Paternoster Row was for many years sacred to publishers. It is a
narrow flagged street, lying under the shadow of St. Paul's; at
each end there are posts placed, so as to prevent the passage of
carriages, and thus preserve a solemn silence for the
deliberations of the "Fathers of the Row." The dull warehouses on
each side are mostly occupied at present by wholesale stationers;
if they be publishers' shops, they show no attractive front to
the dark and narrow street. Half-way up, on the left-hand side,
is the Chapter Coffee-house. I visited it last June. It was then
unoccupied. It had the appearance of a dwelling-house, two
hundred years old or so, such as one sometimes sees in ancient
country towns; the ceilings of the small rooms were low, and had
heavy beams running across them; the walls were wainscotted
breast high; the staircase was shallow, broad, and dark, taking
up much space in the centre of the house. This then was the
Chapter Coffee-house, which, a century ago, was the resort of all
the booksellers and publishers; and where the literary hacks, the
critics, and even the wits, used to go in search of ideas or
employment. This was the place about which Chatterton wrote, in
those delusive letters he sent to his mother at Bristol, while he
was starving in London. "I am quite familiar at the Chapter
Coffee-house, and know all the geniuses there." Here he heard of
chances of employment; here his letters were to be left.

Years later, it became the tavern frequented by university men
and country clergymen, who were up in London for a few days, and,
having no private friends or access into society, were glad to
learn what was going on in the world of letters, from the
conversation which they were sure to hear in the Coffee-room. In