatre of half of the present century in southern the University of London, when, to France and eastern Spain. For the our full committee, and others of the movement is a revival rather than a master's friends, the speaker, who was new birth. The Provençal poets of our chairman, Lord Salisbury, the lord to-day, or Félibres as they call themchancellor, the home secretary, the selves, not only derive their inspiration lord chief justice, Lord Bowen, Pro- from medieval times, they write in fessor Huxley, the Bishop of London, tongues which have a common origin and others, spoke for our friend, and with those of the troubadours. We added each his tribute to the master's all know the story of how Rome made memory. All that they said made up herself the mistress not solely of the an impressive body of remembrance material destinies of the countries she and of praise. Almost it makes me conquered, but of their speech also ; of fear to add my words of memory ; on how in the course of centuries this reading them they seem of little value, imposed unity of tongue again became but they have their roots deep down. diversity, and the popular idiom of the It is a case, like all cases of true influ- Romans developed into the group of ence, where “the things which are languages which we call romance, and seen are temporal, but the things which which includes Italian, French, Proare not seen are - well ! more dur- vençal, Spanish, Portuguese, Roumaable. WILLIAM HARDINGE. nian, and a number of minor languages

or dialects. Even from the first, pocul1 I had been honored by a grasp of his hand at iarities were to be found in the Latin Browning's funeral, I think, and certainly at Tennyson's.

spoken in different provinces, and that

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which prevailed in Gaul was called | might be formed from the independent Gallo-Roman, just as that which was provinces of the South, in which the spoken in Spain was called Hispano- langue d’oc was spoken. It may well Roman. With the slackening of Ro- be that it was jealousy of this continman authority, Gallo-Roman again gency that prompted the French king became divided into dialects which to encourage the Crusades. And, inform two principal groups the langues deed, in the ruin which followed on the d'oil of northern France, and the path of the Crusaders, all hope of a langues d'oc of the southern provinces Provençal kingdom was lost. Villages extending landwards from the shores were burut and plundered, and the of the Mediterranean. The langues inhabitants massacred without mercy. d'oc are divided again into three groups At the sacking of Béziers under Simon

Gascon, Catalonian, and Provençal. de Montfort, there were sixty thouThe chief dialect of the last-named sand victims; Albigenses and Cathogroup is Provençal, properly so called. lics were slaughtered indiscriminately.

In the tenth century there already Before the assault, the Abbé Arnaud existed a Provençal literature, of which Amalric said, “Slay all, God will know some fragments still remain. The bis own!" twelfth century brought with it a The separate provinces were united brilliant expansion, chiefly lyrical in with France in the thirteenth century. character, and due to the wandering The peaceful singers had been driven midstrels or troubadours. Iu medieval out, and forced to find a refuge 'elseEngland, as in France and Germany, where, some in the seclusion of the the troubadour or minnesinger, whether cloister, and some in foreign lands. of noble or of peasant birth, was every- Most of their manuscripts were lost or where a favored and welcome guest. destroyed, and from this time the The gift of song levelled all barriers of southern dialects degenerated from a rank, fortune, and race. And this uni-language of song and poetry to a mere versal welcome is well illustrated by the patois, the half contemptuous vame story of Alfred, who, wishing to visit given to the speech of a people without the Danish camp, adopted the secure a literature. disguise of a wandering singer. The We owe much to the troubadours of name troubadour or trouvère is derived Provence. They had something of the from trobar trouver, to find ; and in modern spirit; it is from them that the French the expression is still used, two great poets of the Middle Ages, " C'est vraiment trouvé.” “ It is a Dante and Petrarch, learnt the discireal inspiration !”

pline of form and style ; it was the Although the tradition of song never troubadours who raised the ideal of wholly died out in Provence, there is womanhood, and who founded the traunbappily no continuous chain linking dition of tender and chivalrous love. the poets of the Middle Ages to the From the thirteenth century to our Provençal poets of lo-day. For the own, there was a long interval of unchain was rudely broken, and many of productiveness in Provençal literature, the links were lost in the religious wars the silence being broken only now and against the Albigenses at the end of then by a few isolated singers. When the twelfth and in the beginning of the the works of Jasmin became known thirteenth century.

At this moment about the middle of the present centhe troubadours were at the zenith of tury, they were greeted as the last their fame, and it seemed possible that flashes of a fire that had long been a separate nationality and kingdom thought extinct. 1 These distinguishing names, langue d'oil and

Jacques Jasinin, though not properly langue d'oc, derived from the “yes” of the respec- speaking the founder of the Félibrige, tive languages, became general about the tenth was in fact the first of the modern century. Dante calls Italian the lingua di si. The oil of the North is, of course,

troubadours. He was born at Agen in ern French.

1798, and was of very humble origiu ;

the oui of mod

the son of a tailor, whose customers | Congress of Provençal poets which met were few and whose earnings were at Arles in 1852 : sadly insufficient. The tradition of his family was that they must all die à

I was, as it were, harnessed to this conl'hôpital, that is to say, in the work- gress, as a donkey to a cart full of corn,

and there was no need of a whip to urge house, and it was predicted of Jacques me on and make me stretch my legs. that he would be no exception to the "Zuze un peu, mon bon !" I was in the rule. The little fellow used to gather prime of life, in the full flower of my thirtysticks in the wood, and sell them for a fourth year. I could have dragged my trifle, or earn a stray sou by carrying cart-load to the very top of Mount Venparcels at the village fairs, and so toux ! I sent out summonses to the right, added his mite to the family resources. to the left, above, below, to all those who His father, though he could neither would, I thought, look kindly on my conread nor write, composed comic songs gress; to the young and the old (and espeand verses which be would recite at the cially the young) of every dialect. Never

had I been so profitable to the post-office, weddings, and fairs, and village festivals of the neighborhood. He took his ill-paid printer's reader that I was) as I did

never had I buckled my belt so tight (poor little son about with him almost as soon then, in order to have in readiness the as he could walk. For a long time his stamps needed to frank all those letters of parents could not afford to send Jacques invitation, and the correspondence to which to school, but finally a scholarship was they gave rise in most cases. Among other obtained for him. Ou leaving school stamps wasted, I reckon, first of all, those he was apprenticed to a hair-dresser at which I persistently threw into the well of Agen, where he afterwards set up in Agen and the celebrated shop of its imbusiness for himself. He continued, mortal barber Jasmin. I wanted to have meanwhile, to study alone, spending "les Provençales.” [“ Les Provençales”

him. I wanted him to be there as well as in his few hours of leisure in devouring is a collection of poems, etc., by different the works of Florian, Goudouli, and

authors, published by Roumanille, to which other poets. Then he began himself to I shall refer later on.] And as I have compose poems and songs, and to recite never been afraid of the glory of others, then to his customers, who came in but, on the contrary, have always rejoiced crowds to his shop, as the barber-poet in it, I cared a great deal about having grew to be the fashion.

Jasmin

;

I needed him, I felt he must Among his chief works are 6. Les come.

Sa tête bien coiffée de coiffeur" Papillotes,” " Mes Souvenirs,” and would have done very well in the land“L'Aveugle de Castel-Cuillé," which scape. I rejoiced beforehand to think of last was translated by Longfellow. In the splendor which this living sun would 1852, the Académie Française awarded shed on our fête ... alas, poor Rouma !

What an illusion ! He came not to the Jasmin a prize of five thousand francs, meeting, and I was left feeling small, and " pour ses poésies écrites en dialecte disappointed, and downcast. 'Twas a drop provençal." He went to Paris, and of gall in my cup of honey. If even the

received everywhere with the Gascon divinity had deigned to answer a greatest enthusiasm. Jasmin died in single one of my letters, and to tell me 1864. The success which came to him how and why it was he would not come rather late in life seems to have left and join us at Arles. · But not a line not his native simplicity not altogether a word ! And all my wasted stamps ! It unspoilt, if we may judge from the was Frédol of Maguelonne who gave me following extract from a letter, written the key to the Jasmin enigma.

“Well, did you see Jasmin? Have you by Roumanille to M. Paul Mariéton. Roumanille, of whom I shall have spoken to him? What did he say?"

“My friend, I have seen Jasmin, I have more to say later, is known as the spoken to him, and he said. father of the Félibres, and it is chiefly “What did he say?" to his initiative that the Provençal " That he would not come to Arles ; it renaissance owes its widespread ipflu- would be the last thing he would think of ence. He writes, in speaking of the doing."

66

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" And then ?!!

Roumanille . . . I thought it was the That we might meet together thirty, name of a dead poet.'' fifty, eighty, a hundred of us, but that be- This reception took away my breath. tween us all we should never make as much However, I only answered, Pardon, Monnoise in the world as he had done, and sieur Jasmin ! I am not dead yet, thank would do, all by himself !” This is an Heaven! As you see, I am much younger historic fact ! What can one do with such than you are ; as you see, also, I am in a man? I said to myself, “Rouma, you perfect health, and I have reason to hope are no better than a fool! You ought to that you will die before I do, and — who have foreseen this, and avoided the snub knows? Heaven may decree that I shall and economized the postage stamps !" write your epitaph !”

And truly, the barber of Agen, one day at Avignon, showed himself to me in his I have quoted at length from this letreal colors. It was in 1848 ; he was on a ter because it gives a vivid picture of pilgrimage, as he loved to call it, through the two men. Paul Mariéton, to whom Provence and Languedoc with Mlle. Roal- it was written, and who is the editor of dez, a remarkably gifted harpist. The the monthly Revue Félibréenne and a young lady drew sweet melodies from the poet of no little fame, says of Roumainstrument of King David, and Jasmin nille, that his letters even more than alternated with her, reciting admirably hiş his published works show all his verve Gascon pieces — " La Semaine d'un Fils," and his good sense. All his life a man “Marthe la Folle," etc. — like the finished actor that he was. The audience was car

of the people, Roumanille was yet ried away, and storms of applause followed very refined. His university training, on one another. That evening I saw tears while it enabled him to express in litin the brightest eyes of Avignon. (At that erary form his genuine feelings, bad in time I was by no means indifferent to no wise destroyed their savor nor taken bright eyes, and I might say the same even aught from the frank and joyous humor now !)

of the peasant of Saint Rémy. I may At the end of the poetic concert the here quote a few lines from an article great actor-poet came down from the plat- by Thomas Janvier, himself a Félibre, form to receive the congratulations and which was published in the Century hand-shakes of the ladies and gentlemen in

Magazine : the front seats. I, Rouma, deeply moved and in a fever of excitement, forced my Most gentle is the business carried on by way from the very back of the hall to the the people of St. Rémy: the raising of hero of the fête.

flowers and the sale of their seed. All “Monsieur Jasmin,” I said, “I am in- around the town are fields of flowers, and deed happy to press the hand of a great the flowers are suffered to grow to full mamaster.

turity, that their seed may be garnered and I thank you, young man,” said he, sent abroad. Everywhere delicate odors taking off his gloves. "To whom have I floated in the air, and though it was Authe honor of speaking ?”

gust bright colors still mingled everywhere " To Roumanille, a humble flute-player."' with the green of leaves and grass. In

Here I must explain that I had just pub- sensibly their gracious manner of earning lished “Li Margarideto,” and had dedi- a livelihood has reacted upon the people cated to Jasmin the piece I thought the themselves; the folk of St. Rémy are least unworthy of his acceptance. I had noted for their gentleness and kindliness sent him, the year before, my first volume even among their gentle and kindly fellow(the page with Madaleno marked), together countrymen of Provence. We understood with a respectful letter. This was in Octo- better Roumanille's beautiful nature when ber, 1847.

And so I said my name dis- we came to know the town of gardens tinctly, Roumanille, hoping that if the wherein he was born, and we also apprepoet of Agen had not thought it worth ciated more keenly the verse - in his exwhile to send me a line of thanks for my quisite little poem to his mother in dedication and the present of my book, he which he chronicles his birth :might profit by the opportunity to show me

In a farmhouse hidden in the midst of apple-trees, this courtesy by word of mouth.

On a beautiful morning in harvest time, “ Roumanille ? . . . Indeed, monsieur, I was born to a gardener and a gardener's wife, thc name is not altogether unknown to me. In the gardens of St. Rémy.

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