French in a secluded box at sixpence a lesson—
vulgar. It despises the Early Breakfast-House
that never shuts up, to which the cabmen
go from the opposite cab-stand, together with
the waterman, and play at all-fours with a
sable pack of cards. It contemns the coffee-
shop that calls itself the Nottingham and
Midland Counties' House on the strength of
taking in a Nottingham paper. It has a poor
opinion of Steggals's, with a catalogue of its
dirty, grease-stained, and coffee-rimmed library
in the window, and a highly-coloured
illuminated transparent blind, representing a
fight between Italian brigands and a detachment
of cavalry; and it laughs the useless
efforts of that establishment to dispose of
yesterday's Advertiser at half-price, to scorn.
It despises the Northern Star, where a stale
copy of the Sun evening newspaper hangs
over the screen; where the window is
ornamented with eggs in blue egg-cups, one
dark piece of bacon, two large coffee-cups and
saucers, two fly-papers, a bill of performance
at the Rottingham Saloon, and the question
for discussion by the Bubb Street Debating
Society on Tuesday evening next, at half-past
eight precisely, "Is a Lodger Suffrage, or is it
not, in harmony with the grand principle of
all Legislation: namely, the greatest amount
of happiness for the greatest number? Question
to be opened by Mr. Flynn. Strangers
are invited to speak." As to all coffee-shops
painted dingy white without, having white
canvas screens, with inscriptions of "coffee
twopence a pint," "tea twopence-halfpenny a
pint," taking in only one weekly paper, and
calling themselves working mens' coffee-shops,
my coffee-house pretends not to know of such
places.

Mr. Cowley bridles in his struggling muse
with pain in a rapturous description of his
retreat at Chertsey, with a fear lest a
captivated public should be induced to flock
thither, and thus to "make a city of his
solitude." For a similar reason, I omit to
point out the precise locality of my coffee-
house. To use the technical language of the
game of "hide and seek," if you should be
looking for it anywhere between Fleet Street
and the Thames, you would be "warm;"
near the Times printing-office you would be
decidedly "hot;" in every part of Doctor's
Commons you might be said to "burn."
Further than this I will not speak. We don't
like strangers in my coffee-house. The
proprietor himself does not encourage them.
He has his regular customers, and quite as
much business as he cares to have. He
considers it a quiet, respectable, and sure
business, from which a man may calculate the
time of retiring upon a small property with
a moderate degree of certainty. Therefore,
he puts up no flaming bill of prices; no claims
to be the "original," or any particular coffee-
house; no bills returning thanks to the public
for the liberal support he has met with, and
of which, by strict attention to business,
punctuality, and the smallest remunerating
profits, he hopes to merit a continuance. My
coffee-house has nothing to say of itself, except
that it is, or rather was, "Cogswell's;" and,
that it was established in the year 1800. It
is situated in a comparatively retired street.
With a very little less traffic, grass might
grow between the stones there. Its shop-front
has white frames and moderate-sized squares
of glass. Plate-glass has never for a moment
tempted the "son-in-law and successor of the
late J. Cogswell" to waste his capital in
alterations. Dwarf Venetian screens secure
privacy to the sitters in the lower room;
linen roller blinds keep out the sun, when
the days are hot. Walk up two steps
(hollowed out by the feet of regular
customers), brush your shoes upon a mat, push
open a door—which, if its cloth were not
green and its nails yellow, would look
something like the lid of a coffin—and you are in
my coffee-house.

You observe the kitchen, which I have
mentioned—a corner parted off on the right
of the door. The little door of the division
is open; and you see the roaring fire, with
the great kettles in front and atop, and the
simmering tin vessels occupying every inch of
hob. Bacon and eggs, and half-cut up loaves
are on its dresser. Bright tins and rows of
plates and cups, all one pattern—a landscape
in Italy, with Cogswell Coffee-House written
in the waters of the lake—glitter with the fire
in numberless places. The most regular of
customers has never been in there. I have
walked along dreary roads at night, with the
wind blowing, and no moon or stars, and have
thought of that corner in Cogswell's shop, as a
pleasant thing to fix the mind upon. I dreamt,
once, of standing in a gusty rain at night
before the front of a high building, looking in
vain for bell or door to ask for shelter, when,
suddenly, I heard a whistle, and beheld the high
building split in twain from top to bottom,
and each section go off in opposite directions,
leaving me all at once in that very kitchen,
taking the miraculous and delightful transition
as a matter of course; although it was
worth sitting there all the dog days to enjoy
at last that cosy corner on such a night.

The floor is neatly sawdusted; but the
walls are dingy; the ceiling is dingy; the
boxes on each side of the room are dingy. If
I were a metaphysician, I might be able to
discover why I like to see them dingy, and
cannot bear the idea of their being repapered,
or whitewashed, or painted. Why, too, do I
like that round-faced clock over the mantelpiece,
whose maker is long since run down
and stopped, whose Arabic numerals are faint,
whose minute hand is snapped shorter than
its hour hand? I do not know: but I do
like it, and am convinced it is exactly the sort
of clock for my coffee-house. If the son-in-law
and successor of the late J. Cogswell kept a
book for his customers to enter any suggestions
for the improvement of the establishment