ing confessions were extracted from an accom pice in the robbery, who was admitted King's evidence: Q. How many robberies have you been at altogether?-A. Together [laughing]? Why, sure I could not be at more than one at a time. Q. You certainly have knocked me down by that answer [loud laughing in Court]. Come, now, tell us how many you have been at ?-A. I never put them down: for I never thought it would come to my turn to give an account of them. Q. By virtue of your oath, Sir, will you swear you have not been at fifteen ?-A. I would not [witness laughing). Q. Would you swear you have not been at twenty?-A.I would not [still laughing]! Q. Do you recollect robbing the Widow Byrne in the County of Wicklow?-A. The Widow Byrne-who is she? May be it is big Nell you mean? Oh! I only took a trifle of whiskey from her, that's all. Q. Was it day or night?-A. [Laughing] Why it was night to be sure. Q. Did you not rob the poor woman of every article in the house; even her bed-clothes, and the clothes off her back?--A. I took clothes, but they were not on her back. Q. Do you recollect stealing two flitches of bacon from Doran, the Wexford carman?—A. Faith I do, and a pig's head beside! [loud laughing in Court.] Q. Do you recollect robbing John Keogh, in the County of Wicklow, and taking every article in his house?-A. You are wrong there; I did not take every thing: I only took his money and a few other things! [witness and the auditory laughing immoderately]. Q. Why, you're a mighty good humoured fellow?" There is not a better humoured fellow in the county-there may be honester. Narrative. THE GREAT MONTESQUIEU. A young man, whose name was Roberts, posted himself at the ferry of Marseilles, till some one should enter his boat that he might but earry him over. A person presently came, as Roberts had not the air of a boatman, was going again, saying, since the boatman was not there, he would find another. "I am the boatman (said Roberts) where do you wish to go?" "I would be rowed round the harbour said the passenger) to enjoy the fresh air of this fine evening; but you have neither the manners nor the air of a mariner," "I am not a mariner (replied Roberts) and only employ my time this way on Sundays and holidays, to get money." What, are you avari 66 66 cious at your age?". -“Ah, Sir (said Roberts) eforts to relieve their common parent, and gone of his family, and to beg of him to come and see the happiness he was the author of, and receive the blessings of those whom he had greatly blessed. The stranger, however, pretended not to understand him, and the multitude becoming great, by their contention, found an opportunity of mixing with them, and escaping from the importunities of Roberts.— He was never seen nor heard of afterwards by his grateful debtors; and yet the story was so extraordinary that it soon made its way through France. He was, not, however, known till after his death, by his papers, when the famous and immortal Montesquieu was found to be the person. The note for 7,500 livres was found, and Mr. Mayn, banker of Cadiz, said he had received it of Montesquieu, for the release of a slave at Tetuan, of the name of Roberts. When splendid abilities are united with goodness of heart, the actions of the possessor cannot too frequently be held up as objects of public attention: on this account, the preceding story merits preservation. Satire. THE MANCHESTER YEOMAN. Harry Brown. I am, d'ye see, a Yeoman, thou have me owe my deliverance to crimes Indignatione et rhythmis cxuberans, Skeltonizat and disho our? thon wouldst not have kept thy proceedings secret from thy mother, had they been upright; I tremble to think that so virtuons an affection as parental love should render thee guilty."-"Be calm, my father, (answered the young man) your son, I hope, is not unworthy of you, nor is he happy enough to have procured your deliverance, and to prove how dear to him his father is: no, it is not me, it is, it must be a generous benefactor, whom I met in my boat; he, my mother, who gave us his purse: I will search through the world but I will find him; he shall come and see the happiness he is the author of." He then told his father the anecdote before related. The elder Roberts having so good a foundation to begin again, soon became rich enough to be at ease, and settle his children to his satisfaction, while the younger made every possible effort to discover their benefactor. After two years of fruitless search, he at last met him walking alone on the beach of Marseilles. He fled to throw himself at his feet, but his sensations were so strong he fainted: the stranger gave him every assistance, and a crowd of people presently gathered around them. As soon as Roberts came to himself, he began to thank him, to call him the saviour All fine from top to toe, man; And ride to meet the foe, man, THE CHARY MANCHESTER CHAIRMAN, of being more at case, I placed soune chairs OR, BENCH'S LOYAL BURDEN: Shewing how to protect a Short-hand Writer and Crown Witness with a long and stretchedout arm. And this the burden of his song For ever used to be. JOLLY MILLER. Says Hunt to Mat Cowper-Pray, where do you live? Says Cowper-In Manchester here. Says Hunt-Have you no more addresses to give? Says the Bench-Don't you answer him, dear. Chorus of Magistrates.-Shocking suggestion! Don't answer the question; Don't answer-don't answer-oh dear! Sáys Hunt to Mat Cowper-And how do you live? Says the Bench-Don't you answer him, dear. Shocking suggestion! Don't answer the question; Don't answer-don't answer-oh dear! Says Hunt to Mat Cowper-Its short-hand you write? Says Cowper-A few times a year. together and reclined myself at full length upon them. When I had closed my eyes a few minutes, I was disturbed by a loud groan, which I imagined to proceed from my sleeping companion. I instantly rose, and approached, fearing it might have arisen from pain, ocra sioned by an uneasy posture; but he appeared perfectly composed and comfortable; I, therefore, concluding it to be the ebullition of a dream, was returning to my chairs, when the noise was repeated, and in a manner that thrilled my very soul: the sound was continued to a great length and in a tone unlike any thing I had ever heard before.-It was, indeed, such as one would expect to hear from the organs of a ghost-it seemed directly over my shoulder-I stood petrified till it ceased, and then turned to lool; at Yardly, who was still in a calm sleep and his lips closed-It voice of a human being. Every thing was cannot be you, thought I, for it is not the still again, and I mustered sudicient resolution to search round the room; but nothing uncommon could be seen, and my alarm dis sipating by degrees, gave une reason to think the whole a delusion, proceeding from the punch I had drank. Laughing now at my own weakness, I once more approached my chairs, which I had scarcely touched before ferent from the last, expressing sympathy and my ears were again summoned by a voice, dif horror, which, while remained motionless, and deprived even of the utterance of fear, Says Hunt-For the press? or to please yourself spoke, as if its lips were in contact with my by't? Says the Bench-Don't you answer him, dear. Shocking suggestion! Don't answer the question; Don't answer-don't answer-oh dear! Says Hunt to Mat Cowper-When wrote you this story? Says Cowper-At five, I'm quite clear. Says Hunt-And pray what were you doing before, eh? Says the Bench-Don't you answer him, dear. Shocking suggestion! Don't answer the question; Aukward suggestion! Defeating suggestion! Don't answer-don't answer-oh dear! Scraps. THE VENTRILOQUIST.-"I will remain here till he awake, then," said I; "I can sleep upon a chair as well as he."-The landlord complied, and bidding me good night, with his family retired to bed. For the sake own, as follows: Prepare, my son-0, prepare for death!--the spirit of your father now strength of youth, nor the fewness of your calls to you from the grave.--Trust not the years, for in three days you will be numbered with the dead."It is impossible for you, reader, to conceive my feelings at that mo ment: the voice ceased, and my soul was divided between horror, at the presence of a spirit, and terror, at the approach of dissolution. Not a doubt remained of the awful visit of a supernatural agent, and, the moment my limbs recovered their use. I knelt, and offered devotion, Yardly sprung from his seat, caught up to Heaven a prayer. In the midst of my me by the arm, and burst into a fit of laugh ter, that, from its violence, seemed rather the result of madness than of mirth; at length, shaking my hand, he cried, "Don't believe the ghost-you shan't die yet."-"You astonish me," said 1; "explain yourself.""Listen," said he--I did so, when to my surprize, the accent and words of the supposed spirit reverberated in my ears.-Yardley was a ventriloquist he was the first I had ever heard, and, while pretending to be fast asleep, was exercising his wonderful powers to my unspeakable torment. Songs. THE KISS. Air," Drink to me only." Why, love, deny this little boon, Which I so fondly seek? No taint upon thy cheek. The sun-beams kiss, but do not stain The rose unsullied glows. And sure these lovely lips of thine, By mine though warmly press'd, Will still be stor'd with sweets divine, And I be truly bless'd. Then why deny this little boon, Which I so fondly seek? T'will leave no sorrow in thy breast; No taint upon thy cheek. M. (Banks of the Tneed.) + THE TRYSTIN' TREE.* When winds are still, and silent eve For 'neath its shade, in days gone by, And fear not though the star of night But if no light from earth or sky To guide a lover's path you see,— When thou art there,-far, far away Shall each unruly passion flee; The winds are still, and silent eve Comes stealing slowly o'er the lea; O then, dear maid, thy cottage leave, And meet me at the Trystin' Tree. H. (Banks of the Tweed.) "The Trysting Tree is a large and very ancient elm, growing on the banks of the Teviot, close to its influx into the Tweed. Hard by, stood, in former times, a convent of Franciscans; Sonnets. Written at Tynemouth, Northumberland, after As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest; To THE TWEED. O Tweed! a stranger, that with wand'ring feet, O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow; When Spring returns with all her wonted pride, AT A CONVENT. If chance some pensive stranger, hither led, Should ask who sleeps beneath this lonely bed- A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the flame 1:2 Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene lend, Like that which spoke of a departed friend, Calcs. THE MAID OF SWITZERLAND. BY MISS ANNE BLOWER. (Concluded from page 157.) By means of that singular incident which Introduced me to you, I became sensible of the trual sacrifice I had made of my liberty to the contemptible motives of interested ambition.On the first sight of my lovely cousin, my Whole soul was devoted to her. Enchanted with the irresistible and unaffected simplicity of her character, and that air of ingenuousness and candour she possesses, the artless and bewitching graces of her person, as far removed from the coarseness of the rustic as from the affected delicacy and false refinement of the fine lady. Thus charmed, I involunta rily gave myself up to a passion as pure as it was tender. Lost in the pleasing labyrinth of love, I was not sensible of my error till I had inadvertently betrayed myself to Julia, and that knowledge, instead of displeasing, seened to inspire her with favourable sentiments for me. I could not, however, conquer myself so far as to disclose to Julia immediately my situation: my heart, fondly enamoured, impru-. dently indulged itself in the rapturous pleasure of a reciprocal assurance of love. Too late my heart smote me for the perfidy I had unwit-, tingly committed. In a paroxysm of anguish and despair, I hastened to communicate to you my unfortunate situation, and the resolution I have formed of flying for ever from the presence of my too lovely cousin. Neither could I leave you, dear madam, without first deprecating your just resentment for the injury I have done you, though unintentionally. Impressed with contrition, I intreat your forgiveness of an involuntary fault, and if the sense of my misery can soften your resentment, be assured it is as great as my passion is hopeless." Surprised and perplexed, Madame de Clemengis, on Valmont's, ceasing, remained for some moments silent; recovering, how ever, "Valmont," said she, "I can sooner pardon your promising to love my daughter, So circumstanced, than your disingenuity in concealing it thus long. Though both are defensible, the ane is certainly more excusable than the other, inasmuch as our passions are not always in our own power, but honour ought ever to controul our conduct. And-” "I see," cried Valmont, despondingly interrupting her "I see it is in vain to hope for your pardon; farewell, then, madam, and believe me, the thought of having given you pain, is as afflictive as the severity of that fate which deprives me of happiness forever." Affected by his last words, and the grief expressed in his countenance, Madame de Clemengis recalled him as he was leaving her, with the most earnest assurances of her. total forgetfulness of every thing that had passed, with one condition only, "Never to attempt a clandestine correspondence with his cousin;* to which he solemnly consenting, she embraced him tenderly, and having already taken leave of Julia, he instantly left the house in a state of mind better imagined than described. How strong were the emotions of Julia on being made acquainted with Valmont's situa tion? Wounded to the soul, she endeavoured to appear composed and indifferent. Madame de Clemengis saw through, but pardoned the natural finesse, and perceived with concern how deeply she was affected by the intelligence. The truth was, she felt it as a disappointment herself. Finding a disorder she had from her youth increase daily to an alarmng height, so as to threaten a speedy disshlution, she felt a thousand anxieties for the fate of her daughter when death should dprive her of her only protection. Having fondly flattered herself the predilection Valmont had discovered might have produced a union which would have relieved her of part of the solicitude she felt at the thought of leaving her. But now the image of Julia's unprotected and friendless state perpetually presented itself— She ardently wished to secure to her some protector when that should happen, which every day rendered more probable. Her confidence in the honour of Valmont remained unshaken, yet he, in the eye of the world, did not seem so proper a guardian to youth and beauty as one of maturer years. His father, the Marquis, she recollected, though of a cold and haughty character, had ever expressed the greatest regard for his brother, and for several years in his letters continually solicited him to return to the world. But the constancy with which Mons. de Clemengis adhered to his solitude caused a coolness which time rather increased than diminished, and at his death all connection seemed lost. Madame de Clemengis imagined, however, the orphan remains of one so nearly related must interest him, in spite of any former pique he might still retain. And who could more properly become the guardian of Julia than her uncle, a man of rank and honour? Convinced of this, she hesitated not, but instantly wrote to Valmont, requesting him to inform his father of the uncertain state of her health, and to interest him to honour |