We have always entertained a particular attachment towards Monmouth-street, as the only true and real emporium for second-hand wearing apparel.

Monmouth-street is venerable from its antiquity, and respectable from its usefulness.

Holywell-street we despise; the red-headed and red-whiskered Jews who forcibly haul you into their squalid houses, and thrust you into a suit of clothes, whether you will or not, we detest.
The inhabitants of Monmouth-street are a distinct class; a peaceable and retiring race, who immure themselves for the most part in deep cellars, or small back parlours, and who seldom come forth into the world, except in the dusk and coolness of the evening, when they may be seen seated, in chairs on the pavement, smoking their pipes, or watching the gambols of their engaging children as they revel in the gutter, a happy troop of infantine scavengers.

Their countenances bear a thoughtful and a dirty cast, certain indications of their love of traffic; and their habitations are distinguished by that disregard of outward appearance and neglect of personal comfort, so common among people who are constantly immersed in profound speculations, and deeply engaged in sedentary pursuits.
We have hinted at the antiquity of our favourite spot.

'A Monmouth-street laced coat' was a by-word a century ago; and still we find Monmouth-street the same.