World has thus contributed her share toward
the wreaths of sculptured flowers that garland
shaft and capital in the temples of the Old.

THE DANGERS OF THE STREETS.

ALTHOUGH not a military man, I consider
myself an excellent soldier. It must be
understood that I am not even a volunteer; that I
never owned a musket, rifle, sword, or pistol;
that of drill I am profoundly ignorant; that I
could no more "countermarch," or "tell off by
fours," than I could work out a solar longitude;
and that I never wore a uniform of any kind or
sort in my life. Still, I look upon myself as
thoroughly inured to danger, as brave beyond
the ordinary run of men, as being able to
skirmish with any light bob or chasseur that ever
wore scarlet or blue tunic. I formed this high
opinion of myself on the fact that I have daily
to walk a certain distance through the streets
of London, and that I do it, and live.

Take the crossing from the bottom of
Chancery-lane, over Fleet-street, towards the Temple;
must not a man be brave, and have what my son
at Rugby calls "no end of nerve," in order to
accomplish this feat? Must he not be in a
manner born to the business of walking the
streets of London? I can point out at the
crossings the man who has recently come to the
metropolis, and the man whose life has been
spent in the jungle of brick. In fact, I believe
that the police detectives use this test as one of
the means by which they "reckon up" an
individual "wanted" at Scotland-yard. A foreigner
may speak English as well as any native, and may
even have learnt to drop his h's. His hat may
be made by Christie, and his coat by Poole. He
may have the peculiar clean look which those who
"tub" every morning alone can boast of, and
may sport the moustache and beard of true Saxon
shape and make. You may mistake him for an
Englishman. But try him at a London crossing
—test him at the Regent-circus, the Pall-
Mall end of Cockspur-street, or in the City, and
you will find him out instantly. So with the
young man from the country who assumes
London airs. He too may deceive, until he has
to cross one of those London Redans, a crossing
where four streets meet. Then it is all over
with him, and his mask falls.

There are different degrees of danger in the
risk of life and limb at different crossings.
After years of careful study and observation, I
cede the palm to where Bishopsgate-street from
the north, Gracechurch-street from the south,
Leadenhall-street from the east, and Cornhill
from the west, form a junction. This spot,
during the high noon of City traffic, is quite
enough for the nerves even of an old tried
Londoner like myself. Say that you have been
in the far east of the City—to the docks to
taste wine, or to some East Indian firm in
Leadenhall-street to inquire about the sailing of
a ship, or what not. You are going leisurely
westward, thinking how soon you can reach the
City terminus of the Underground Railway, which
is to take you to Bayswater, and how you will
enjoy the cod's head and the roast leg of
Southdown at dinner. You arrive at the corner of
which I speak, and for the moment your courage
fails you, for you think you will never be able
to get across and continue your journey
homeward. You are half inclined to keep on the
pavement, turn down Gracechurch-street or
Bishopsgate-street, according as you may be
on the right or left-hand side of the way, and
trust to chance for arriving at your destination
at some time or other. But no; there would
be a want of pluck in such a proceeding,
from which your spirit as a bold Briton recoils,
and therefore you determine to risk it, and to
attempt to cross. But as bus succeeds cab, and
butcher's cart bus, and Great Northern van
butcher's cart, and another bus the Great
Northern van, and a private carriage the other
bus, and a Hansom the private carriage, and a
third bus the Hansom, and a fourth bus the
third bus, you shrink back in despair. Still,
time is getting on, and the crowd behind you is
getting greater. You see one man make the
attempt, why should not you? If the stream of
vehicles were only strong from one quarter of
the compass it would not so much mind, but four
rivers of carriages, carts, cabs, busses, vans, and
Broughams, are all flowing at one and the same
time, meeting like a whirlpool in the centre of
the crossing, and jostling, polling, bumping, and
cursing, after a fashion and with a freedom only
to be seen and heard in this great free city, the
capital of the commercial world.

But go you must—the attempt will have to
be made sooner or later—and you plunge into
the dangerous waters. By diving under the pole
of the immense waggon coming down Gracechurch-
street, you accomplish half your undertaking;
but there is yet much to be done.
You must keep your eyes about you, unless you
want the shaft of that great van to become
acquainted with your spine, and you must bear
in mind that nothing would better please the
beer-sodden oaf, who, by a wild fiction, is
supposed to have some control over the three horses
he is driving, than to boast to-night at his pot-
house that he had "crushed out" a swell. Be
careful; you are only half way across as yet;
and there are dangers beyond, of which you wot
not. Don't attempt to cross in front of the
three-horse van, for, as I said before, the driver
is your natural enemy, and the wider berth you
give him, the better for you. Get behind that
private carriage, and walk close up to it until
you see a safe opening towards Cornhill. It is
a loss of time, no doubt, particularly as the
vehicle is bound for Bishopsgate-street; but
better this than that you should be lamed,
knocked down, or killed. Close behind you is a
four-wheeler, the horse is almost touching your
shoulder. It does not matter; Cabby, with all
his faults, is a kind-hearted fellow, and he won't
hurt you. The policeman stops the river from
Gracechurch-street, to allow the torrent from
Cornhill to pass on. Stay where you are; your