Houses of nobles and of rich merchants which stood near to Cornhill and Lombard Street, and private gardens which had occupied areas thereabout--now representing millions of pounds in value--were crowded away westward by the new demands of commerce. In Dryden’s day there were ducal houses looking upon Lincoln’s Inn Fields; and others, with pleasure grounds about them, close upon Covent Garden Square. Americans go to that neighborhood now, in early morning, to catch sight of the immense stores of fruit and vegetables which are on show there upon market-days; and they are well repaid for such visit; yet the houses are dingy, and a welter of straw and mud and market _débris_ stretches to the doors; but the stranger, picking his way through this, and through Russell Street to the corner of Bow Street, will find, close by, the site of that famous Will’s Coffee-house, where Dryden lorded it so many years, and whose figure there--in the chimney-corner, with his pipe, laying down the law between the whiffs, and conferring honors by offering a pinch from his snuff-box--Scott has made familiar to the whole world. It was an earlier sort of club-house, where the news in the _Gazette_ was talked of, and the last battle--if there were a recent one--and the last play, and the last scandal of the court. Its discussions and potations made away with a good many nights, and a good many pipes and bottles, and was not largely provocative of domesticity. But it does not appear that the Lady Elizabeth--Dryden’s wife--ever made remonstrances on this score; indeed, Mr. Green, the historian, would intimate that my lady had distractions of her own, not altogether wise or worthy; but we prefer to believe the best we can of her. To this gathering-place at Covent Garden Etherege and Wycherley found their way--all writing men, in fact; even the great Buckingham perhaps--before his quarrel; and Dorset, fellow-member with Dryden, of the Royal Society; maybe Butler too, when he found himself in London; and poor Otway,[91] hoping to meet some one generous enough to pay his score for him; and the young Congreve, proud in his earlier days to get a nod from the great Dryden; and, prouder yet, when, at a later time, he was honored by that tender and pathetic epistle from the Laureate: “Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning the ungrateful stage; But you, whom every muse and grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and O defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend!” I said that he wrote plays; wrote them by the couple--by the dozen--by the score possibly.