e 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 fevere