Not only the Square, but the side streets below Fourteenth, must be taken into a consideration of the old literary landmarks and figures of Fifth Avenue.  Thackeray was only one of the foreign authors visiting America who found ease and comfort in the club-house of the Century in Clinton Place.  In the same thoroughfare lived and died Evert Augustus Duyckinck, co-author with his brother George of the “Cyclopedia of American Literature,” and author of “The War for the Union”; and Mrs. Botta, the Anne Lynch of earlier mention, had for a time a home there; and in the street Richard Watson Gilder dwelt later, and in No. 33, in a third-story back room, a young clerk named Thomas Bailey Aldrich wrote his “Ballad of Babie Bell”; and there, at No. 84 which was the residence of Judge Daly, the African explorer Paul Du Chaillu wrote fiction and fact that by sceptical contemporaries was generally accepted as fiction.  A block farther north was another home of Mrs. Botta, and the house of the actress who is remembered as Tom Moore’s first sweetheart, and the one-time abode of William Cullen Bryant, who wrote of it as being near the home of Irving’s friend Brevoort.  The neighbourhood is rich with memories.  We have but to beckon and the ghosts of those literary men and women whose names have been forgotten, and of those whose reputations have endured, step forth in imagination to fill the street.  I see Irving, down from his Sunny side estate for a visit to the town that was once the fat village of his Diedrich Knickerbocker, strolling over from the Irving Place structure that is reputed to have been his, but which was not his, to study the new manners and fashions, and to mull on the startling changes and swift passage of time.  I see the irascible author of the “Leather Stocking Tales,” for the moment weary of squabbling over land agreements with his Cooperstown neighbours and prosecuting suits against up-state newspapers, stealing into New York for a glimpse of his first city residence down in Beach Street in Greenwich Village, where he wrote “The Pilot,” and “Lionel Lincoln,” and incidentally satisfying his curiosity as to the new developments in urban elegance and fashion.  I can see FitzGreene Halleck and Joseph Rodman Drake, a mile or two away from their accustomed haunts; and any one else whom it pleases me to see; our foreign guests and critics, Dickens, looking about superciliously, or Anthony Trollope, breathing hard, or Trollope mere, or Harriet Martineau, or Captain Marryat, or Mayne Reid, or Samuel Lover.  For in a case like this a trifling matter like an anachronism or a misstatement counts for little or nothing.