forgery in 1776; of whom Lord Mansfield said to the King—‘they must be regarded as murdered men, if your Majesty pardons Dr. Dodd.’” At another time, I paid my respects to the famous “London-stone,” a Roman relic set in the wall of St. Swithin’s, and familiar to Shakspeareans, as the throne of the redoubtable Jack Cade. Of course, I went to see Smithfield, reeking with smells, even when void of cattle and swine, and donkeys, but still venerable for the fires of martyrdom with which it was once illuminated. Hard by is St. Bartholomew’s, whose tower once reflected the light of those flames of the Bloody Mary. So too, I visited old St. John’s Gate, Clerkenwell, familiar from the vignette on the “Gentleman’s Magazine,” and suggestive of Cave, and of Johnson’s first ventures upon his patronage. I went through and through the gate, and surveyed both sides with curious interest. There it has stood since the Crusades, and the dust and cobwebs in its old turrets have been gathering for ages undisturbed. An old inhabitant told me she once opened a dark stair-way, and tried to go up, but the dry dust nearly choked her. So lounging about, I ranged through Aldersgate, Charterhouse-Square, and the Barbican, and, of course, to St. Giles’, Cripplegate. There I visited the grave of Milton, once so rudely profaned during the repairs of the Church, and still almost unmarked. Here Cromwell was married, while as yet “guiltless of his country’s blood,” and here lies buried Foxe, the Martyrologist. Holy Bishop Andrewes was once incumbent of St. Giles’, and this is its fairest memory. In the churchyard is a great curiosity, nothing less than a portion of the old wall of London. Its foundations are of Roman origin, and what I saw was, doubtless, built by Alfred, to keep off the Danes! I had never seen a piece of masonry so interesting. It is a bastion of massive structure, yet by no means formidable as the fortifications of a city. And did the soldiers of immortal Alfred really man this wall; and did London ever need such a bulwark against the Danes? My Miltonic enthusiasm being now excited, I sought out Bunhill fields, and the Old Artillery ground, near which he once dwelt. Moreover, I fared through Grub-street, in whose garrets have dwelt the rhyming tribes, idealized by Hogarth’s _Distressed Poet_, from time immemorial. Tom Moore enjoys a laugh at our American “Tiber,” formerly “Duck Creek;” but what shall excuse the fact,—which, by the slightest substitution, I may tell in his own line— “That what was _Grub_-street once is _Milton_ now!”