celebrated　two　who　had　brooded　treason　dangerous　to　the　state　of
  Denmark。　　I　purchase　the　dingy　volume；　and　bring　it　in　triumph　to
  the　publisher；　the　perspiration　running　down　my　brow。　　The
  publisher　takes　the　dingy　volume　in　his　hand；　he　examines　it
  attentively；　then　puts　it　down；　his　countenance　is　calm　for　a
  moment；　almost　benign。　　Another　moment　and　there　is　a　gleam　in　the
  publisher's　sinister　eye；　he　snatches　up　the　paper　containing　the
  names　of　the　worthies　which　I　have　intended　shall　figure　in　the
  forthcoming　volumes　…　he　glances　rapidly　over　it；　and　his
  countenance　once　more　assumes　a　terrific　expression。　　'How　is
  this？'　he　exclaims；　'I　can　scarcely　believe　my　eyes　…　the　most
  important　life　and　trial　omitted　to　be　found　in　the　whole　criminal
  record　…　what　gross；　what　utter　negligence！　　Where's　the　life　of
  Farmer　Patch？　where's　the　trial　of　Yeoman　Patch？'
  'What　a　life！　what　a　dog's　life！'　I　would　frequently　exclaim；　after
  escaping　from　the　presence　of　the　publisher。
  One　day；　after　a　scene　with　the　publisher　similar　to　that　which　I
  have　described　above；　I　found　myself　about　noon　at　the　bottom　of
  Oxford　Street；　where　it　forms　a　right　angle　with　the　road　which
  leads　or　did　lead　to　Tottenham　Court。　　Happening　to　cast　my　eyes
  around；　it　suddenly　occurred　to　me　that　something　uncommon　was
  expected；　people　were　standing　in　groups　on　the　pavement　…　the
  upstair　windows　of　the　houses　were　thronged　with　faces；　especially
  those　of　women；　and　many　of　the　shops　were　partly；　and　not　a　few
  entirely；　closed。　　What　could　be　the　reason　of　all　this？　　All　at
  once　I　bethought　me　that　this　street　of　Oxford　was　no　other　than
  the　far…famed　Tyburn　way。　　Oh；　oh；　thought　I；　an　execution；　some
  handsome　young　robber　is　about　to　be　executed　at　the　farther　end；
  just　so；　see　how　earnestly　the　women　are　peering；　perhaps　another
  Harry　Simms　…　Gentleman　Harry　as　they　called　him　…　is　about　to　be
  carted　along　this　street　to　Tyburn　tree；　but　then　I　remembered　that
  Tyburn　tree　had　long　since　been　cut　down；　and　that　criminals；
  whether　young　or　old；　good…looking　or　ugly；　were　executed　before
  the　big　stone　gaol；　which　I　had　looked　at　with　a　kind　of　shudder
  during　my　short　rambles　in　the　City。　　What　could　be　the　matter？
  just　then　I　heard　various　voices　cry；　'There　it　comes！'　and　all
  heads　were　turned　up　Oxford　Street；　down　which　a　hearse　was　slowly
  coming：　　nearer　and　nearer　it　drew；　presently　it　was　just　opposite
  the　place　where　I　was　standing；　when；　turning　to　the　left；　it
  proceeded　slowly　along　Tottenham　Road；　immediately　behind　the
  hearse　were　three　or　four　mourning　coaches；　full　of　people；　some　of
  whom；　from　the　partial　glimpse　which　I　caught　of　them；　appeared　to
  be　foreigners；　behind　these　came　a　very　long　train　of　splendid
  carriages；　all　of　which；　without　one　exception；　were　empty。
  'Whose　body　is　in　that　hearse？'　said　I　to　a　dapper…looking
  individual；　seemingly　a　shopkeeper；　who　stood　beside　me　on　the
  pavement；　looking　at　the　procession。
  'The　mortal　relics　of　Lord　Byron；'　said　the　dapper…looking
  individual；　mouthing　his　words　and　smirking　…　'the　illustrious
  poet；　which　have　been　just　brought　from　Greece；　and　are　being
  conveyed　to　the　family　vault　in　…shire。'
  'An　illustrious　poet；　was　he？'　said　I。
  'Beyond　all　criticism；'　said　the　dapper　man；　'all　we　of　the　rising
  generation　are　under　incalculable　obligation　to　Byron；　I　myself；　in
  particular；　have　reason　to　say　so；　in　all　my　correspondence　my
  style　is　formed　on　the　Byronic　model。'
  I　looked　at　the　individual　for　a　moment；　who　smiled　and　smirked　to
  himself　applause；　and　then　I　turned　my　eyes　upon　the　hearse
  proceeding　slowly　up　the　almost　endless　street。　　This　man；　this
  Byron；　had　for　many　years　past　been　the　demigod　of　England；　and　his
  verses　the　daily　food　of　those　who　read；　from　the　peer　to　the
  draper's　assistant；　all　were　admirers；　or　rather　worshippers；　of
  Byron；　and　all　doated　on　his　verses；　and　then　I　thought　of　those
  who；　with　genius　as　high　as　his；　or　higher；　had　lived　and　died
  neglected。　　I　thought　of　Milton　abandoned　to　poverty　and　blindness；
  of　witty　and　ingenious　Butler　consigned　to　the　tender　mercies　of
  bailiffs；　and　starving　Otway：　　they　had　lived　neglected　and
  despised；　and；　when　they　died；　a　few　poor　mourners　only　had
  followed　them　to　the　grave；　but　this　Byron　had　been　made　a　half　god
  of　when　living；　and　now　that　he　was　dead　he　was　followed　by
  worshipping　crowds；　and　the　very　sun　seemed　to　come　out　on　purpose
  to　grace　his　funeral。　　And；　indeed；　the　sun；　which　for　many　days
  past　had　hidden　its　face　in　clouds；　shone　out　that　morn　with
  wonderful　brilliancy；　flaming　upon　the　black　hearse　and　its　tall
  ostrich　plumes；　the　mourning　coaches；　and　the　long　train　of
  aristocratic　carriages　which　followed　behind。
  'Great　poet；　sir；'　said　the　dapper…looking　man；　'great　poet；　but
  unhappy。'
  Unhappy？　yes；　I　had　heard　that　he　had　been　unhappy；　that　he　had
  roamed　about　a　fevered；　distempered　man；　taking　pleasure　in　nothing
  …　that　I　had　heard；　but　was　it　true？　was　he　really　unhappy？　was　not
  this　unhappiness　assumed；　with　the　view　of　increasing　the　interest
  which　the　world　took　in　him？　and　yet　who　could　say？　　He　might　be
  unhappy；　and　with　reason。　　Was　he　a　real　poet　after　all？　might　he
  not　doubt　himself？　might　he　not　have　a　lurking　consciousness　that
  he　was　undeserving　of　the　homage　which　he　was　receiving？　that　it
  could　not　last？　that　he　was　rather　at　the　top　of　fashion　than　of
  fame？　　He　was　a　lordling；　a　glittering；　gorgeous　lordling：　　and　he
  might　have　had　a　consciousness　that　he　owed　much　of　his　celebrity
  to　being　so；　he　might　have　felt　that　he　was　rather　at　the　top　of
  fashion　than　of　fame。　　Fashion　soon　changes；　thought　I；　eagerly　to
  myself　…　a　time　will　come；　and　that　speedily；　when　he　will　be　no
  longer　in　the　fashion；　when　this　idiotic　admirer　of　his；　who　is
  still　grinning　at　my　side；　shall　have　ceased　to　mould　his　style　on
  Byron's；　and　this　aristocracy；　squirearchy；　and　what　not；　who　now
  send　their　empty　carriages　to　pay　respect　to　the　fashionable
  corpse；　shall　have　transferred　their　empty　worship　to　some　other
  animate　or　inanimate　thing。　　Well；　perhaps　after　all　it　was　better
  to　have　been　mighty　Milton　in　his　poverty　and　blindness　…　witty　and
  ingenious　Butler　consigned　to　the　tender　mercies　of　bailiffs；　and
  starving　Otway；　they　might　enjoy　more　real　pleasure　than　this
  lordling；　they　must　have　been　aware　that　the　world　would　one　day　do
  them　justice　…　fame　after　death　is　better　than　the　top　of　fashion
  in　life。　　They　have　left　a　fame　behind　them　which　shall　never　die；
  whilst　this　lordling　…　a　time　will　come　when　he　will　be　out　of
  fashion　and　forgotten。　　And　yet　I　don't　know；　didn't　he　write
  Childe　Harold　and　that　ode？　　Yes；　he　wrote　Childe　Harold　and　that
  ode。　　Then　a　time　will　scarcely　come　when　he　will　be　forgotten。
  Lords；　squires；　and　cockneys　may　pass　away；　but　a　time　will
  scarcely　come　when　Childe　Harold　and　that　ode　will　be　forgotten。
  He　was　a　poet；　after　all；　and　he　must　have　known　it；　a　real　poet；
  equal　to　…　to　…　what　a　destiny！　　Rank；　beauty；　fashion；
  immortality；　…　he　could　not　be　unhappy；　what　a　difference　in　the
  fate　of　men　…　I　wish　I　could　think　he　was　unhappy　。　。　。　。
  I　turned　away。
  'Great　poet；　sir；'　said　the　dapper　man；　turning　away　too；　'but
  unhappy　…　fate　of　genius；　sir；　I；　too；　am　frequently　unhappy。'
  Hurrying　down　a　street　to　the　right；　I　encountered　Francis　Ardry。
  'What　means　the　multitude　yonder？'　he　demanded。
  'They　are　looking　after　the　hearse　which　is　carrying　the　remains　of
  Byron　up　Tottenham　Road。'
  'I　have　seen　the　man；'　said　my　friend；　as　he　turned　back　the　way　he
  had　come；　'so　I　can　dispense　with　seeing　the　hearse　…　I　saw　the
  living　man　at　Venice　…　ah；　a　great　poet。'
  'Yes；'　said　I；　'a　great　poet；　it　must　be　so；　everybody　says　so　…
  what　a　destiny！　　What　a　difference　in　the　fate　of　men；　but　'tis
  said　he　was　unhappy；　you　have　seen　him；　how　did　he　look？'
  'Oh；　beautiful！'
  'But　did　he　look　happy？'
  'Why；　I　can't　say　he　looked　very　unhappy；　I　saw　him　with　two　。　。　。
  very　fair　ladies；　but　what　is　it　to　you　whether　the　man　was　unhappy
  or　not？　　Come；　where　shall　we　go　…　to　Joey's？　　His　hugest　bear　…　'
  'Oh；　I　have　had　enough　of　bears；　I　have　just　been　worried　by　one。'
  'The　publisher？'
  'Yes。'
  'Then　come　to　Joey's；　three　dogs　are　to　be　launched　at　his　bear：
  as　they　pin　him；　imagine　him　to　be　the　publisher。'
  'No；'　said　I；　'I　am　good　for　nothing；　I　think　I　shall　stroll　to
  London　Bridge。'
  'That's　too　far　for　me　…　farewell。'
  CHAPTER　XL
  London　Bridge　…　Why　not？　…　Every　heart　has　its　bitters　…　Wicked
  boys　…　Give　me　my　book　…　Such　a　fright　…　Honour　bright。
  SO　I　went　to　London　Bridge；　and　again　took　my　station　on　the　spot
  by　the　booth　where　I　had　sto