If Roumanille and Aubanel contented themselves with the publication of poems of no very ambitious length, the author of “Mireio” aimed directly at enriching his language at the outset with an epic.  He has given us in twelve cantos the song of Provence.  He makes us see and feel the life of Languedoc,—­traverse the Crau, that Arabia Petrasa of France,—­see the Rhone, and the fair daughters of Arles, in their picturesque costumes,—­see the wild bulls of the Camargo, the Pampas of the Mediterranean.  We are among the growers of the silk-worm; we hear the home-songs and talks of the Mas, listen to the people’s legends and tales of witchery, and can study the Middle-Age spirit that still in these regions endows every shrine with miracles, as we follow the pilgrimage to the chapel of the Three Marys.

“Mireio” is all Provence living and breathing before us in a poem.  No wonder, then, that, in the present dearth of poetry in France, this epic or idyl, call it as you will, was received with acclamations.  M. Rene Taillandier has consecrated to it one of his most masterly articles in the “Revue des Deux Mondes.”  Lamartine has devoted to it a whole entretien in his “Cours de Litterature.”  It was discussed, quoted, translated in all the journals of the capital.  We may revert to it at greater length in a future number of the “Atlantic.”

The name of Jasmin, the harbor-poet of Agen, is already familiar to the English public.  Professor Longfellow has translated his “Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille.”  His name is known in Paris as well, perhaps, as that of any other living French poet, if we except Lamartine and Victor Hugo.  Accompanied with a French translation, his principal poems, “Mous Soubenis,” “L’Abuglo de Castel-Cuille,” “Francouneto,” “Maltro l’Innoucento,” “Lous Dus Frays Bessous,” “La Semmano d’un Fil,” have been read as much north of the Loire as south.

“The Curl-Papers”—­for thus he styles his works—­having been translated into German and English, the reputation of the author may be called European.  The forty maintainers of the Floral Games of Clemence Isaure at Toulouse awarded him the title of Maitre es Jeux-Floraux.  His progress through the South was marked by ovations, and every town, from Marseilles to Bordeaux, hastened to recognize the modern Troubadour.  Happier than most of his predecessors, Jasmin receives his laurels in season, and can wear the crowns that are presented him.  The “Papillotos” were formerly scattered in three costly volumes; they have now been collected in one handsome duodecimo, with an accompanying French translation of the principal pieces,—­a translation which called from Ampere the remark,—­"A defaut des vers de Jasmin, on ferait cent lieues pour entendre cette prose-la!"