THIS is not a story about myself. Like Canning's organ-grinder I have none to tell. It is the story of Paragot, the beloved vagabond--please pronounce his name French-fashion--and if I obtrude myself on your notice it is because I was so much involved in the medley of farce and tragedy which made up some years of his life, that I don't know how to tell the story otherwise. To Paragot I owe everything. He is at once my benefactor, my venerated master, my beloved friend, my creator. Clay in his hands, he moulded me according to his caprice, and inspired me with the breath of life. My existence is drenched with the colour of Paragot. I lay claim to no personality of my own, and any _obiter dict…
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