In truth there is this perpetual charm and flavour in the old City which few are aware of--a sort of antique air which recalls old Flemish cities. The flagged square behind the Exchange seems like a mart--the busy hum, the perpetual, headlong _va-et-vient_, the general bustle and brightness, are all suggestive, and the bye streets, such as the old Thames Street, that skirts the river, the oddly-named Garlick Hill, and others, have all a strange, foreign effect, being narrow lanes, yet having fine old churches and towers rising to a great height. The infinite variety of these Wren steeples is well known, and there is a curious effect in the reflection that, alone and deserted and useless as they appear, crowded into dark corners, so that even with the utmost “craning back,” you can scarcely see to the top, they still produce their effect for the world at a distance, and are seen rising gracefully from afar off--from river, rail, and bridge--producing a solemn and imposing effect. A pleasant and almost poetical contrast can be furnished by viewing one of the busiest of City streets under different conditions; much as in a Diorama we are shown the same view by day or by night. If at the busiest hour of the day we descend from London Bridge into Thames Street, which passes under one of its arches, we shall see a curious specimen of antiquated trade, and very much what might have been noted a hundred years ago. The side next the river is lined with wharves and rather tottering warehouses, while innumerable steamers, crowded together in apparent confusion, are discharging their cargoes of fruit and vegetables, principally oranges, lemons, onions, currants, etc. The air is heavy with the odours of these articles, intermingled with that of dried and fresh fruit, stores of which line the other side of the street. An enormous army of porters are engaged in carrying these wares from the vessels, and they are borne on peculiarly-constructed cushions which rest on their heads and shoulders. There is thus a perpetual procession; while the street is blocked up by waggons loading and unloading, and in the air the cases are seen swinging and ascending to the different lofts. Further on we come to Billingsgate, where the fish is discharged, with a confusion of its own, which however is more apparent than real. This scene is really extraordinary, and is, a survival; for all this work should surely be carried on at the docks, and not in a thoroughfare. But would we see the strangest of contrasts--we need only visit this street on a Sunday in the winter time, between five and six o’clock. Then it seems literally a Street of the Dead. We have often walked from end to end almost without meeting a single person. The silence is oppressive: instead of the former Babel of shoutings, clatter of carts and confusion, every house and shop and warehouse is fast closed and [Illustration: VIEW OF THE TOWER FROM LONDON BRIDGE.]