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. 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 the street to the right, I encountered Francis Ardry. "What means the multitude yonder?" he demanded. "They are looking after the hearse 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 hearse--I saw the living man at Venice--ah, a great poet." ["I don't think so," said I. "Hey!" said Francis Ardry. {231} "A perfumed lordling." "Ah!" "With a white hand loaded with gawds." "Ah!" "Who wrote verses." "Ah!" "Replete with malignity and sensualism." "Yes!" "Not half so great a poet as Milton." "No?" "Nor Butler." "No?" "Nor Otway." "No?" "Nor that poor boy Chatterton, who, maddened by rascally patrons and publishers, took poison at last." "No?" said Francis Ardry. "Why do you keep saying '_No_'? I tell you that I am no admirer of Byron." "Well," said Frank, "don't say so to any one else. It will be thought that you are envious of his glory, as indeed I almost think you are." "Envious of him!" said I; "how should I be envious of him? Besides, the man's dead, and a live dog, you know--" "You do not think so," said Frank, "and at this moment I would wager something that you would wish for nothing better than to exchange places with that lordling, as you call him, cold as he is." "Well, who knows?" said I. "I really think the man is overvalued. There is one thing connected with him which must ever prevent any one of right feelings from esteeming him; I allude to his incessant abuse of his native land, a land, too, which had made him its idol." "Ah! you are a great patriot, I know," said Frank. "Come, as you are fond of patriots, I will show you the patriot, _par excellence_." "If you mean Eolus Jones," said I, "you need not trouble yourself; I have seen him already."