The last volume he published we brought away with us.

It is called _Los Papillotos[20] de Jasmin, coiffeur_, and contains a great many poems, all remarkable in their way, even including those complimentary verses addressed to certain "_Moussus," (Messieurs_.) [Footnote 20: The curl-papers.] The history of this singular person is told by himself in a series of poems called "His recollections," which present a sad and curious picture of his life in its different stages.

It appears that Jacques Jasmin, or as he writes it in Gascon, _Jaquou Jansemin_, was born in 1797 or 1798.
"The last century, old and worn out," (says his eulogist, M.
Sainte-Beuve,) "had only two or three more years to pass on earth, when, at the corner of an antique street, in a ruined building peopled by a colony of rats, on the Thursday of Carnival week, at the hour when pancakes are being tossed, of a hump-backed father and a lame mother was born a child, a droll little object; and this child was the poet, Jasmin.

When a prince is born into the world, the event is celebrated by the report of cannon; but he, the son of a poor tailor, had not even a pop-gun to announce his birth.

Nevertheless, he did not appear without _eclat_, for at the moment he made his appearance, a _charivari_ was given to a neighbour, and the music of marrowbones and cleavers accompanied a song of thirty-stanzas, composed for the occasion by his father.