London, June, 1840. I WILL notice three or four of the principal entrances into it. The chief entrance from the South is by the Elephant-and-Castle, over Highstreet, Borough-road, and London-bridge. The Elephant-and-Castle is a huge hotel about two miles south of St. Paul's, situated where five principal roads meet. All the coaches for the southern parts of the kingdom take their final departure from this famous spot. Although in the remote suburbs of Southwark, the great number and variety of the vehicles which whirl past the stranger, and the splendor of the shops on either side, impress him with the belief that he is just entering the very vortex of the metropolis. But he discovers his mistake on crossing London bridge, and plunging into the waves of mortality which roll up King-Williamstreet towards the bank. The principal entrance to London on the East is by Mile-end and Whitechapel road. This is the grand avenue through which the eastern part of the island pours its daily contributions into the city. The tide of people rolls rapidly along, every morning, till it reaches Mile-end, where in consequence of increased numbers it flows on more gradually. At Aldgatestreet it is almost choked up by the mass, and is scarcely able to force its way past the bank into Cheapside. I recollect going out of the city a few mornings since through this avenue, and I amused, or rather fatigued, myself with counting more than five hundred vehicles bound towards the bank, and I gave up the task in despair before I reached Mile-end. At the North two avenues dispute the palm of superiority-the great north road by Islington, and that from the depot of the Birmingham rail-road through Gower-street, or over the New road to the bank. While both of these entrances give a stranger a profound impression of the vastness of the great emporium he is entering, neither of them give him an idea of its grandeur or the immensity of its population and trade. The Western entrance, by Edgeware road, through Oxford and Holborn streets, is very imposing. Oxford is the noblest street in the city, nearly two miles long, straight, broad, elegant, with large shops tastefully arranged on either side, and is thronged with splendid carriages, especially in the afternoon, dashing over the pavements in gay style. But, the entrance into this immense amphitheatre of wealth, beauty, fashion, rank and power, is from the West and Southwest, over Knightsbridge, by Hyde park corner. As you approach the city through this avenue, on either side and all around you, are parks, villas, mansions, colonnades, groves, serpentine rivers, and palaces. On the right, at some distance before you, Westminster Abbey lifts its two venerable towers, impressing you with all that is grand in architecture and solemn in antiquity-Buckinghamhouse, the city residence of majesty, almost hides its gorgeous turrets in the rich foliage of the Mall and St.James's Park, while far off, shrouded in the blue mist which hangs over the city, the faint out line of St. Paul's towers against the sky. On the left, just at hand, is Hyde Park, extensive far beyond what I had imagined, teeming with gaiety and splendor, the equipages of the nobility vieing in mag. nificence with the elegance of the eques trians, who, in turn, are scarcely more at tractive than the richly dressed pedestrians. As you pass Hyde-Park corner, and leave its tasteful gateway behind, GreenPark opens its beauties on the right, across which the eye wanders till it is lost among the groves skirting the Serpentine river in St. James's-Park, half a mile distant. The street called Piccadilly, over which you are now passing, is lined on the north side with the town residences of the chiefs of England's nobility, while the other side is the boundary line of Green Park. Through Piccadilly you pass to the lower part of Regent-street, a street of palaces, down which you turn short to the right till you reach Charing-cross. where stands an equestrian statue of Charles second. You are now on the edge of the great whirlpool. When a stranger reaches this spot, especially if he have been confined three weeks to the dull monotony of the sea, he will be overwhelmed by the tide of humanity which dashes its waves a round him, and stunned by the din and confusion raging on every side. Countless vehicles, of every possible grade and description, besides those which cannot be described, greet his eye; post-coaches 1 busy multitudes. Two currents of pedestrians, on both sides of the street, are hurrying in different directions. Each individual seems intent on his own business; no signs of recognition; no loitering; Pale Horse were sweeping the avenue with his legions of destruction. As the stranger rolls through the Strand into Fleet-street, the stream of foot passengers becomes a torrent. Temple-bar passed, St. Paul's with its heaven-kissing dome confronts him. Having with much difficulty emerged from St. Paul's-ChurchYard, a street thus named, into Cheapside, his way will probably be blocked up for some minutes by the throng of carriages, and persons on horseback and on foot, which pour through this 'highway of London,' from Ludgate, Newgate, St. Martins-le-grand, Old-Jewry, Cornhill, Lombard, and King-William and Queen streets, and from the post-office and bank. from every part of the kingdom, covered I all over with trunks and men and dogs and women, dart by him like the wind; cabs of all colors and fashions rattle in flocks over the pavement; omnibusses, with their attendants shouting Bank,' but all rushing forward as if Death on the 'Holborn,' 'Cross,' ' Mile-end,' Elephant and Castle,'' Piccadilly,' line the street as far as he can see; merchandise wagons with their towering loads and huge horses as large as elephants, three or four in a line, wind their way leisurely along to the great annoyance of the 'flies' and hackney coaches and their hasty passengers. The nobleman's gilded coach-andfour, with its gaudy postilions, footmen, and outriders, each dressed and powdered for all the world like American generals of militia on parade day, is compelled to 'turn to the left as the law directs,' to give room to the miserable donkey cart creeping to market with its wilted cabbages and ragged children, dragged by its dwarfish beast. The little low-wheeled chaise and its solitary passenger is snaked among the larger carriages by its sleek Shetland pony, to the imminent hazard of the pedestrian who happens at that instant to be crossing the slippery street; while the prancing horseman, gallanting his lady-love with her neat hat and flowing robe, completely fill the thoroughfare, and make it one dense moving mass for miles in unbroken succession. 130,000 per From 9 to 6 o'clock Cheapside looks as if the entire population of Newyork was crowding through it. Although but little more than a quarter of a mile in length, it is estimated that sons pass along it daily. Having thus reached the vortex where the countercurrents meet, the stranger is forced to exclaim, London is a World!' He is confounded with its vast extent, and feels solitary and lost in the midst of its swarmNewyork American. All this time the sidewalks teem with ing millions. THE best throw upon the dice is to throw them away. THE richer the cobler, the blacker his thumb. I MUST first tell you something of the habits of the Horse in a wild state, which have a remarkable similarity all over the world. In their native plains, whether of the old or the new world, they generally congregate in droves, consisting of from five hundred to a thousand. Powerful as they are however, they never attack other animals, but content themselves with acting on the defensive. So watchful are they, that when reposing they generally leave a sentinel to give notice of the ap proach of danger. When the alarm is given, the whole troop start to their feet, and after reconnoitring their enemy, eith er give battle, or gallop off with incon ceivable speed. When they determine on repelling their assailant-generally a lion or a tiger, or some of the larger beasts of prey-they close round him in a dense mass, and soon trample him to death; but if the attack is of a more serious character, they form a circle, in the centre of which the young and the females are placed, and ranging themselves with their heels towards their foes, repel the most vigorous attacks. How powerful a weapon are the heels of an enraged horse you may judge from the following story. A nobleman in the reign of Louis xv. having a very vicious horse which none of his grooms would ride-several of them having been thrown and one killed—asked leave of the king to have him turned loose into the menagerie, against one of the largest lions. The king consented, and the animal on a certain day was conducted thither. Soon after the arrival of the horse the door of the den was drawn up, and the lion with great state and majesty marched slowly to the mouth of it, when seeing his antagonist he set up a tremendous roar. The horse immediately startled and fell back; his ears were erected, his mane was raised, his eyes sparkled, and something like a general convulsion seemed to agitate his whole frame. After the first emotions of fear had subsided, the horse retired to a corner of the menagerie, where, having directed his heels towards the lion, and raising his head over his left shoulder, he watched with extreme eagerness the motions of his enemy. by striking its adversary a most violent blow on the chest. The lion instantly retreated, groaned, and seemed for several minutes inclined to give up the contest; but recovering from the painful effects of the blow, he returned again to the charge with unabated vigor, making similar preparations for this second attack as he had previously done for the first. He moved about from one side of the menagerie to the other for a considerable time, seeking a favorable opportunity to seize his prey; the horse in the meantime still preserving the same posture of defence, and carefully keeping his eye fixed on the enemy's motions. The lion at length gave a second spring, with all the strength and velocity he could exercise; but the watchful horse was prepared for him, and struck him with his hoof on the under jaw, which he fractured. Having thus sustained a second and more severe repulse, the lion retreated to his den as well as he was able, apparently in the greatest agony, moaning all the way in a most lamentable manner. The horse however was soon after obliged to be shot, as no one ever dared to approach the ground where he was kept. I will next relate to you a story of a famous tamer of the wildest horses, by merely speaking to them, and the man went by the name of the Whisperer. The lion presently quitted the den, moved cautiously about for a minute or two, as if meditating the mode of attack, when, having sufficiently prepared himself for the combat, he made a sudden spring at the horse, which defended itself breaker. Though in appearance a rude, James Sullivan was a native of Cork, and followed the occupation of a horse |