January 6th.--I saw, yesterday, stopping at a cabinet-maker's shop in
Church Street, a coach with four beautiful white horses, and a postilion
on each near-horse; behind, in the dicky, a footman; and on the box a
coachman, all dressed in livery. The coach-panel bore a coat-of-arms
with a coronet, and I presume it must have been the equipage of the Earl
of Derby. A crowd of people stood round, gazing at the coach and horses;
and when any of them spoke, it was in a lower tone than usual. I doubt
not they all had a kind of enjoyment of the spectacle, for these English
are strangely proud of having a class above them.

Every Englishman runs to "The Times" with his little grievance, as a
child runs to his mother.

I was sent for to the police court the other morning, in the case of an
American sailor accused of robbing a shipmate at sea. A large room, with
a great coal-fire burning on one side, and above it the portrait of Mr.
Rushton, deceased, a magistrate of many years' continuance. A long
table, with chairs, and a witness-box. One of the borough magistrates, a
merchant of the city, sat at the head of the table, with paper and pen
and ink before him; but the real judge was the clerk of the court, whose
professional knowledge and experience governed all the proceedings. In
the short time while I was waiting, two cases were tried, in the first of
which the prisoner was discharged. The second case was of a woman,--a
thin, sallow, hard-looking, careworn, rather young woman,--for stealing a
pair of slippers out of a shop: The trial occupied five minutes or less,
and she was sentenced to twenty-one days' imprisonment,--whereupon,
without speaking, she looked up wildly first into one policeman's face,
then into another's, at the same time wringing her hands with no theatric
gesture, but because her torment took this outward shape,--and was led