ment of the society thy famous leges conviviales. Here too did the wits of Queen Anne's day sometimes congregate. "I dined to-day," says Swift, in his Journal to Stella, " with Dr. Garth and Mr. Addison, at the Devil Tavern, near Temple-bar, and Garth treated.”— This tavern took its name from the sign which was suspended before it, of St. Dunstan tweaking the nose of the Evil one with a pair of hot tongs. I don't think that even St. George ever performed so valorous an exploit. On entering the Strand, the first literary recollection that struck me, was the account Dean Swift has left of the accident which he here met with. Let me give the Dean's own words. "Coming home this evening I broke my shin in the Strand, over a tub of sand, left just in the way. I got home dirty enough, and went straight to bed, where I have been cooking it with gold-beater's skin, and have been peevish enough with Patrick, who was near an hour bringing a rag from next door." I would willingly have been soused over head in a bed of mud, could I but have seen that trip of Jonathan's-it must have been a glorious thing to have beheld the Dean in a passion with the tub of sand. His broken shin was, however, very refractory, and refused to get well. In one of his letters he says, "I walked too much yesterday for a man with a broken shin;" and again: "This sore shin ruins me in coach-hire; it cost me no less than two shillings, &c. &c." At the conclusion of the same letter, we meet with the following elegant passage respecting this accident. "I dined with Sir John Perceval, and saw his lady sitting in the bed in the forms of a lying-in woman; and coming home, my sore shin itched, &c. but I am now got to bed, and have put on alum-curd, and it is almost well." I would not have been Patrick, the Dean's valet, while his shin was thus afflicted, no, not even for the brilliant gold-laced hat, the price of which his master stopped in his wages. What author ever excited such sympathies in the hearts of his countrymen as Shakspeare? The place of his birth, and the scenes of his dramas, are hallowed ground. I need only mention the Boar'shead in Eastcheap, in which such pleasant visions have been created by the genius of Goldsmith and of Washington Irvine. So many of Shakspeare's plays are laid in London, that a geography of them would be really entertaining. Clement's Inn, near the Strand, has a peculiar charm for me-it was once the residence of Justice Shallow ! "I was once of Clement's Inn, where I think they will talk of mad Shallow yet." Who can pass the entrance without remembering how "Jack Falstaff broke Skogan's head at the court-gate when he was a crack not thus high." How, on the same day, the Justice did fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's Inn. Poor Shallow! Clement's Inn seems to have been to him the " green spot" to which his memory ever reverted with pride and with pleasure. The very name conjured up the recollections of his youthful days, when he heard the chimes at midnight, or lay all night in the Windmill in St. George's-fields. Though the fat knight would insinuate something against the veracity of the Justice," this same starved Justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildness of his youth, and the feats he hath done about Turnbull-street, and every third word a lie duer paid to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at Clement's Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheeseparing." "Ah!" I exclaimed, as I reached the corner of Arundel-street, "am I then walking in the footsteps of the learned Selden ?" Yes, hither that austere scholar bent his willing steps, to examine the famous marbles which had lately arrived from the East, and which then lay in the Arundel-gardens, from whence they afterwards derived their appellation. And with him came his learned companions, Patrick Young (Patricius Junius) the Royal Librarian, and Richard James, who was critically seen both in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin." It will be some time ere such a trio shall again pace the flags of the Strand. As I wandered on, I reached the site of those celebrated literary games which are described in the second book of the Dunciad. The emulous authors "took their stand Where the tall May-pole once o'erlook'd the Strand; A Church collects the saints of Drury-lane." Who can forget the race between Curll and “huge Lintot?" "Wide as a windmill all his figure spread, With arms expanded Bernard rows his state, The Strand, no doubt, would furnish a thousand curious recollections, both historical and literary. Our chief nobility used to reside between it and the Thames, as the names of the various streets yet sufficiently testify. But the skies threatened a shower, and I hastened forward. I could not, however, avoid casting a glance up Lancaster-court, as I passed, where the wise and witty Porson used to pay visits to his brother-in-law, who resided there, and on whom he made the philological epigram, which the Sexagenarian has given on his brother's" taking a medicine of names not a few," which I shall however forbear transcribing. By the by, the Cider-cellar, in Maidenlane, was a favourite resort with the Professor, after visiting the Dean of Westminster or Bennet Langton.-As the drops now began to descend, I spurred on my Bayard of ten-toes," as an old writer says, and arriving "Where branching streets from Charing-cross divide," I took refuge in Mr. Colnaghi's print-shop. R. MILK AND HONEY, OR THE LAND OF PROMISE. LETTER III. MISS LYDIA BARROW TO MISS KITTY BROWN. CONTENTS. Castle of "Moving Accidents by Flood."-Neptune enemy to Female Attire. OH, Kitty! such bawling, such trampling of decks! But the surge has quite ruin'd my white-spotted tippet; Have rotted the fur on my blue leather boots. In short, what with monsters who haul'd my portmanteau Grim figures in trowsers, who quiz our noblesse, And say, when they mean to be certain, they guess; And inns, where the folks, cheek-by-jowl, close their eyes, I'm like Mrs. Jordan, unable to tell If I'm dead or alive, Lady Loverule, or Nell! You and I, arm in arm, ever destined to grapple, When the school, two by two, walk'd on Sunday to Chapel : Who in the same keiro-plast play'd the same tunes, Little dreamt of the day when whole mountains should frown Papa, entre nous, rides a hobby, my dear, In vain I cry "Fiddle de dee;" it will fix In his gizzard, and make him as cross as two sticks. How shocking!-Heaven grant that his Majesty may shun But don't let me lose what I meant to express, Before I left England I saw a Princess! She lodges in Fleet-street, next door to Hone's shop-- Papa and "The Ex" think her case very hard ; Says he to me," Lyddy, we'll both leave a card; Was at home, and the Chamberlain answer'd him "Yes," A child might have knock'd ine down flat with a feather! Her Highness, sweet soul! made us sit on two chairs, And let us, at once, into all her affairs. She told us, her foes held her there by a capias, She meant, as she told us, to move for her habeas, For her's, entre nous, is as big as a porpus. She mention'd, with pride, how on last Lord Mayor's-day But own'd, while they dubb'd'her the general charmer, Adieu! royal dame, falsely call'd Mrs. Serres, You soon should be let out if I held the house-key! L. B. LETTER IV. MR. RICHARD BARROW TO MR. ROBERT BRIGGS. CONTENTS. Specimen of FANCY Rhetoric.-Slang, like Madeira, improved by Sea Voyage.- HERE I am right and tight, Bob; pull'd up at New York, How odd! for you know I ail'd nothing at all, When, to grub upon white bait, we row'd to Black wall: All along of the place: Chelsea Reach? a vile name! But, Zounds! Bob, the Thames cannot give you a notion (Mem. that's a quotation; and serves for a sprinkle : The first thing that posed me was, when I should bob, My stars! how my knowledge-box whizz'd round about! I hav'n't scored up such a pelt on the brain, Where, if you don't duck, when the turn you approach, |