How changed is this ancient neighbourhood! The very house in which the Black Prince lodged when he resided in the City had long before Stowe's time been turned into an hostel, and the apartments in which grave councils were held, and where many a glorious victory was planned, even then echoed back the voice of some Francis, as, amid "the clinking of pewter," he exclaimed, "Anon, anon, sir;" or, "Score a pint of bastard in the Half-Moon." The citizens had at that early period turned into bowling-alleys the quaintly laid-out gardens in which the Percies of old Northumbria "took their pleasure;" and where some pretty Kate, shewing her pearly teeth, had no doubt threatened to "break the little finger" of her fiery Hotspur, who was too eager to leave her dainty bower and hasten to the wars. He also has long since vanished--the haughty Prior of the Holy Trinity, who, with "jingling bridle" in hand, bestrode his prancing palfrey, and rode "second to none" amongst the rich aldermen of London, proud of his broad domains, which in those days extended to the margin of the Thames, and over many rich acres beside those on which Whitechapel now stands. No Earl of Salisbury now goes "sounding" through the City streets, with his long train of five hundred mounted followers, clad in his household livery, and causing the old shopkeepers to cease their cry of "What do you lack?" while they watched the gay cavalcade until it was lost under the low-browed archway that stood before his ancient City mansion by Dowgate. Baynard Castle, where Henry VII. received his ambassadors, and in which the crafty Cecil plotted against Lady Jane Grey, almost before the ink was dry with which he had solemnly registered his name to serve her, has long ago been numbered amongst the things that were; and seldom do the "silver snarling trumpets," with their loud acclaim, disturb the deep sleep of the old City, to announce the in-coming or the out-going of royalty. The archers of Mile-end, with their chains of gold, have departed. The spot on which the tent stood where bluff Hal regaled himself after having witnessed their sports, is now covered with mean-looking houses: the poetry of ancient London is dead. The voice of the stream is for ever hushed that went murmuring before the dwellings of our forefathers, along Aldgate and down Fenchurch-street, and past the door of Sir Thomas Gresham's house in Lombard street, until it doubled round by the Mansion House and emptied itself into the river. There is still a sound of waters by the wharf at London Bridge; but, oh, how different from the "brawling brook" of former days is the evil odour that now arises from the poisonous sewer which there empties itself into the Thames!