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Robert Doyle had mentioned to James White, another boy in Mr. Mayne's service, that he had seen Mr. George Owen behind the great rick. Farmer Mayne himself had met him at half past ten (as he was returning from B. market) in the lane leading from the rick-yard towards the village, and had observed him throw something he held in his hand into the ditch. Hepton Harris, a constable employed to seek for evidence, had found the next morning a lanthorn, answering to that described by Robert Doyle, in the part of the ditch indicated by farmer Mayne, which Thomas Brown, the village shopkeeper, in whose house Owen slept, identified as having lent to his lodger in the early part of the evening. A silver pencil, given to Owen by the mother of one of his pupils, and bearing his full name on the seal at the end, was found close to where the fire was discovered; and to crown all, the curate of the village, with whom the young man’s talents and character had rendered him a deserved favorite, had unwillingly deposed that he had said it might be in his power to take a great revenge on farmer Mayne,' or words to that effect; whilst a letter was produced from the accused to the farmer himself, intimating that one day he would be sorry for the oppression which he had exercised towards him and his. These two last facts were much relied upon as evincing malice, and implying a purpose of revenge from the accused towards the prosecutor; yet there were many who thought that the previous circumstances might well account for them without reference to the present occurrence, and that the conflagration of the ricks and farm-buildings might, under the spirit of the time (for fires were raging every night in the surrounding villages), be merely a remarkable coincidence. The young man himself simply denied the fact of setting fire to any part of the property or premises; enquired earnestly whether any lives had been lost, and still more earnestly after the health of Miss Lucy; and on finding that she had been confined to her bed by fever and delirium, occasioned, as was supposed, by the fright, ever since that unhappy occurrence, relapsed into a gloomy silence, and seemed to feel no concern or interest in the issue of the trial.

His friends, nevertheless, took kind and zealous measures for his defence-engaged counsel, sifted testimony, and used every possible means, in the assurance of his innocence, to trace out the true incendiary. Nothing, however, could be discovered to weaken the strong chain of circumstantial evidence, or to impeach the credit of the witnesses, who, with the exception of the farmer himself, seemed all friendly to the accused, and most distrest at being obliged to bear testimony against him. On the eve of the trial the most zealous of his friends could find no ground of hope except in the chances of the day; Lucy, for whom alone the prisoner asked, being still confined by severe illness.

The judges arrived, the whole terrible array of the special commission; the introductory ceremonies were gone through; the cause was called on, and the case proceeded with little or no deviation from the evidence already cited. When called

upon for his defence, the prisoner again asked if Lucy Mayne were in court ? and hearing that she was ill in her father's house, declined entering into any defence whatsoever. Witnesses as to character, however, pressed forward-his old master, the attorney, the rector and curate of the parish, half the farmers of the village, everybody, in short, who ever had an opportunity of knowing him, even his reputed rival, Mr. Hawkins, who, speaking, he said, on the authority of one who knew him well, professed himself confident that he could not be guilty of a bad action-a piece of testimony that seemed to strike and affect the prisoner more than any thing that had passed ;-evidence to character crowded into court ;-but all was of no avail against the strong chain of concurrent facts; and the judge was preparing to sum up, and the jury looking as if they had condemned, when suddenly a piercing shriek was heard in the court, and pale, tottering, dishevelled, Lucy Mayne rushed into her father's arms, and cried out with a shrill despairing voice, that she was the only guilty; that she had set fire to the rick; and that if they killed George Owen for her crime, they would be guilty of murder.'

The general consternation may be imagined, especially that of the farmer, who had left his daughter almost insensible with illness, and still thought her light-headed. Medical assistance, however, was immediately summoned, and it then appeared that what she said was most true; that the lovers, for such they were, had been accustomed to deposit letters in one corner of that unhappy hayrick; that having seen from her chamber-window George Owen leaving the yard, she had flown with a taper in her hand to secure the expected letter, and, alarmed at her father's voice, had run away so hastily, that she had, as she now, remembered, left the lighted taper in the hay; that then the fire came, and all was a blank to her, until recovering that morning from the stupor succeeding to delirium, she had heard that George Owen was to be tried for his life for the effect of her carelessness, and had flown to save him she knew not how!

The sequel may be guessed: George was, of course, acquitted : every body, even the very judge, pleaded for the lovers; the young landlord and generous rival added his good word; and the schoolmaster of Farley and his pretty wife are at this moment one of the best and happiest couples in his Majesty's dominions.

LOQUACITY.

Among the innumerable follies into which absolute ignorance, when combined with superficial accomplishments, may be said to invariably lead mankind, a fondness for much talking, will, I

think, in general, be found paramount. He who knows something, is modest enough to disclaim the assumption of knowledge ; whereas, on the contrary, he who knows nothing is egotistically all credulous to imagine he knows every thing. Enter any mixed assembly and mark the converation that occurs! Who speaks most frequently, and who at greatest length? Is it the scholar, the man of experience, and the genius? No it is the untaught-the inexperienced and the stultus. Learning is the mother of silence, because it teaches us that humanity cannot soar beyond imperfection; a lesson which, however humiliating, experience is compelled to acknowledge, and genius is unable to impugn. But ignorance is a mental balloon inflated by the gas of presumptionit is hermetically sealed against the atmosphere of mendatory conviction-it rebounds from doubt, or caution, or reproof as a buck shot would recoil from the Leviathan-and, in a word, upon all occasions, it will be found vox et preterea nihil: a voice and nothing more--for as Dean Swift once judiciously remarked, it is easy to obtain egress from a church which contains but a scanty congregation; and it is more usual for men, who have but little judgment, to verbally rattle in society, than for individuals possessed of fine parts and extensive acquisitions to evince those parts and acquisitions with conversational volubility.

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TO A CHILD EMBRACİNG HIS MOTHER,

Love thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again ;
Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
Love thy mother, little one !
Gaze upon her living eyes,
And mirror back her love for thee;
Hereafter thou may’st shudder sighs
To meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze
upon

her living eyes!
Press her lips the while they glow
With love that they have often told;
Hereafter thou may'st press in woe,
And kiss them till thine own are cold.
Press her lips the while they glow!
Oh! revere her raven hair!
Although it be not silver-grey,
Too early Death, led on by care,
May snatch, save one dear lock, away,
Oh! revere her rayen hair!
Pray for her at eve and morn,
That Heav'n may long the stroke defer,
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn,
When thou wilt ask to die with her,

Pray for her at ere and morn!
VOL. II, NO. IX.

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STANZAS TO A YOUNG LADY.
The nightingale's song, from bower or brake,

The flower on the forest tree;
The midnight moon on the lonely lake,

The foam on the sun-lit sea;
Yea, every sound and every sight,

That lures the ear or eye,
May kindle the soul to a sense of delight,

And prompt the impassioned sigh.
But nought hath such power from grief to wile,

Or woo the heart to rejoice,
As gentle woman's enlivening smile,

And sweetly melodious voice;
When candour and kindness, and sense and grace-

And feeling and taste combine,
To stamp such traits, on the youthful face,

As those we beheld in thine.

A. W.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ;"

OR

WISHES NOT HORSES.

SIR,- Nobody wishes to be less troublesome than I do; but if anybody can give a satisfactory reason for what everybody does, perhaps, somebody will be so good as to tell me why the epithet

merry' is exclusively applied to this season of the year, when eighteen hundred and thirty two proofs of its inapplicability have stared the world in the face. Is it merry, when you put your feet out of bed in the morning, to feel as if you put them into a pail of cold water? Is it merry to have your back-bone iced ? " Is it merry to have raw steaks on your plate, and raw chaps on your hand? Is it merry to have rent and taxes to pay ? Is it merry, when you put your nose out of doors, to encounter a north-east wind which you could swear was made at Sheffield ? Is it merry to slip, to break a button off your trowsers, and then to be told that it's fine brucing weather? Is it merry to meet with cold friends? Is half-melted snow merry? Is a fog merry? Is sleet merry? Assuredly, to my thinking none of these things are in themselves merry-however meritorious in us it may be to bear them patiently. But I anticipate; you will hear my adventure upon Christmas Monday, and then judge whether or not my complaints are seasonable.

All sorts of people wish me “a merry Christmas,” though most of them do something to me at the same time which prevents the

wife;

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possibility of its being so. I took possession of a new house on Sunday last. The rain found its way through the ceiling in the night, and I awoke on Monday morning with an excruciating rheumatism. “A merry Christmas to you, Sir," said the servant as she opened the shutters and enlightened me as to the cause of my sufferings. “Thank you," said I, as well as a fresh twinge would let me. I got up with plenty of rheum in my head and plenty of smoke in my room, with one pain more than I'wanted in my body, and one pane less than I wanted in

my

window. The water in my wash-hand stand was frozen, and the water sent me to shave with scarcely warm. My tooth-brushes were lumps of ice, and I cut my chin with my razor just as my daughter tapped at my room-door and called out « Merry Christmas, Papa.” At length, my dressing completed, I resolved to give the servant one for sending me the luke-warm water, so I ran down stairs and over the cook with the boiling kettle in her hand; “ You'll find this hotter, Sir,” said she, as she spilled some over me, and wished me a merry Christmas.” Half an hour after 'my time, I sat down to a hasty breakfast—"A merry Christmas to you, my dear,” said my

" and let me have some money, will you, before you go out?” " Thank you,” said I. 66 What colour will

you

have the parlour curtains ?” said she. “Any colour," "dun, if you like." —“Dun!” said she, and bang came a single knock at the street door—"You're wanted, Sir,” and out I went. A bird of

prey

with a long bill stood on the mat. My master wishes you a merry, Christmas, Sir, and says he wont wait any longer for his money. Tell him he's one of those over-polite people who mistake pressing for kindness," said I, and, snatching my hat, I rushed past him, and out of the house. This brought me into contact with the baker's man, who half covered me with flour and wished mę, a “merry Christmas," just as I had put my foot on a slide and tumbled on my back. I made him no answer, for I only caught his words as I fell.

Cut, bruised, scalded, and too late, I took a cabriolet. “ I hope," said the waterman, “ your honour will give me a trifle, to drink your health this Christmas." I was about to do so~"Ah, thank your honour," said he; "and a merry Christmas to you.” As if at the very sound of the words, the horse made a plunge, tripped, fell on his side, threw me out, and scattered my silver in all directions. As I lay sprawling, a malicious friend, who was driving past in his gig, called out, a merry Christmas to you, Tom. The situation was comical in spite of all; so I burst out laughing, and my lip burst out bleeding. As the cabriolet had dropped me, I dropped it--and walked. Several friends whom I met, wished. me a merry Christmas:" but I had bitten the dust and swal. lowed the fog, and I couldn't answer them for coughing. While at my office, nobody called on me with money: but twenty people called on me for some, in the shape of Christmas-boxes, the only change I got, in each case, being, * A.merry Christmas to

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