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 hea.r.s.e 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 hea.r.s.e 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 hea.r.s.e?" 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 ill.u.s.trious poet, which have been just brought from Greece, and are being conveyed to the family vault in ---shire." {340}

"An ill.u.s.trious 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 hea.r.s.e proceeding slowly up the almost endless street. This man, this Byron, had for many years past been the demiG.o.d of England, and his verses the daily food of those who read, from the peer to the draper's a.s.sistant; 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 G.o.d 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 hea.r.s.e 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 fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure in nothing--that I had heard; but was it true? was he really unhappy? was not this unhappiness a.s.sumed, with the view of increasing the interest which the world took in him? and yet who could say? He might be unhappy, and with reason. Was he a real poet after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not have a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the homage which he was receiving? that it could not last? that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame? He was a lordling, a glittering, gorgeous lordling: and he might have had a consciousness that he owed much of his celebrity to being so; he might have felt that he was rather at the top of fashion than of fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I, eagerly to myself--a time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in the fashion; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron's; and this aristocracy, squirearchy, and what not, who now send their empty carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, shall have transferred their empty worship to some other animate or inanimate thing.

Well, perhaps after all it was better to have been mighty Milton in his poverty and blindness--witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs, and starving Otway; they might enjoy more real pleasure than this lordling; they must have been aware that the world would one day do them justice--fame after death is better than the top of fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall never die, whilst this lordling--a time will come when he will be out of fashion and forgotten. And yet I don't know; didn't he write Childe Harold and that ode? Yes, he wrote Childe Harold and that ode. Then a time will scarcely come when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires, and c.o.c.kneys may pa.s.s away, but a time will scarcely come when Childe Harold and that ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must have known it; a real poet, equal to . . . to . . . what a destiny! Rank, beauty, fashion, immortality,--he could not be unhappy; what a difference in the fate of men! I wish I could think he was unhappy . . .

I turned away.

"Great poet, sir," said the dapper man, turning away too, "but unhappy--fate of genius, sir; I, too, am frequently unhappy."

Hurrying down a street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry.

"What means the mult.i.tude yonder?" he demanded.

"They are looking after the hea.r.s.e 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 hea.r.s.e--I saw the living man at Venice--ah, a great poet."

"Yes," said I, "a great poet, it must be so, everybody says so--what a destiny! What a difference in the fate of men! but 'tis said he was unhappy; you have seen him, how did he look?"

"Oh, beautiful!"

"But did he look happy?"

"Why, I can't say he looked very unhappy; I saw him with two . . . very fair ladies; but what is it to you whether the man was unhappy or not?

Come, where shall we go--to Joey's? His hugest bear--"

"Oh, I have had enough of bears; I have just been worried by one."

"The publisher?"

"Yes."

"Then come to Joey's, three dogs are to be launched at his bear: as they pin him, imagine him to be the publisher."

"No," said I, "I am good for nothing; I think I shall stroll to London Bridge."

"That's too far for me--farewell."

CHAPTER XL

London Bridge--Why Not?--Every Heart has its Bitters--Wicked Boys--Give me my Book--Such a Fright--Honour Bright.

So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the spot by the booth where I had stood on the former occasion. The booth, however, was empty; neither the apple-woman nor her stall was to be seen. I looked over the bal.u.s.trade upon the river; the tide was now, as before, rolling beneath the arch with frightful impetuosity. As I gazed upon the eddies of the whirlpool, I thought within myself how soon human life would become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse--a fascination; I had resisted it--I did not plunge into it. At present I felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life. I looked wistfully at the eddies--what had I to live for?--what indeed! I thought of Brandt and Struensee, and Yeoman Patch--should I yield to the impulse--why not? My eyes were fixed on the eddies. All of a sudden I shuddered; I thought I saw heads in the pool; human bodies wallowing confusedly; eyes turned up to heaven with hopeless horror; was that water, or . . . Where was the impulse now? I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked no more upon it--I looked forward, far down the stream in the far distance. Ha! what is that? I thought I saw a kind of Fata Morgana, green meadows, waving groves, a rustic home; but in the far distance--I stared--I stared--a Fata Morgana--it was gone . . .

I left the bal.u.s.trade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then pa.s.sed over to the other side with an intention of returning home; just half way over the bridge, in a booth immediately opposite to the one in which I had formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up behind her stall.

"Well, mother," said I, "how are you?" The old woman lifted her head with a startled look.

"Don't you know me?" said I.

"Yes, I think I do. Ah, yes," said she, as her features beamed with recollection, "I know you, dear; you are the young lad that gave me the tanner. Well, child, got anything to sell?"

"Nothing at all," said I.

"Bad luck?"

"Yes," said I, "bad enough, and ill usage."

"Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next time; I am glad to see you."

"Thank you," said I, sitting down on the stone bench; "I thought you had left the bridge--why have you changed your side?"

The old woman shook.

"What is the matter with you," said I; "are you ill?"

"No, child, no; only--"

"Only what? Any bad news of your son?"

"No, child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child--every heart has its bitters."

"That's true," said I; "well, I don't want to know your sorrows; come, where's the book?"

The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before. "Book, child, what book?"

"Why, blessed Mary, to be sure."

"Oh, that; I ha'n't got it, child--I have lost it, have left it at home."

"Lost it," said I; "left it at home--what do you mean? Come, let me have it."

"I ha'n't got it, child."