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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