"I have seen the West End, the parks, the fine squares; but I love the City far better. The City seems so much more in earnest; its business, its rush, its roar, are such serious things, sights, sounds. The City is getting its living, the West End but enjoying its pleasure. At the West End you may be amused; but in the City you are deeply excited."--_C. Brontë_: "_Villette._" "And who cries out on crowd and mart? Who prates of stream and sea? The summer in the City's heart That is enough for me." --_Amy Levy_: "_A London Plane Tree._" The City is, by common consent, the most interesting and vital part of the metropolis,--interesting, not only for its past,--but for its present; ever-living,--eternally renewed;--a never-ceasing, impetuous, Niagara of energy and power. It is the pulse,--or rather the aorta,--of the tremendous machine of London; through its crowded veins rushes the life-blood of commerce, of industry, of wealth, that feeds and stimulates not only the town, but also the country and the nation. Through its ancient and narrow highways, crowds of black-coated human ants hurry, day by day, eager in pursuit of money, of power, and of their daily bread. And yet, curiously enough, it is close by these very crowded thoroughfares of human life and energy, that the most secluded haunts of peace may be found; calm "backwaters," all deserted and forgotten by the flowing stream that runs so near them; tiny spots of unsuspected greenery and ancient stone, absolutely startling in their quiet proximity to the surrounding din and whirl. Though the area of the "City," so-called, is but small, yet it abounds in such peaceful, undreamed-of spots; places where the painter may set up his easel, or even the photographer his camera, without fear of let or hindrance. Secluded bits of ancient churchyard, portions of long-forgotten convent garden, of old wall or bastion, or of antique plane-tree grove; it is such nooks as these that, even more than in Kensington Gardens, suggest Matthew Arnold's lovely lines: "Calm soul of all things! make it mine To feel, above the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine Man did not make and cannot mar."