been hurried violently and swiftly from the world, when the scene has
been rendered frightful with excess of human life; when curious eyes
have glared from casement and house-top, and wall and pillar; and
when, in the mass of white and upturned faces, the dying wretch, in his
all-comprehensive look of agony, has met not one--not one--that bore the
impress of pity or compassion.

Near to the jail, and by consequence near to Smithfield also, and
the Compter, and the bustle and noise of the city; and just on that
particular part of Snow Hill where omnibus horses going eastward
seriously think of falling down on purpose, and where horses in hackney
cabriolets going westward not unfrequently fall by accident, is
the coach-yard of the Saracen's Head Inn; its portal guarded by two
Saracens' heads and shoulders, which it was once the pride and glory of
the choice spirits of this metropolis to pull down at night, but which
have for some time remained in undisturbed tranquillity; possibly
because this species of humour is now confined to St James's parish,
where door knockers are preferred as being more portable, and bell-wires
esteemed as convenient toothpicks. Whether this be the reason or not,
there they are, frowning upon you from each side of the gateway. The inn
itself garnished with another Saracen's Head, frowns upon you from the
top of the yard; while from the door of the hind boot of all the red
coaches that are standing therein, there glares a small Saracen's Head,
with a twin expression to the large Saracens' Heads below, so that the
general appearance of the pile is decidedly of the Saracenic order.

When you walk up this yard, you will see the booking-office on your
left, and the tower of St Sepulchre's church, darting abruptly up into
the sky, on your right, and a gallery of bedrooms on both sides. Just
before you, you will observe a long window with the words 'coffee-room'