occurred to the poet which he thought I could perhaps explain. He produced several French newspapers, in which he pointed out to me an article headed Jasmin à Londres'; being a translation of certain notices of himself, which had appeared in a leading English literary journal. He had, he said, been informed of the honor done him by numerous friends, and assured me his fame had been much spread by this means; and he was so delighted on the occasion, that he had resolved to learn English, in order that he might judge of the translations from his works, which, he had been told, were well done. I enjoyed his surprise, while I informed him that I knew who was the reviewer and translator; and explained the reason for the verses giving pleasure in an English dress to be the superior simplicity of the English language over modern French, for which he has a great contempt, as unfitted for lyrical composition. He inquired of me respecting Burns, to whom he had been likened; and begged me to tell him something of Moore. The delight of himself and his wife was amusing, at having discovered a secret which had puzzled them so long. "He had a thousand things to tell me; in particular, that he had only the day before received a letter from the Duchess of Orleans, informing him that she had ordered a medal of her late husband to be struck, the first of which would be sent to him: she also announced to him the agreeable news of the king having granted him a pension of a thousand francs. He smiled and wept by turns, as he told all this; and declared, much as he was elated at the possession of a sum which made him a rich man for life, the kindness of the Duchess gratified him even more. "He then made us sit down while he read us two new poems; both charming, and full of grace and naïreté; and one very affecting, being an address to the king, alluding to the death of his son. As he read, his wife stood by, and fearing we did not quite comprehend his language, she made a remark to that effect: to which he answered impatiently, Nonsense,— don't you see they are in tears.' This was unanswerable; and we were allowed to hear the poem to the end; and I certainly never listened to any thing more feelingly and energetically delivered. "We had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain us, and, in the course of it, he told me that he had been by some accused of vanity. 'O,' he rejoined, 'what would you have! I am a child of nature, and cannot conceal my feelings; the only difference between me and a man of refinement is, that he knows how to conceal his vanity and exultation at success, which I let every body see.'"-Béarn and the Pyrenees, I. 369, et seq. I HEAR along our street On their hautboys, Christmas songs! Ever higher Sing them till the night expire! In December ring Every day the chimes; Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire. Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang, with many a change, Christmas carols until morn. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire! These good people sang Songs devout and sweet; While the rafters rang, There they stood with freezing feet. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire. Nuns in frigid cells At this holy tide, For want of something else, Christmas songs at times have tried. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire! Washerwomen old, To the sound they beat, With uncovered heads and feet. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire. Who by the fireside stands Stamps his feet and sings; But he who blows his hands Not so gay a carol brings. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire! |