Ter. And. 5. 2. 14.

Sir,

There are in every large town, I believe, more or less definitely portioned off from the rest, regions sacred to particular crafts, in each of which the one calling so predominates, that it would be considered presumptuous as well as impolitic for one of another vocation to establish himself within its precincts, and where the unlucky intruder would expose himself to the danger of the same fate, as, in days of yore, met many an officer of executive justice, that is, bailiff, within the sacred bounds of Alsatia. Within such limits the whole business of life appears to run in one channel, and man might be defined, according as you enter Paternoster-row or Lombard-street in London, or Wood-quay or George's-street, in Dublin, as, here a shoe-making or brush-making there a money-making or book-making animal. Take the rounds of this metropolis, and enter New-row for instance. Trimming is there so exclusive and universal, that you might almost fancy yourself within the walls of St. Stephen's. Stroll into Temple-bar any week day, and the predominant business forces itself upon you at once. If you proceed from the Essex-street side, be cautious how you enter the ground consecrate to tea-cups, or you may chance to become an involuntary victim to the genius of the place, and suffer immolation beneath the ponderous wheels of a Juggernaut of china crates. As you move onward towards Westmorelandstreet, the bowl yields to the beaver, and you soon become sensible of a classification of the street passengers into two distinct species, as regards the outward man.

The first is composed of anxiouslooking folk, well-appointed in all particulars but the upper story, who are prying in at the windows as they move slowly along, evidently considering which of the labelled articles, from the "plain gentleman's" to the " top-sawyer's," will suit their features or character best. While you watch for the result of the inspection, you are shouldered by one of the other class, a fellow who has fairly made the choice, and is strutting away with the article of his selection glowing upon his head, like the helmet of Diomede, beneath the last smooth of the foreman's brush, a slight contraction of brow alone shewing that his forehead is not precisely of the same oval with the extremity of the hat-stick, and being a sufficient indication of the extra price he pays for the gratification of his vanity.

But perhaps there are few regions that are more exclusive, and certainly none more likely to be known by the readers of your Magazine, or more proper to be celebrated by the contributor to it, than that which, consisting of one straight, cold, gloomy-looking alley, first meets the gownsman of our University, as he sallies forth from under its low-brow'd portal, and passes the Bank on his progress into Collegegreen, diverting him to the right along its dark and dismal length in the direction of that stream of Lucilian flow, which creeps through our city with its accustomed load of everything quod tollere velles." There he becomes at once aware that he is on classic ground. -Every window is crowded with the literary worthies of ancient and modern times-Hence stares old Homer, in a somewhat worn leathern jerkin,

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trimmed with a little tarnished gold, there lolls the luxurious Catullus, in the warmth of a Russian costume-Little Moore and Anacreon look out side by side, scarcely distinguishable from each other, except in the difference of their ages. On one side is to be seen Milton, who, despite his blindness, is ever in a conspicuous place, opposite to him Addison eyes him with respectful but scrutinizing attention. Shelley, Cornwall, and others, in French halfdress, cast a careless glance upon him from an upper shelf, looking shewy, but within a little worm-eaten from neglect-Bowles, in a complete suit of calf, crushes poor little Pope, but in his turn is nearly squeezed to death by an awkward pamphlet which has been thrust in much against his will, at the other side of him. As he advances down the street, he sees with pain many of the most venerable of the classic authors in a sorry plight, ill-dressed, ill-lodged, and apparently far advanced in decay. The elegant and dignified Caesar, with difficulty conceals a rent which I suppose some "envious Casca" has made in the hinder part of his tunic, and I blush for the gallantry of my country when I think how much poor Madamoiselle Dacier is exposed. Many of the heroes, both ancient and modern, of Swift's ever- memorable Bibliomachia are forced to carry their prices ticketed on their backs, and to offer their services to an ungrateful public at a shamefully reduced rate. But it would be endless to particularize,-Divines in their ecclesiastical habits-Plowden, Coke, Hale, with leathern aspects-Euclid, Locke, Newton academically attired, all crowd this literary Necropolis, and "bend forward from their dust" over the narrow causeways, like Ossian's ghosts from their clouds," or my worthy friend B.'s waxen fashionables from the no less ambrosial atmosphere within his perfumed window.

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It was on a stormy evening at the beginning of the present year, when sleet was careering along the pavement in blinding gusts, and no star appeared to dispute the light with the flickering flame that rose and fell within the gas-lamp, and gave a transient illumination to the pale mist that swept past its narrow influence,-when the watchman gathered his streaming coats within his bulk, and betook himself to

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his own atmosphere as a last desperate refuge from that without-when the oysters" and the "muffins," cries that come with the night-breeze to the closed windows of comfort, and salute the ears of our fellow-citizens around the hissing urn, or more national punch bowl, were mute, and the wild speed of Evening Mail," alone rushed by on the blast,-it was on such an evening, that I drew my water-proof camlet close around me, as I turned the corner of the quay, and faced the full fury of Africus, charging upon me down the aforesaid street, with all the penetrating force of his knives and kneedles. I was on my return to my house in

as I

street from the northern quarter of the town, where I had dined with a friend of mine, a literary character of the old school, and all the way my thoughts continued the argument in which we had been engaged before I left his house. I was playing a sort of dummy with myself, urging objections on one side, and answering them on the other, with all the vehemence of actual discussion. The truth is, our conversation that evening had attained a degree of warmth, rather unusual for us both, on a subject in which each felt interested-the comparative merits and defects of ancient and modern English poetry. I had defended with some success, thought, our modern style, and, as an occasional dabbler in Helicon myself, I felt piqued at the contemptuous tone with which my friend (a true laudator temporis acti) made his remarks upon the school of which I considered myself a disciple. My feelings having been thus roused, had not subsided when I arrived at the corner, and met the blast, and I posted along through an unregarded plash of gutter, with a violence which followed more the impulse of my mind than of any constitutional activity of body. Nearly every shop was closed-from the unshuttered panes of a few, however, still struggled a tiny flame, and, as I passed each, I looked instinctively in upon the feeble glare, without consciousness sufficient to disturb one question or reply in my imaginary tête à tête. But at the window of one of the most wretched of these receptacles of literature rubbish, my ideal flight and my earthly career were at once arrested by a glance which I caught of a