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.