cap just ready to put on, thrust it aside, and lifting his glass to his eye, to survey the poor wretch, said:—“Francis Judd, the jury have found you guilty of manslaughter. For my own sake, and far more for yours, I thank God they have. Had it been a verdict of murder, I could not have found fault with it, and my duty would have been more, far more, painful than it is now. I have looked in vain for proper signs of emotion in you during this trial. I am sorry you have not shown some feelings of horror at your awful guilt. A father’s slaughter! The weapon with which you struck the old man’s gray head brought before your eyes, and even the covering of his pillow, stained with the blood! Poor youth, he may have been stern with you, but still he was your father. Your punishment will be severe, but it will give you time to meditate and repent—the sentence of the court is, that you be transported for life.” The whole trial had just taken one hour and a half by the watch. Yet all had been fair, and merciful. What a contrast to an American trial! Francis Judd was then removed, and soon another culprit, bullet-headed and brute featured, was standing in his place. I had seen enough, and, bowing to Judge Talfourd, I took my departure. I passed St. ’Pulchre’s, whose bell still tolls the knell of the convicts, and whose solemn clock is their last measure of time. I went into the crypts of one of the old London Churches, to survey its Norman architecture, and there found myself standing amid piles of coffins, of all sizes and descriptions. Open gratings let in the light from the streets, and disclosed the passers-by, who seemed unconscious of the fact, that catacombs were so near. I never was in such an awful place before. The smell was not so bad as I should have supposed would be the case, and chloride of lime was sprinkled liberally about. But here were the coffins of a family, piled one upon another—a consumptive mother, and her one, two, three, five, or six children, in successive stages of decay. What a story it told—that pile of mortality! Here was a coffin, so large that Goliath might lie in it. “Eight men never carried that coffin,” said the sexton, and on it I read the name of some beef and pork consuming Londoner, whilom a substantial pillar of the Exchange. The sexton next brought me to a case, which he opened, exhibiting the dried corpse of a female. “This was here,” said he, “in the time of the great fire of London, and was then dried as you see.” Next he came to a sort of chest, standing upright, and opening like a closet. He opened it, and displayed two mummy-like figures, singularly dried, and undecayed. He moved their horrid heads upon their shoulders, and said—“They were twin brothers that were hung, sir, long ago, sir, in George Third’s time.” I mentioned what I had seen to a friend in the Temple. “I am surprised,” said he, “but you have seen the poor fellows whose fate sealed that of Dr. Dodd. They are the two Perreaus hanged for