as Tom Hood called it, contained several other landmarks which have disappeared, among them, the church on the right hand going towards Pall Mall, and “The Bull and Mouth,” at the top south-east corner, whence the “Age” coach, tooled by the Duke of Beaufort, used to leave on its journey westward. Later the “Bull and Mouth” was known as “The Spread Eagle,” established in 1820, and now it fulfils some part of its former rôle by being converted into a railway receiving office. Whether by day, when the flower girls sit around the base of Gilbert’s “Cupid,” (a “cold pastoral” indeed, in his exposed situation, aiming his arrow at the luggage on the cabs or the passengers on the omnibuses as they pass and repass his happy hunting-ground); or by night, as Yoshima Markino would possibly prefer, when the lamps from the Trocadero or the Criterion are dimly perceived through a fog, or are almost indecently glaring in a clear sky (if ever London has a clear sky above it), Piccadilly Circus is a sight, I always think, to wonder at. It is a perpetual eddy of many waters. If not unhasting, certainly unresting are the passengers on those streams which flow in from so many points and seek so many exits. Here the denizens of Soho emerge to their farthest western limits; here the West End, in electric broughams, comes to the outskirts of its own country. Theatre and music-hall are here “at grips” with their opposition entertainments. Everything comes in time to Piccadilly Circus. The man strolling out from the play in evening dress and crush hat may be hailed by a friend in ulster and shooting boots, whose hansom is the last stage of a journey from the Hebrides or the Himalayas; the east and the west meet here on common ground for that amusement which would seem to be taken in anything but the sad spirit predicated of it by Continental nations. [Illustration: LOWER REGENT STREET, FROM PICCADILLY CIRCUS, WITH CARLTON HOUSE AND SCREEN. Site of “Bull and Mouth.”] And then for the stranger there is such a pleasant commingling of the old and the new at this point. The wilds of Soho, with its historic Square, its streets that defy the most exact logical definition, its church, its memories of Dr. Manette and the sweet Lucy; Leicester Square where once was a royal palace, and the homes of Reynolds, and Hunter, and Hogarth, and our one and only Sir Isaac; and where the Empire, and the Alhambra (awhile the home of that most dreary Panopticon) compete nightly with all the bravery of illumination and gigantic “chuckers out.”