I could now quite understand what a troubadour or _jongleur_ might be, and I look upon Jasmin as a revived specimen of that extinct race.

Such as he is might have been Gaucelm Faidit, of Avignon, the friend of Coeur de Lion, who lamented the death of the hero in such moving strains; such might have been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang the praises of Queen Elionore's beauty; such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on his own Garonne; such the wild Vidal: certain it is, that none of these troubadours of old could more move, by their singing or reciting, than Jasmin, in whom all their long-smothered fire and traditional magic seems re-illumined.
We found we had stayed hours instead of minutes with the poet; but he would not hear of any apology--only regretted that his voice was so out of tune, in consequence of a violent cold, under which he was really labouring, and hoped to see us again.

He told us our countrywomen of Pau had laden him with kindness and attention, and spoke with such enthusiasm of the beauty of certain "misses," that I feared his little wife would feel somewhat piqued; but, on the contrary, she stood by, smiling and happy, and enjoying the stories of his triumphs.

I remarked that he had restored the poetry of the troubadours; asked him if he knew their songs; and said he was worthy to stand at their head.

"I am, indeed, a troubadour," said he, with energy; "but I am far beyond them all; they were but beginners; they never composed a poem like my Francounete! there are no poets in France now--there cannot be; the language does not admit of it; where is the fire, the spirit, the expression, the tenderness, the force of the Gascon?
French is but the ladder to reach to the _first floor_ of Gascon--how can you get up to a height except by a ladder!" This last metaphor reminded me of the Irishman's contempt for an English staircase in comparison to his father's ladder; and my devotion to the troubadours and _early_ French poets received a severe shock by the slight thrown on them by the bard of Agen.
We left him, therefore, half angry at his presumption; and once out of his sight I began again to doubt his merit, not feeling ready to accord the meed of applause to conceit at any time; I forgot that Jasmin is a type of his kind in all ways, and "is every inch" a _Gascon_.
His poems, of which I am tempted to give some specimens, must speak for him, although they necessarily lose greatly by transmission into a language so different to the Gascon as English.