lavengro-第48章

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appears　in　the　picture　issuing　out　of　the　Norman　arch　behind　the　

mayor；　…　but　likewise　with　Snap；　and　with　whiffler；　quart　pot；　and　

frying…pan；　Billy　Blind　and　Owlenglass；　Mr。　Petulengro　and　

Pakomovna；　…　then；　had　he　clapped　his　own　legs　upon　the　mayor；　or　

any　one　else　in　the　concourse；　what　matter？　　But　I　repeat　that　I　

have　no　hope　of　making　heroic　pictures　out　of　English　mayors；　or；　

indeed；　out　of　English　figures　in　general。　　England　may　be　a　land　

of　heroic　hearts；　but　it　is　not；　properly；　a　land　of　heroic　

figures；　or　heroic　posture…making。　　Italy　。　。　。　what　was　I　going　to　

say　about　Italy？







CHAPTER　XXXIX







No　authority　whatever　…　Interference　…　Wondrous　farrago　…　Brandt　

and　Struensee　…　What　a　life！　…　The　hearse　…　Mortal　relics　…　Great　

poet　…　Fashion　and　fame　…　What　a　difference　…　Oh；　beautiful　…　Good　

for　nothing。



AND　now　once　more　to　my　pursuits；　to　my　Lives　and　Trials。　　However　

partial　at　first　I　might　be　to　these　lives　and　trials；　it　was　not　

long　before　they　became　regular　trials　to　me；　owing　to　the　whims　

and　caprices　of　the　publisher。　　I　had　not　been　long　connected　with　

him　before　I　discovered　that　he　was　wonderfully　fond　of　interfering　

with　other　people's　business　…　at　least　with　the　business　of　those　

who　were　under　his　control。　　What　a　life　did　his　unfortunate　

authors　lead！　　He　had　many　in　his　employ　toiling　at　all　kinds　of　

subjects　…　I　call　them　authors　because　there　is　something　

respectable　in　the　term　author；　though　they　had　little　authorship　

in；　and　no　authority　whatever　over；　the　works　on　which　they　were　

engaged。　　It　is　true　the　publisher　interfered　with　some　colour　of　

reason；　the　plan　of　all　and　every　of　the　works　alluded　to　having　

originated　with　himself；　and；　be　it　observed；　many　of　his　plans　

were　highly　clever　and　promising；　for；　as　I　have　already　had　

occasion　to　say；　the　publisher　in　many　points　was　a　highly　clever　

and　sagacious　person；　but　he　ought　to　have　been　contented　with　

planning　the　works　originally；　and　have　left　to　other　people　the　

task　of　executing　them；　instead　of　which　he　marred　everything　by　

his　rage　for　interference。　　If　a　book　of　fairy　tales　was　being　

compiled；　he　was　sure　to　introduce　some　of　his　philosophy；　

explaining　the　fairy　tale　by　some　theory　of　his　own。　　Was　a　book　of　

anecdotes　on　hand；　it　was　sure　to　be　half　filled　with　sayings　and　

doings　of　himself　during　the　time　that　he　was　common　councilman　of　

the　City　of　London。　　Now；　however　fond　the　public　might　be　of　fairy　

tales；　it　by　no　means　relished　them　in　conjunction　with　the　

publisher's　philosophy；　and　however　fond　of　anecdotes　in　general；　

or　even　of　the　publisher　in　particular　…　for　indeed　there　were　a　

great　many　anecdotes　in　circulation　about　him　which　the　public　both　

read　and　listened　to　very　readily　…　it　took　no　pleasure　in　such　

anecdotes　as　he　was　disposed　to　relate　about　himself。　　In　the　

compilation　of　my　Lives　and　Trials　I　was　exposed　to　incredible　

mortification；　and　ceaseless　trouble；　from　this　same　rage　for　

interference。　　It　is　true　he　could　not　introduce　his　philosophy　

into　the　work；　nor　was　it　possible　for　him　to　introduce　anecdotes　

of　himself；　having　never　had　the　good　or　evil　fortune　to　be　tried　

at　the　bar；　but　he　was　continually　introducing　…　what；　under　a　less　

apathetic　government　than　the　one　then　being；　would　have　infallibly　

subjected　him；　and　perhaps　myself；　to　a　trial；　…　his　politics；　not　

his　Oxford　or　pseudo　politics；　but　the　politics　which　he　really　

entertained；　and　which　were　of　the　most　republican　and　violent　

kind。　　But　this　was　not　all；　when　about　a　moiety　of　the　first　

volume　had　been　printed；　he　materially　altered　the　plan　of　the　

work；　it　was　no　longer　to　be　a　collection　of　mere　Newgate　lives　and　

trials；　but　of　lives　and　trials　of　criminals　in　general；　foreign　as　

well　as　domestic。　　In　a　little　time　the　work　became　a　wondrous　

farrago；　in　which　Konigsmark　the　robber　figured　by　the　side　of　Sam　

Lynn；　and　the　Marchioness　de　Brinvilliers　was　placed　in　contact　

with　a　Chinese　outlaw。　　What　gave　me　the　most　trouble　and　annoyance　

was　the　publisher's　remembering　some　life　or　trial；　foreign　or　

domestic；　which　he　wished　to　be　inserted；　and　which　I　was　forthwith　

to　go　in　quest　of　and　purchase　at　my　own　expense：　　some　of　those　

lives　and　trials　were　by　no　means　easy　to　find。　　'Where　is　Brandt　

and　Struensee？'　cries　the　publisher；　'I　am　sure　I　don't　know；'　I　

replied；　whereupon　the　publisher　falls　to　squealing　like　one　of　

Joey's　rats。　　'Find　me　up　Brandt　and　Struensee　by　next　morning；　or　

…　'　　'Have　you　found　Brandt　and　Struensee？'　cried　the　publisher；　on　

my　appearing　before　him　next　morning。　　'No；'　I　reply；　'I　can　hear　

nothing　about　them'；　whereupon　the　publisher　falls　to　bellowing　

like　Joey's　bull。　　By　dint　of　incredible　diligence；　I　at　length　

discover　the　dingy　volume　containing　the　lives　and　trials　of　the　

celebrated　two　who　had　brooded　treason　dangerous　to　the　state　of　

Denmark。　　I　purchase　the　dingy　volume；　and　bring　it　in　triumph　to　

the　publisher；　the　perspiration　running　down　my　brow。　　The　

publisher　takes　the　dingy　volume　in　his　hand；　he　examines　it　

attentively；　then　puts　it　down；　his　countenance　is　calm　for　a　

moment；　almost　benign。　　Another　moment　and　there　is　a　gleam　in　the　

publisher's　sinister　eye；　he　snatches　up　the　paper　containing　the　

names　of　the　worthies　which　I　have　intended　shall　figure　in　the　

forthcoming　volumes　…　he　glances　rapidly　over　it；　and　his　

countenance　once　more　assumes　a　terrific　expression。　　'How　is　

this？'　he　exclaims；　'I　can　scarcely　believe　my　eyes　…　the　most　

important　life　and　trial　omitted　to　be　found　in　the　whole　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　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。'



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　fevered；　distempered　man；　taking　pleasure　in　nothing　

…　that　I　had　heard；　but　was　it　true？　was　he　really　unhappy？　was　not　

this　unhappiness　assumed；　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　st