It is perhaps Gough Square, to which one of the little passages out of Fleet Street leads, that most faithfully preserves the memory of Johnson. It is rather a court than a square; so small is it that carriages could never have entered, and it is surrounded with good old brick houses that in their day were of some pretensions. The Society of Arts has fixed a tablet in the wall, recording that “Here lived Samuel Johnson.” The houses are of a good, sound old brick; some have carved porticoes, and one is set off by two rather elegant Corinthian pilasters. There is a pleasant flavour of grave old fashion and retirement about the place, and little has as yet been touched or pulled down. Johnson’s house faces us, and is about the most conspicuous. He had, of course, merely rooms, as it is a rather large mansion; a little shaken and awry, queerly shaped about the upper story, but snug and compact. It was lately a “commercial family boarding-house,” and the hall is “cosy” to a degree, with its panelled dado running round and up the twisted stairs, in short easy lengths of four or five steps, with landings--which would suit the Doctor’s chest. The whole is in harmony. We can see him labouring up the creaking stairs. A few peaceful traders are in occupation of the Square--printers, and the like. It is an old-world spot, has an old-world air, and suggests a snug country inn. But, turning back to Essex Street, and not many doors down on the left, at the corner of a little cross passage leading to the pretty Temple gate, with its light iron work, we come on the “Essex Head Tavern,” an old, mean public-house of well-grimed brick. It was here, in his decay, that Johnson set up a kind of inferior club. Boswell is angry with Hawkins for calling it an “alehouse,” as if in contempt; but certainly, while the “Cheshire Cheese,” the “Mitre,” and the “Cock” are taverns, this seems to have been more within the category of an ale or public-house. It has been so rearranged and altered to suit the intentions and purposes of the modern “public,” that there is no tracing its former shape. In the passage there is a little room known as the “parlour,” underneath which accommodation has been found for a cobbler’s stall. The proprietors should surely have Johnson’s “rules” hung up. Probably they never heard of his name. [Illustration: THE MAGPIE AND STUMP, Portsmouth Street.] CHAPTER XIX. CITY WALKS.