At a short distance from this rotunda we observed a platform about 300 yards long, constructed for the landing of cattle, which arrive there generally on Thursdays and Saturdays from 2 P.M. till midnight. Fifty waggon-loads of bullocks, sheep, or pigs can here be unloaded at a time, and then driven into strong pens or pounds, constructed in the rear. The Company’s cattle and merchandise waggons are usually painted blue, their sheep-waggons green. On the arrival of a train of cattle it is interesting to see such a quantity of polished horns, bright eyes, streams of white breath, and healthy black wet noses projecting above the upper rail of their respective waggons, and fatal as is the object of their visit to John Bull’s metropolis, it is some consolation to reflect that--poor things--they are, at all events, in ignorance of the fate that awaits them. In disembarking the cattle, in spite of every precaution, an enfuriated Welsh or a wild Irish bullock will occasionally escape from this platform, and by roaring, jumping, and galloping, with depressed head and up-stretched tail-- “Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not, Who would be free, himself must strike the blow!”-- create no small consternation as well as confusion among the green-coated pointsmen, porters, and policemen in charge of the various sets of tributary rails which flow from the waggon department into the main line. Instead, however, of attempting, as in the case of Mr. Smith O’Brien, to capture the fugitive by force, this object is effected by the simple stratagem of instantly turning loose several other black-nosed bullocks, which he no sooner sees, than, running and galloping towards the herd, he is quietly driven with them into a pen, where he appears quite to enjoy “the Union,” which a few minutes ago he had so violently and so vociferously attempted to “_repale_.” _Waggon Hospital._