suddenly assuming an air of hardihood--"Green Arbour court, sir,"
exclaimed he--"number--in Green Arbour court. You must know the place.
Classic ground, sir! classic ground! It was there Goldsmith wrote his
Vicar of Wakefield. I always like to live in literary haunts."

I was amused with this whimsical apology for shabby quarters. On our
Way homewards Buckthorne assured me that this Dribble had been the
prime wit and great wag of the school in their boyish days, and one of
those unlucky urchins denominated bright geniuses. As he perceived me
curious respecting his old school-mate, he promised to take me with
him, in his proposed visit to Green Arbour court.

A few mornings afterwards he called upon me, and we set forth on our
expedition. He led me through a variety of singular alleys, and courts,
and blind passages; for he appeared to be profoundly versed in all the
intricate geography of the metropolis. At length we came out upon Fleet
Market, and traversing it, turned up a narrow street to the bottom of a
long steep flight of stone steps, named Break-neck Stairs. These, he
told me, led up to Green Arbour court, and that down them poor
Goldsmith might many a time have risked his neck. When we entered the
court, I could not but smile to think in what out-of-the-way corners
genius produces her bantlings! And the muses, those capricious dames,
who, forsooth, so often refuse to visit palaces, and deny a single
smile to votaries in splendid studies and gilded drawing-rooms,--what
holes and burrows will they frequent to lavish their favors on some
ragged disciple!

This Green Arbour court I found to be a small square of tall and
Miserable houses, the very intestines of which seemed turned inside
out, to judge from the old garments and frippery that fluttered from