that Johnson once lodged in this court, and bought an enormous cudgel
while there, to resist a threatened attack from Macpherson, the author, or
editor, of _Ossian's Poems_. At the time we first knew the place (for its
visiters and keepers are long since changed for the third or fourth time,)
many came there who remembered Johnson and Goldsmith spending their
evenings in the coffee-room; old half-pay officers, staid tradesmen of the
neighbourhood, and the like, formed the principal portion of the company.

Few in this vast city know the alley in Fleet-street which leads to the
sawdusted floor and shining tables; those tables of mahogany, parted by
green-curtained seats, and bound with copper rims to turn the edge of the
knife which might perchance assail them during a warm debate; John Bull
having a propensity to commit such mutilations in the "torrent, tempest,
and whirlwind" of argument. Thousands have never seen the homely clock
that ticks over the chimney, nor the capacious, hospitable-looking
fire-place under,[3] both as they stood half a century ago, when
Fleet-street was the emporium of literary talent, and every coffee-house
was distinguished by some character of note who was regarded as the oracle
of the company.


[3] We may add that still fewer have seen the characteristic
whole-length portrait of "_Harry_," _the waiter_, which has
been placed over the fireplace, by subscription among the
frequenters of the room. _Wageman_ is the painter, and nothing
can describe the _bonhommie_ of Harry, who has just drawn the
cork of a pint of port, exulting in all the vainglory of crust
and bees' wing.--ED. MIRROR.