It is interesting to reflect how the thoroughfares have affected eminent persons. When Leigh Hunt saw a house with flowers in the balcony, or otherwise prettily disposed or arranged with taste, he was seized with an irresistible longing to knock at the door, ask for the proprietor, and formally thank him for the pleasure he had given to a careless passer-by! It might be curious to see this graceful appreciation pass from theory to action; and conjure up the face of, say, some retired cheesemonger as he came down to receive the compliment. His natural sense would be--and would be in the case not merely of a retired cheesemonger, but of an average person--an idea of affront. Johnson, as we have been told again and again, enjoyed Fleet Street, though it must be confessed the removal of Temple Bar has somewhat spoiled this association. There was the idea of formal entrance to the City--much as one would pass under the portals of an old castle to gain the courtyard. The not unpicturesque oval where the Law Courts stand has gained, but Fleet Street has lost. Nay, there was a pleasure, when vulgarly reared aloft on an omnibus, in rumbling under that archway. It was like entering an old fortified town. One might be inclined to think that a few reflections, new or old, could be suggested by the streets, where custom has so much staled any variety that existed. Leigh Hunt again declares that there is not a single London street--that endless world of flagging, stone, and brick--from which the pleasant vision of a tree is not to be seen. I believe the fact to be true in the main--certainly was true in his day. What curious survivals still remain to us--such as would make the foreigner stop and look back at long and eagerly, and go unheeded by the careless resident! To give an instance or two: On a Sunday morning the early promenader is likely to meet a little procession passing through the Mall of ten or a dozen boys, gorgeously clad in scarlet coats of antique cut, richly and profusely laced with gold, with black hose and shoes with buckles, college caps with gold tassels. Few even in London have encountered these little gentry, and if they did would wonder exceedingly. They belong to the Court, and are the singing boys of the Royal Choir. Again, to pass by Newgate Street and look in between the railings at the boys of the old foundation of “Christ’s” busily engaged enjoying football--what a quaint costume, the orange stockings, the monastic gown confined with a leather strap--like a “Frere”--and the curious rule which interdicts wearing hat or cap, apparently without injury. And we have still left the “Beefeaters” or Yeomen of the Guard.