clipped moidores for milled Jacobuses. Ah, little boy Hogarth, you will see Johnson fifty years hence, listen to him behind the curtain in the twilight room, as the Jacobite schoolman raves against the cruelty of government in hanging Doctor Cameron; but you will never behold John Dryden in the flesh, little boy, or hear him at Wills’s on golden summer afternoons, the undisputed oracle of wits, and critics, and poets. The horrible Chancellor Jeffries (however could the ruffian have found patience and temper to deliver a decree in Chancery!) is dead, but he has a son alive, a rake-hell, Mohock Lord Jeffries, who, four years hence, will be implicated in a scandalous disturbance at Dryden’s house, in Gerrard Street; the poet’s corpse lying there. There are brave men hard at work for the nineteenth century. Isaac Newton is working; in ’95 he was appointed Master of the Mint. Pope is beginning to feel his poetic feet. Mr. Joseph Addison is at college. Swift has had the run of Temple’s library. Lely has thrown down the pencil; Knelier has taken it up; and James Thornhill is preparing for vast sprawlings on ceilings, after the model of Verrio and Laguerre. Away with Restoration reminiscences, for the more decent century that is to come. By 8th and 9th William III., Alsatia is ruined, and its privileges of sanctuary wholly taken away. A dreadful outpouring and scattering of ragged rogues and ruffians, crying out in what huff-cap cant and crambo they can command, that _delenda est Carthago_, takes place. Foul reeking taverns disgorge knavish tatterdemalions, soddened with usquebaugh and spiced Hollands, querulous or lachrymose with potations of “mad dog,” “angel’s food,” “dragon’s milk,” and “go-by-the-wall.” Stern catchpoles seize these inebriated and indebted maltbugs, and drag them off to the Compters, or to Ludgate, “where citizens lie in durance, surrounded by copies of their freedom.” Alewives accustomed to mix beer with rosin and salt deplore the loss of their best customers; for their creed was Pistol’s advice to Dame Quickly, “Trust none;” and the debased vagabonds who crowded the drinking-shops--if they drank till they were as red as cocks and little wiser than their combs, if they occasionally cut one another’s throats in front of the bar, or stabbed the drawer for refusing to deliver strong waters without cash--could sometimes borrow, and sometimes beg, and sometimes steal money, and then they drank and paid. No use was there in passing bad money in Alsatia, when every sanctuary man and woman knew how to coin and to clip it. You couldn’t run away from your lodgings in Alsatia, for so soon as you showed your nose at the Whitefriars’ gate, in Fleet Street, the Philistines were upon you. Oh! for the ruffianly soldados, the copper captains, the curl’d-pate braggarts, the poltroons who had lost their ears in the pillory, and swore they had been carried off by the wind of a cannon-shot at