_ha-ha_, as he burst into earth-shaking laughter over his own wit. Even in his day, this gate of the city used, occasionally, to be set with the grim heads of decapitated traitors, and I remembered that, for once, poor Goldsmith got the better of him here, by an apt allusion to the ghastly spectacle. They had been moralizing together in Westminster Abbey, where Johnson had pointed to the busts in Poets’ Corner, and whispered, in a ponderous Latin quotation, to his brother poet—“perhaps our heads shall yet be set with theirs.” Poor Goldy kept his wit pent up till he arrived at this spot, when, pointing Johnson to the grim skulls of his fellow-Jacobites, he slyly repeated—“perhaps our heads shall yet be set with theirs!” In further honour of these worthies, I hunted up that orthodox chop-house, “the Mitre,” and explored with awe the dingy precinct of “Bolt-Court:” nor should I have forgotten, before leaving the Strand, to make worthy mention of “Clement’s Inn,” where I surveyed, for a few minutes, what remains of that ancient haunt of Falstaff’s memories; remembering too that “forked radish” of a man whom Falstaff’s recollections did so vilely disparage. But time would fail me to detail my various _ins_ and _outs_, as I surveyed the streets of London from St. Dunstan’s to Whitefriars. In company with a gentleman of the Middle Temple, I went one morning to Lincoln’s Inn, and surveyed its Hall and Library, which have been lately restored, in the style and taste of the olden time. I had the pleasure of looking at Lord Erskine’s statue, under the kindly guidance of one of his descendants. In the chapel, the pulpit where Heber used to preach, was my chief object of interest. Lincoln’s Inn Fields attracted my attention, for a time, though it is hard to conjure up, in such a spot as it is at present, the scaffold and the block, and poor Lord William Russell saying his last prayers. To the Temple gardens I then repaired for a little stroll, and there encountered the Crown-prince of Prussia, making his survey of the place, attended by his suite. He moves rapidly, and cuts a good figure. What he is, we shall be likely to know if we live to see him reign. From the Temple to _Alsatia_ is but a step, and here I walked in painful honour of Nigel Olifaunt, as long as the sights and smells, which still preserve a thievish richness, would allow a mere romance to support my enthusiasm. And so from Whitefriars to Blackfriars, where, upon the very walls of ancient London, “the Times Newspaper” now flourishes, in its modern offices, and oft “_with fear of change_, perplexes monarchs.” I had been so happy as to make the acquaintance of Mr. Walter, its eminent proprietor; and under his hospitable roof, in Upper Grosvenor-street, I met with some of the most agreeable personages whom I encountered in the society of the Metropolis. The day’s adventures closed with a visit to Herald’s College, and to Doctors’ Commons. A slight inspection of the latter