youth, but rather poésie de famille, which was destined never to trangress the limits of the fireside. These verses the gardener's son designed for his mother, and he sat up late one night to read them to her. But the youth was under a strange illusion. The poor woman had long since forgotten the little French which she had learned at school, and the verses which she had inspired were written in a tongue she could not understand. The humble minstrel was a thoughtful soul, and this discovery overwhelmed him with sadness. 'And so,' he mused, 'my mother is debarred from those intellectual joys which delight me. When she has finished her day's toil, she may not listen to noble thoughts expressed in a melodious form. In the middle and north of France some few of the accents of our poets may gladden the shop of the mechanic and the cottage of the laborer. A song, a strophe, a canticle, a grand or joyous strain, may possibly linger in their memory; but, with us, where is the poetry of the poor? Our Provençal tongue has been for centuries dishonored by low singers, tavern catches, vulgar squibs, uncouth and licentious rhymes. Such is the groundwork of our popular literature! Well, then, since our mothers do not comprehend enough of French to understand the songs which filial tenderness has inspired, let us sing in the language of our mothers! Since we have no popular literature save that of the ale-house,
