"justifying his disregard of cleanliness and decency by quoting his practice." It was from his lodgings in Wine Office Court, while Goldsmith's landlady was pressing him within doors and the bailiff without, that Dr. Johnson "received one morning," so his great friend Boswell reports as saying, "a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went to him as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady I should soon return, and, having gone to James Newbery, a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill."

The manuscript lay neglected for two years, and was then published without a notion of its future popularity. The world has since known it as "The Vicar of Wakefield."

The seat is still shown where the great doctor was wont to sit dispensing wisdom; and his portrait, which hangs over ita latter-day addition is quite clear in my sketch, as well as the edge of the table and the window-sash dividing the two rooms.

Closer inspection of the wood of the seat itself reveals the reverence in which it is held. To have eaten a chop and drank from a mug while at rest on the great lexicographer's settee, is something to be proud of, and so the fibre of the wood is kept at high polish by the trousers of thousands of globe-trotters the world over, just as the "Pope's Toe" is kept at high polish by the lips of millions of devotees.

Although Boswell fails to mention that the great doctor ever darkened the tavern's doors, many of my brother Americans believe this reserved-seat story. Again, they like the place, and I do not wonder. Cobwebs, a sanded floor, low ceilings, narrow seats, a general appearance of falling to pieces a draught of air from a cool court, if it be hot, and a cheery

soft-coal fire if it be cold, are comforting contrasts to steam heat in a skyscraper.

In regard to my own belief that Mr. Thackeray was an habitué of the place, I admit that while The Cock may have been two or three blocks nearer to Brick Court, where he lived, and Hare Court, where he studied law, I still maintain that the Cheshire Cheese was just as delightful and even more convenient for Welsh rare-bits and good old glee-singing at midnight, than the "Cave of Harmony." If Captain Costigan himself was not met staggering in the narrow alleyway, some other equally bibulous gentleman could be seen rolling out. These sort of things have been happening for years, at the Cheshire Cheese, and may be repeated for all I know any day of the coming week.

My sketch will give you a fair idea of the interior as you enter the main room, the floor of which is level with the street, but nothing that I or anybody else could do with brush or pen could convey to you the faintest idea of its age and mustiness of the cobwebs embroidering the corners of the ceiling; of the sawdust and its smell covering the floor; of the damp mouldy odours that drift in from the damp alley outside, reeking with grime

and soggy soot; of the cramped little bar, the size of a big packing box, in which are crowded as many thirsty men as can be squeezed in; of the breakneck stairs that go rickety split to the cellar below, where there is running water and a towel; or the staggering flight that twists up to the floor above, where there is a cook-range and funny-shaped "coppers" of pottery, in which the famous pudding is cooked; to say nothing of the cramped, tumbled-down rooms above where certain choice spirits, members of several clubs, still meet on certain nights in the week and hold high revel just as happened, I dare say, in Mr. Thackeray's time.

- the

I ordered a chop, of course, and a mug of 'arf and 'arf, and found a table for Evins where he too could eat and drink at his leisure taxi having been backed up behind a pile of brick where Bobby said he would keep an eye on it. I had to play havoc however with the arrangement of the room before I opened my easel. There were too many things in one place mostly tables, and, as I explained, I could see nothing of the interior either over or under them.

Everybody came at once to my assistance. The tables were picked up bodily, the settees

shoved back, and a way cleared for my stool and easel. The news that an American was taking notes, with an eye to their being printed, including lifelike portraits of the staff, had gone through the place like wildfire.

At the first stroke of my coal, business of every kind came to a standstill. Even the trickle of froth, flowing from the big keg of ale on the counter of the small bar, dried up. Soon proprietor, head waiter, all the subs, both of the barmaids, and five minutes later — as soon as the news reached the upper floor two of the cooks-fat comfortable cooks, with the marks of their profession spattered over their persons were grouped around my easel. Some were standing on settees, others on tables wherever they could see best.

Even the few remaining guests (it was now after three o'clock) let their steaks and kidneys get cold and their mugs "go dead" to watch the process.

I "sat them up," of course, when it was all over and was told to come again and welcome, and not to forget to send a copy of the newspaper, Evins gathering up as we left the addresses of a number of individuals, male and female, who would be much "obleeged" if I would be so kind.