“Fortunately for me, as it gave me my liberty, whatever it may have done for himself, my gifted master, at the sound of the strife of Grecian insurrection, determined to leave England, resolved to seek a brilliant tomb. Some days before his departure, wishing to make a last appearance in London, he profited by the representation of Hamlet, one of his favourite plays, to show himself once more to the British public. We drove to the theatre in an open carriage, and found the place crowded as we seated ourselves in a stage-box. Our appearance {315} created a tremendous sensation, all eyes and eyeglasses were turned towards us; the ladies, bending over the balconies, recalled lovely flowers peeping out from rocky clefts. All were eager to get a glimpse of the great poet; so worshipful indeed was this well-dressed crowd, that the play was totally disregarded till the ghost of the prince stalked across the stage, and as a tribute to Shakespeare, the great character of the phantom was received with profound respect. The details of the tragedy appeared to be of a nature to familiarise the spectators with our presence, like the appropriate music which introduces and accompanies the hero in an opera. But the ghost was too signal an evidence of creative genius to be lightly passed over. This wonderful performance supplied all the metropolitan journals with a glowing leader. It is to these papers, for the past twenty years, we have been indebted for all the political, philosophical, religious, and literary achievements of learned Europe. “Next day we embarked for France, and as good-luck would have it, my master made a roundabout journey to visit some ruins. “One evening when he was seated at the foot of an old tower, I profited by the reverie in which he was plunged to make my escape. For four days and nights I fled from mountain to mountain without once looking behind. At last, on the evening of the fifth day, I again found myself in the Pyrenees. In an excess of joy I knelt down and kissed my native soil, after which I made for the cavern where I first breathed the air. It was inhabited by an old friend of the family, who told me that my parents were dead. After shedding a few tears to their memory, I took up my abode on Mount Perdu, and made myself a happy home. “Although I am a poet in a small way, I love my wife, and find my children perfect; they are moulded very much after their father’s image. We do not see much company, almost none, save one or two desperate duns, who thought so well of me as to come over here all the way from London to “look me up,” as they say. Their excuse for intruding on my privacy is that they frequently pass my way, and it suddenly occurs to them they have each a trifling bill for Mr. Bear. These scraps of paper are the tender links which bind me to the past, and recall the licence of poetic inspiration. Happy is he who dwells at home, and who has never drifted into doggerel!