But all the world comes to this lowly dwelling.
Walter Scott was glad to scratch his name on the window, and you may see it now.

Charles Dickens, Edmund Kean, Albert Smith, Mark Lemon and Tennyson, so very sparing of their autographs, have left their signatures on the wall.

There are the jambs of the old fire-place where the poet warmed himself and combed wool, and began to think for all time.

Here is the chair in which he sat while presiding at the club, forming habits of drink which killed him at the last, his own life ending in a tragedy as terrible as any he ever wrote.

Exeunt wine-bibbers, topers, grogshop keepers, Drayton, Ben Jonson and William Shakspeare.