copies were sold the first day. It is the Corsair--Byron's Corsair.
My God, it IS poetry and no mistake! Not exactly, perhaps, in your
line; but you are a man of sense, and if that doesn't make your heart
leap in you I'm much mistaken. Lord Byron is a neighbour of mine in
the Albany. I know him by sight. I've waited a whole livelong
morning at my window to see him go out. So much the more fool you,
you'll say. Ah, well, wait till you have read the Corsair."

The Major shook hands. Mrs. Coleman, who had been totally silent
during the interview, excepting when she asked him if he would join
in a cup of tea--an offer most gracefully declined--followed him to
the top of the stairs. As before, he kissed her hand, made her a
profound bow, and was off. When she came back into the room the
faint flush on the cheek was repeated, and there was the same unusual
little rippling overflow of kindness to her husband.

In the evening Zachariah took up the book. Byron was not, indeed, in
his line. He took no interest in him, although, like every other
Englishman, he had heard much about him. He had passed on his way to
Albemarle Street the entrance to the Albany. Byron was lying there
asleep, but Zachariah, although he knew he was within fifty yards of
him, felt no emotion whatever. This was remarkable, for Byron's
influence, even in 1814, was singular, beyond that of all
predecessors and successors, in the wideness of its range. He was
read by everybody. Men and women who were accessible to no other
poetry were accessible to his, and old sea-captains, merchants,
tradesmen, clerks, tailors, milliners, as well as the best judges in
the land repeated his verses by the page.

Mrs. Coleman, having cleared away the tea-things, sat knitting till