For the better maintenance of safety, it seems that it had been ordered that the fore horse of every carriage should be led by hand; but we see that in old days, as indeed is sometimes the case now, such prudent regulations were but little regarded. So the same old chronicler mournfully adds: "These wise laws are not faithfully observed." In these same old days coaches were unknown, but a singular kind of chariot, or large covered chair, slung upon wheels, and called a whirlicote, was used by ladies of high rank. When Richard II. travelled from Kent to London, the King and all his Court rode on horseback, but the Queen Mother, being weak and sickly, made the journey in a whirlicote. A new fashion came in vogue the following year, when King Richard married Princess Anne of Bohemia. The fair young Queen made her first appearance in public arrayed in white robes embroidered in silver, so that "she shone in beauty and brightness like unto a sweet crescent moon," and to the admiration of all beholders, she rode gallantly at the King's left hand, seated sideways on her horse, on a machine called a side-saddle. From that moment whirlicotes went out of fashion, and every woman who was young enough to mount a horse rode sideways like the Queen. But centuries have passed away, each century, each year indeed, adding to the mighty stream of traffic, and now the roar of passing vehicles, the hurrying footsteps of thousands of foot passengers, cease not from early dawn until late into the night. To the unaccustomed ear, to the unaccustomed eye, such overpowering noise, such perpetual movement, speedily becomes bewildering and even stupefying. Ear and eye alike are exhausted by the unwonted strain. Very few, however, of the many who pass and repass that way, notice the low, dark archway already mentioned opening on the left-hand side of the street when proceeding towards the City. Turn down that archway, and ere twenty steps are made a different world is found. Not only indeed a different world, but a chance visitor might say with reason that he is out of the world, the sudden quiet, the sudden peace, is in such extraordinary contrast to the rush and hurry of the street he has left. Instead of the blinding glare, the suffocating dust, the bewildering noise of Holborn, the quiet court to which this archway leads, rests in almost monastic calm. Lofty houses intercept the burning rays of the sun, and cast their soft gray shadows half across the square. Even the noise of the great street is softened to the ear, and becomes almost soothing, as the echoes of it fall and are gradually lost amid the thick old walls. The maddening hubbub of carts, cabs, and hurrying feet fades into an indistinct murmur, like the throbbing of the waves of the great Atlantic when heard far away inland.