countered 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."

["I don't think so," said I.

"Hey!" said Francis Ardry. {231}

"A perfumed lordling."

"Ah!"

"With a white hand loaded with gawds."

"Ah!"

"Who wrote verses."

"Ah!"

"Replete with malignity and sensualism."

"Yes!"

"Not half so great a poet as Milton."

"No?"

"Nor Butler."

"No?"

"Nor Otway."

"No?"

"Nor that poor boy Chatterton, who, maddened by rascally patrons and
publishers, took poison at last."

"No?" said Francis Ardry.

"Why do you keep saying '_No_'? I tell you that I am no admirer of
Byron."

"Well," said Frank, "don't say so to any one else. It will be thought
that you are envious of his glory, as indeed I almost think you are."

"Envious of him!" said I; "how should I be envious of him? Besides, the
man's dead, and a live dog, you know--"

"You do not think so," said Frank, "and at this moment I would wager
something that you would wish for nothing better than to exchange places
with that lordling, as you call him, cold as he is."

"Well, who knows?" said I. "I really think the man is overvalued. There
is one thing connected with him which must ever prevent any one of right
feelings from esteeming him; I allude to his incessant abuse of his
native land, a land, too, which had made him its idol."

"Ah! you are a great patriot, I know," said Frank. "Come, as you are
fond of patriots, I will show you the patriot, _par excellence_."

"If you mean Eolus Jones," said I, "you need not trouble yourself; I have
seen him already."

"I don't mean him," said Frank. "By-the-bye, he came to me the other day
to condole with me, as he said, on the woes of my bleeding country.
Before he left me he made me bleed, for he persuaded me to lend him a
guinea. No, I don't mean him, nor any one of his stamp; I mean an Irish
patriot, one who thinks he can show his love for his country in no better
way than by beating the English."

"Beating the English?" said I; "I should like to see him."

Whereupon taking me by the arm, Francis Ardry conducted me through
various alleys, till we came to a long street which seemed to descend
towards the