----in Billinsgate the Salutation. And the Boar's Head near London Stone, The Swan at Dowgate, a tavern well known; The Mitre in Cheap, and then the Bull's Head, And many like places that make noses red; The Boar's Head in Old Fish Street; Three Crowns in the Vintry; And, now, of late, Saint Martin's in the Seutree; The Windmill in Lothbury; the Ship at th' Exchange; King's Head in New Fish Street, where roysters do range; The Mermaid in Cornhill; Red Lion in the Strand; Three Tuns in Newgate Market; in Old Fish Street the Swan.[1] [Footnote 1: News from Bartholomew Faire.] Adjoining these places of entertainment were others of a different description, to wit, the Globe, as it stood when Shakspeare (how insufferable is Mr. Knight's orthography of this reverend name--Shaks_pere_!) trod the stage; the king's play-house in Charles the Second's time; the Bear Garden, with its flag streaming to the wind; and the Folly, as it once floated in the river, opposite old Somerset House. Then came the Halls, beginning with Guildhall and ending with Old Skinner's. Next, the Crosses, from Paul's to Charing; then, the churches, gateways, hospitals, colleges, prisons, asylums, inns of court,--in short, for it is needless to particularise further, London and its thousand recollections rose before you, as you gazed around. Scarcely an old edifice, to which an historical tradition could be attached (and what old London edifice is destitute of such traditions?), was wanting. Nor were the great of old--the spirits, who gave interest and endurance to these decayed, or decaying structures, wanting. But I shall not pause to enumerate their portraits, or make out a catalogue as long as the list of Homer's ships, or the gallery of Mr. Lodge. Sufficient has been said, I trust, to give the reader an idea of the physiology of the room. Yet stay! I must not omit to point out the contents of those groaning shelves. In the goodly folios crowded there are contained the chronicles of Holinshed and Hall; of Grafton, Fabian, and Stow; of Matthew of Paris, and his namesake of Westminster. Let him not be terrified at the ponderous size of these admirable old historians, nor be deterred by the black letter, if he should chance to open a volume. Their freshness and picturesque details will surprise as much as they will delight him. From this wealthy mine Shakspeare drew some of his purest ore. The shelves are crowned by a solitary bust. It is that of a modern. It is that of a lover of London, and a character of London. It is DOCTOR JOHNSON.