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
Symms--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 which, 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, wa