Perhaps the finest work which Jasmin composed at this period of his life was that which he entitled Mous Soubenis, or 'My Recollections.' In none of his poems did he display more of the characteristic qualities of his mind, his candour, his pathos, and his humour, than in these verses. He used the rustic dialect, from which he never afterwards departed. He showed that the Gascon was not yet a dead language; and he lifted it to the level of the most serious themes. His verses have all the greater charm because of their artless gaiety, their delicate taste, and the sweetness of their cadence.
Jasmin began to compose his 'Recollections' in 1830, but the two first cantos were not completed until two years later. The third canto was added in 1835, when the poem was published in the first volume of his 'Curl-Papers' (Papillôtes). These recollections, in fact, constitute Jasmin's autobiography, and we are indebted to them for the description we have already given of the poet's early life.
Many years later Jasmin wrote his Mous noubèls Soubenis--'My New Recollections'; but in that work he returned to the trials and the enjoyments of his youth, and described few of the events of his later life. "What a pity," says M. Rodière, "that Jasmin did not continue to write his impressions until the end of his life! What trouble he would have saved his biographers! For how can one speak when Jasmin ceases to sing?"
It is unnecessary to return to the autobiography and repeat the confessions of Jasmin's youth. His joys and sorrows are all described there--his birth in the poverty-stricken dwelling in the Rue Fon de Raché, his love for his parents, his sports with his playfellows on the banks of the Garonne, his blowing the horn in his father's Charivaris, his enjoyment of the tit-bits which old Boé brought home from his begging- tours, the decay of the old man, and his conveyance to the hospital, "where all the Jasmins die;" then his education at the Academy, his toying with the house-maid, his stealing the preserves, his expulsion from the seminary, and the sale of his mother's wedding-ring to buy bread for her family.
While composing the first two cantos of the Souvenirs he seemed half ashamed of the homeliness of the tale he had undertaken to relate. Should he soften and brighten it? Should he dress it up with false lights and colours? For there are times when falsehood in silk and gold are acceptable, and the naked new-born truth is unwelcome. But he repudiated the thought, and added:-
The third canto of the poem was composed at intervals It took him two more years to finish it. It commences with his apprenticeship to the barber; describes his first visit to the theatre, his reading of Florian's romances and poems, his solitary meditations, and the birth and growth of his imagination. Then he falls in love, and a new era opens in his life. He writes verses and sings them. He opens a barber's shop of his own, marries, and brings his young bride home. "Two angels," he says, "took up their abode with me." His newly-wedded wife was one, and the other was his rustic Muse--the angel of homely pastoral poetry:
"Myself, nor less, nor more, I'll draw for you,
And if not bright, the likeness shall be true."
He then speaks of the happiness of his wedded life; he shaves and sings most joyfully. A little rivulet of silver passes into the barber's shop, and, in a fit of poetic ardour, he breaks into pieces and burns the wretched arm-chair in which his ancestors were borne to the hospital to die. His wife no longer troubles him with her doubts as to his verses interfering with his business. She supplies him with pen, paper, ink, and a comfortable desk; and, in course of time, he buys the house in which he lives, and becomes a man of importance in Agen. He ends the third canto with a sort of hurrah--
"Who, fluttering softly from on high,
Raised on his wing and bore me far,
Where fields of balmiest ether are;
There, in the shepherd lassie's speech
I sang a song, or shaped a rhyme;
There learned I stronger love than I can teach.
Oh, mystic lessons! Happy time!
And fond farewells I said, when at the close of day,
Silent she led my spirit back whence it was borne away!"
Robert Nicoll, the Scotch poet, said of his works: "I have written my heart in my poems; and rude, unfinished, and hasty as they are, it
"Thus, reader, have I told my tale in cantos three:
Though still I sing, I hazard no great risk;
For should Pegasus rear and fling me, it is clear,
However ruffled all my fancies fair,
I waste my time, 'tis true; though verses I may lose,
The paper still will serve for curling hair."4
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