ning the lives and trials of the 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 wher