NO AUTHORITY WHATEVER--INTERFERENCE--WONDROUS FARRAGO--BRANDT AND
STRUENSEE--WHAT A LIFE!--THE HEARSE--MORTAL RELICS--GREAT POET--FASHION &
FAME--A DIFFERENCE--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 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
cockneys may pass 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 . . .