One day,after a scene with the publisher similar to that which Ihave 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.'