The late Henry Mayhew has striven to give an idea of the confused cries of Billingsgate in his wonderful and painstaking work on "London Labour and the London Poor," where the sounds heard above the general din are represented thus:--"Ha--a--ansome cod! best in the market! All alive! alive! alive, O!" "Yeo, ye--e--o! Here's your fine Yarmouth bloaters! Who's the buyer?" "Here you are, guv'ner; splendid whiting." "Turbot, turbot! All alive, turbot!" "Glass of nice peppermint this cold morning, a ha'penny a glass, a ha'penny a glass!" "Fine soles, oy, oy, oy!" "Hullo, hullo, here! beautiful lobsters, good and cheap!" "Hot soup, nice pea-soup! a--all hot, hot!" "Who'll buy brill, O, brill, O?" "Fine flounders, a shilling a lot! O ho! O ho! this way--this way--this way! Fish alive! alive! alive O!" And in such fashion is business carried on at Billingsgate every morning, amid a turbulence not to be described. It is a prosaic, evil-smelling business, this of fish dealing, relieved by no such spectacles as were to be witnessed in the time of Stowe, when, "on St. Magnus' Day the fishmongers, with solemn procession, paraded through the streets, having, among other pageants and shows, four sturgeons, gilt, carried on four horses; and after, six-and-forty knights armed, riding on horses, made 'like luces of the sea;' and then St. Magnus, the patron saint of the day, with a thousand horsemen." The salesmen reserve their solemn rites in these days for the dinners in Fishmongers' Hall, and the only "Knights" they can boast of are those ludicrous "men in armour" who make a part of the Lord Mayor's Show. Close by Billingsgate lies the long frontage of the Custom House, conspicuous no less by reason of its bulk and position than for that leprous whiteness which, on certain kinds of stone, is one of the effects of the biting and crumbling atmosphere of London. The site is one that should be dear to lovers of English poetry. Here Geoffrey Chaucer officiated as Controller of Customs, the stipulation being that he should write the rolls of his office with his own hand, and perform his duties personally, and not by deputy. It may be that whilst his pen was thus unpoetically employed, his mind wandered off to the "Tabard" Inn, by the end of London Bridge, to its jolly landlord, "bold of his speech, and wise and well-i-taught," and to the curiously compounded bands of pilgrims who gathered there on their way to the shrine of St. Thomas at Canterbury. Here, also, came William Cowper, in one of his fits of insanity, intent on suicide. The water was low, exposing the foreshore, and there was a careless porter sitting on a bale of goods. It seemed to the poor stricken poet as if the man were waiting there to prevent the execution of his purpose, "and so," he says, "this passage to the bottomless pit being mercifully closed against me, I returned to the coach," which was really the only sensible thing he could do.