"I was born, a few years after Dr. Johnson's
death, in a room only separated from that in
which he died, by a party-wall; and three of my
own sons were ushered into the world in the
same room—for the premises have been the
property, and mostly the residence, of my family
from 1783 (when my father succeeded Allen the
printer there) to 1858, when the freehold of
what was in my childhood four houses and "a
large garden," was sold by us to the Stationers'
Company, who are about to erect a school there.
I spent my childhood there, was engaged with
my father in business, and succeeded him at
Bolt-court in 1819, myself rebuilding the office,
&c., as it now stands. Thus I have the best
means of knowing all about it of anybody living
—for father, mother, elder brothers and sisters,
all old servants (but one), and a numerous circle
of literary acquaintances and family friends who
frequented our reading-room (once Doctor
Johnson's back-parlour), are all, all gone! and I
alone am left to tell the tale."

TOTTY'S CONSOLATIONS.

AN ART STORY.

OUR little Tots, just six years old,
Was living in an age of gold,
   Till three o'clock to-day;
Her cousin Fan had been her guest
Since Tuesday last, and all was blest:
Ne'er was the dreadful truth confess'd,
That Fan must go away.

Some threat, but dimly understood,
And scarce believed, that they for good
   Must part at three o'clock.
They cared for much as you and I
Prepare us for Eternity:
At half-past one, they hung to dry
Their newly made doll's frock,

And plann'd innumerable games,
When lo, the nursemaid Fate proclaims,
   "Miss Fan, 'tis time to dress!"
'Twas as the roll of Tyburn's cart
On ears condemned: salt tear-drops start;
Each look'd the question, "Must we part?"
Child's Reason answer'd "Yes."

But bedtime's far till lamplight comes:
A cheery tune Miss Totty hums,
   And runs to dress with Fan;
'Tis plann'd that she shall walk a mile,
Past many a hedge and brook and stile,
With me and Fan, to meet Mat Lisle,
Her uncle's farming man,

Who has to fetch Miss Fanny home;
But oh! the fields we have to roam,
   The lambs and flowers to view,
Ere comes the separation's pang!
The darlings romped, and laughed, and sang.
(Poor rogues, an hour before they hang,
Will breakfast—stoutly, too!)

I led them through the meadows green,
These maidens, each to each a queen,
   All life and prank and smile.
They noticed every flower in view,
Ran, loitered, kissed—ay! quarrelled too—
Until the cross-roads hove in view,
And there we saw Mat Lisle.

He sat within the old gig there,
Dozing behind the sleepy mare:
   Miss Fan set up a shout,
Those well-known forms to see again—
That pink of drowsy serving-men,
That gig of twoscore years and ten,
That pony old and stout!

All thoughts, save those of home, adieu!
Impatient to my arms she flew,
   Nor seemed an insect's weight,
As her I placed by Matthew's side:
A parting kiss, almost denied—
All things lost sight of but the ride
Home to her father's gate.

The gig drove off, its jangling sound
In Fan's unceasing chatter drowned.
   Lord help us grown-up fools!
I had supposed the child would grieve
Her playmate and her sports to leave,
Nor recked the spells home-thoughts can weave
In palaces or schools;

And so pretended I was glad
To find she had not left us sad—
   A sorry sophist Job!
Soon jealous pangs within me stirred,
That she was gone without a word
Of grief, when at my side I heard
A bitter, bitter sob.

'Twas Totty, with her large blue eyes
Distended to unusual size,
   Left in the world alone!
The flowers dropp'd down she late had nursed,
Her twitching cheeks in tears immersed,
She sobbed, as if her heart would burst,
"My cousin Fanny's gone!"

I clutched her up within my arms,
And strove to hush her young alarms—
   Her Fan she'd see again!
No! Hers the poet's fearful power
That grasps all woe within the hour,
Nor sees beyond: the tiny flower
Quivered and shut with pain!

I bore her home: she sobbed and cried,
A mother's looks her eyelids dried,
   She kissed us all around:
"She would be good!" She kept her word;
The little staunch, courageous bird
Shed no more tears; but still was heard
That stifled, shuddering sound!

'Twas sacred grief we dared not blame.
(Alas! she can but feel the same
   When Death her path shall cross.)
With sad respect we could but view
The brave young spirit bent in two,
Yet gulping tears and murmurs due
To a loved playmate's loss!

We dared not offer sweets or toys,
Insult her grief with vulgar joys;
   In anxious care we lurked,
To watch the first glad symptom shown
That the poor heart had overflown.
No care had we; but soon her own
The little maiden worked!

A gentle tap—its sound I knew—
Came to my door, which open flew:
   My little girl I saw.
Still shivering in her sorrow's brink,
She sobbed, "Papa—some pen and ink—
And—paper—if I had—I think—
That I should like—to draw!"