Well, indeed, do I remember my Christmas visits to Miss Dodd, when I used to pass with her generally three whole days, and be made so much of by herself and her guests: most especially do I recall the delight of one evening when she had a large tea-party, and when, with her alone in the secret, I remained for hours concealed under the table, having a small barrel-organ in my lap, and watching anxiously the moment when I was to burst upon their ears with music from — they knew not where! If the pleasure, indeed, of the poet lies in anticipating his own power over the imagination of others, I had as much the poetical feeling about me while lying hid under that table as ever I could boast since.