To our ears there is something in the lowing and bleating sounds that fill Smithfield on a market-day that carries us away into the green quietude of the country; and we cannot look upon the flocks and herds without conjuring up the sloping hills and pastoral valleys from whence they have been driven. They call up images of homesteads and thatched granges, far off amid the dreamy murmur of open fields, where even the smell of the smoke has a pleasant aroma, and the dust on the road-side a clean look. Somehow, we seem to dislike seeing the little white lambs imprisoned in those strong and crowded pens; there is a pitiable plaintiveness about their bleat, which tells that they are not kindly used--as if they felt it hard to be driven away from the young round daisies which were just beginning to peep forth--that they missed their merry gambols on the breezy upland, and pined for their range over the wide and open fields. With an old or middle-aged sheep we have no such sympathy--it has lived until it has grown into mutton, to become as great an ornament to the table as it once was to the field. What a beautiful expression may sometimes be found in the face of an heifer, with its large mild eyes and finely-moulded head! Let any one walk down the foot-way on a Monday, between the posts to which they are secured, and he will be struck by the calm and patient countenances of many of the cattle; for they are prisoners that awaken our pity. Nor is their colour less admirable. What a rich glossiness do we find about the red and black patches! while the white portions look clean and spotless as untrodden snow. In no city in the world can there be found such a splendid assemblage of cattle as Smithfield produces on a full market-day. A foreigner wonders no longer at the thews and sinews of Englishmen after he has seen the substantial material on which they feed. A drover with his sharp clasp-knife in his hand, and a mountain of beef before him, is no bad emblem of one of John Bull's bulwarks. We have often wondered if the inhabitants around Smithfield ever sleep on a Sunday night; to us it has seemed impossible to close the eyes amid such an uproar as is then heard. Babel was never shaken by a greater confusion of sounds: the barking of a hundred dogs blend with the hallooing of a hundred drovers; sheep, whose number is legion, join in the chorus; then comes the deep bass of the bullocks, mingled with the shrill squealing of swine--a sound which sets the very teeth on edge; and this loud concert is kept up without ceasing until day opens its broad eyes in the east. Should the unwilling listener--worn out--begin to doze about the dawn, up comes the thunder of scores of butchers' carts, making the old casements chatter again, and causing the houses to jar to their very foundations. Night is not a season of rest in this ancient neighbourhood.