sufficed; but as I was in company with one who had business at the former, I lingered for a while in its worshipful chambers, and was glad to see something of the process of the anti-republican mystery to which it is devoted. Here are the historic books, from which pedigrees are furnished; and here are the authorities for quarterings and emblazonings, and all such changes in coat-armour as marriages and entailments may make necessary. Some interesting relics are shown of the days when knights and tournaments, and battles too, were in higher esteem than now; and one cannot but be entertained with the beautiful drawings and colourings of the divers artists here employed to “gild the refined gold” of British gentility. In the quadrangle of the College are the escutcheons of the Stanleys, marking the site of the ancient Derby House. I had met, more than once, with Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd, and by his invitation, I took an opportunity to be a spectator at the Old Bailey one morning, when some flagrant criminals were to be tried. It is a horrid spectacle, but one would see everything, except the last act at Newgate, on many reasonable grounds. I shuddered as I entered the street before the prison, where such crowds of brutal human beings have long been wont to congregate around the gallows. Dr. Dodd was not hanged here, but I could think of him only as I entered the doleful little courtroom in which he was tried. I found an inferior magistrate trying some petty offenders; but when this was over, the judges, in their robes and wigs, made their appearance, preceded by the sheriff, dressed in a full court suit, and bearing a drawn sword. The judges were Baron Alderson, and my kind friend, Judge Talfourd. I was seated, by his order, in a raised box, or pew, at the side of the bench, apparently reserved for invited strangers. Directly one _Francis Judd_, a youth of seventeen, was put to the bar, to be tried for the murder of his father! There was about the very opening of this trial something stern and awful, which the poor prisoner appeared to feel. He stood pale and haggard, picking the sprigs of rue, which, according to custom, were stuck in the spikes before him, and seemed simply sensible of the fact that he was in the clutches of the law. There was a majesty about the administration of justice here, which is utterly wanting in our courts. The case was opened with short speeches—the witnesses were examined—the instrument which dealt the death blow was produced, and some bloody relics were exhibited by the policemen who had detected the culprit. The case was clear against the lad, but he looked stupidly on. Then came the summing up. His counsel admitted the deed, but claimed that it was only manslaughter. The judge told the jury it was for them to say whether it was murder or not. They conferred awhile—they looked at the prisoner, and he at them—they gave their verdict—_manslaughter_. Baron Alderson, who seemed to have his black