in the poverty-stricken dwelling in the Rue Fon de
Rache, 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 Boe 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:--

"Myself, nor less, nor more, I'll draw for you,
And if not bright, the likeness shall be true."

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:

"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!"

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 supp