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.