ftttifctt THE r - ' K55KV?.. AND PEOPLE'S PENNY twe GAZETTE. No. ^ 9. LONDON:— SUNDAY, OCTOBERS, 1841. SHOCKING AFFAIR! All who behold these youngsters tticks, Upon the luckless dame, Must own a cracker they should have, For ' tis a burning shame. $} oUce. BOW- STREET, A SHAKER.—- A long, lath- like indi- A TALF, • vidua), with a measley complexion, capacious mouth, pre.' doscis of excessive longitude, a remnant of a figure, B', td attired in a suit of divers colours, was brought be- fore the magistrates on the following charge :— Mrs. Sarah Lumpley, an unhappy piece of deformity, with an infant at her back, alias a hump, deposed as follows :— " Please your vashup, I'm a single unmarried ' oman, and vot I accuses this here man on, is a tryin' to take advantage of my hinnocence! Yes, yer vashup, he tried to do me, but it vas no go ! But I'll tell yer all about it, yer vash- up. Yer see I keeps a'Btablishinent tij Monmouth- street, yer vash- up, it's e„ cellar, for vhich ? t pays the veeklv rent of vun ati' threepence, and vhere [ wends to th' unfortiaate, secotod- hand male and • fumale nhttkern 1" I'ray what do you mean female " shakers ! MAGISTRATE Shakers! by that i PLAINTIFF.— Bless your vash- up's hinnecence, yer mever has no occasion te go to Monmoutli- street, 1 : 8'. po « r, or yervould know vot shakers is:— shakers, yw " vi » h- up, to use a vulgar expression, is gemman's • trirts and ladies chemises! Veil, yer vash- tip must Htnow, as I contracts vith the pris'ner at th' bar to sup- ply him villi a new shaker all the year round ev'ry ireek, for sixpence a veek. MAGISTRATE.— A new shirt every Weekwhat ex- travagance ! I suppose you mean a second hand one? PLAINTIFF.— Yes, yer vash- up, vot is wulgarly called * Lord Mayor's fl'sh- bags t ( Laughter). Bless yer aaul, it's a wery common thing for gemmen and ladies to enter into a contract of th' kind, « n' it's verv hicky. nomycabie, teo. I'll explain it, ycr vash- up. Yer see, yer Must pay fourpence to get a shirt vasht, and here jer- can have a new ' un ev'ry veek, all ready clean'd, • smirched, and ironed, ready to put on, for only a hextra tupence, vhich, God knows, is cheap enuff. DEFENDANT.— I should like to cotch any vun a - v a shin' this here vomdu's shakers, arter she has once • doctered ' em ; if they vos to try th' hexperimeut, they must nail ' em against th' vail, and persuade ' em into a wash by flinging a pail o' vater at ' em ! PLAINTIFF,— You hear that, ycr vash- Up! Only listen to the vile scaudalizer ! Hear how he's a Iryin to take my Varacter avay 1 I declare upon th' hones! » ord, T) v a'spectable trades'oman, that I never sell nutfin hut the very best of articles; such as no gemman need te ashamed ov puttin' on his back, and as to the colour, look at the one he's got on, vich he has vorn five days ; and vhen he had it, no alabaster could be vhiter than ii YOS. DEFENDANT.— Lor' forgive yon for lying! Vy, yer • vorship, she hasn'ta single article in her cellar, but vot ' looks as if it had been vashed in pea- soup, aud dried on a gridiron ! Mrs. Sarah Lumpley, here grew mightily indignant, and was about to recriminate, but the magistrate inter- tfered., and requested the complainant to proceed with the charge. " Veil, yer vash- up," proceeded Mrs. Lumpley, " only yesterday as ever vos, th1 pris'ner comes to my cellar, and he says to me, says he, ' Mother Lumpley, I've corned before my lime this veek. ' cos I vants a clean shirt m go to the christening of Sam Slivey's son and heir ^ Sam Slivey is a master scissor grinder, yer vash- up, ai'. d lives in Bainbridge- street, Saint Giles's}, so you ' jiust look me out a rummy vun this here time. Veil. yer vash- up, 1 giv' him the best as I had in my cellar, and he giv' me vot I thought vos a good sixpence, but when I corned to look at it, it vos vun o' th' rankest bad tins as ever 1 clapped my eyes upon ; so I told him on it, and axt for a good ' un instead ov it, but he sed he'd see me d d fust, and vos a valkin* off vith th' shaker, vhen I tried to purwent him, and insisted on havin' a good sixpence, or my property back agin. But he grew ohstropolous, and I pulled at the shirt, and he pulled Jit it, and so between us, yer vashup, the shaker got ( torn to pieces, so I giv' him in charge." MAGISTRATE.— What became of the counterfeit six- pence P PLAINTIFF.— Vy, yer vash- up, in th' scuffle it vos lost. . DEFENDANT.— I'm ready lo take any oath, yer vos- ship, that the tanner vos as good a vun as any person need visit to have. MAGISTRATE ( to defendant).— What are you ? DEFENDANT.— Please yer vorship, I'm a huniwersal Tiurweyer ! MAGISTRATE.— A what ? DF. FEND\ NT.— A huniwersal purweyer, yer vorship! MAGISTRATE.— What's that ? DEFENDANT.— Vy, yer vorship, I deals in hearth- stone, Flanders brick; carrots and turnips; fine new • cheese, tuppence ha'p'ny a pound, vater- cresses, an' ine Yarmouth bloaters, occasionally. MAGISTRATE.— Well, and what have you fo say to ie charge ? DEFENDANT.— Vy, I means to say as how Mrs. uuipley is a parjured'otnan, and she knows it; the . nner 1 giv' ber vos a good un, but she vanted to stick i it, and bounce mo out on another. PLAINTIFF.— Oh,' you wicked, false man ! Yer kpow vos a scbofel, yer know it vos. MAGISTRATE.— What have you to say about destroy. ; the plaintiff's property ? DEFEND ANT.—[ cant't sny but I did it, yer vorship, -. I vos hexasperated. IAGISTRATE.— What do you value the seven shirts Mrs. Lutnplev ? . AINTIFF.— Three shillings and sixpence, the wery t farden, your vashup ! universal purveyor was fined ten- shillings, and Hillings and sixpence for the damage done, and ® ; able to produce ' the " rowdy," was committed lath- fields for ajnonth.. ttHiB ALARM OF MADAME LAFARBE AFTER THE BURSTING OF HER FATHER'S Blftf. TO MV FRIENDS. I do hot dedicate to you a book, I confide to you my actions and my thoughts. Adopted by your hearts, I am unwilling to remain, un- known. a stranger to you; I have need of telling you my faults, that you may pardon them,— of my inno- cence, that you may protect it,— of my sorrows, that you may love me the more; that you may always love me. In the breathless silence of my prison, I have isolated myself from my sufferings to turn back along with you into the paths of my life ; 1 have initiated you in all my joys, in atl my grief, in all my tears. I have recollected, have wept, have written; I have not demanded from God to make me eloquent, I have prayed to him to put ftrgiveuess and truth in my souvenirs, to give to mv words the power of persuading, of convincing. If you approve me, if I have strengthened one person's belief in my innocence, converted one prejudiced mind, my purport is accomplished. My noble friends, you who have preserved me frpm despair by placing my honour under the safeguard of your convictions, providences of my misfortune, be a thousand times blessed. 1 have preserved my life to combat injustice, my strength to prepare, to hasten the great day of truth and rehabilitation. Were God torecal me to him when but half way, to you I confide the name of my father, from you I demand from my tomb— reparation. MEMOIRS OF MADAME LAFARGE; WRITTEN BY HERSELF. ( Translated from the French expressly for this Journal.) Tulle Prison, July, 1841. J CHAPTER I. 1 was born on my father's birthday in 1P> 16. That good father had desired a masculine bouquet; but he consoled himself by looking at my mother, and depositing a kiss on the forehead ot his little Mane. A first child, the joy and the pride of two generations, ought to be lovely as the angels! Alas! I came into this world ugly enough to frighten even maternal illusions ! The prettiest caps, the most delightful little robes, failed to embellish me; and the good" friends to whom I was presented, must have sacrificed truth to politeness to admire me as much as my family, which, doubtless, thought me a fine yellow complexion, and of distin- guished meagreness. My baptism was to serve as a preface to the marriage between Mademoiselle Destilliere, a friend of my mother, and M, de Brack, whose noble sword, mind, and pretty figure, had a less positive value, but an attraction almost as powerful as the handsome dowry of the rich heiress. Mademoiselle Destillifere, forget me along with her mai- den dreams, and all that remains to me of that combina- tion is an excellent godfather, and the name of Fortun^ e, so foreign to my life. If there should be auy readers who may think the de- tails oftmy childhood puerile and uninteresting, they have never been acquainted with misfortune, or they would have known how sweet it is when the heart is aching, to look back to our early days, when all was joy and happi- ness : and, besides, I have engaged to relate not only what I am, but what 1 have been. The first of my recollections brings still fresh to my mind the high trees of Villers Hellon, the little chaise in which I was rolltd along the avenues of the park, the plum tree under which I broke my arm, while my nurse, Ursula, was pelting a handsome gamekeeper with the plum stones. II I again tax my memory, I recollect my grandmother, with a long red shawl, bending over my cradle, to watch when I opened my eyes; 1 hear mother, who would scold my nurse when I was cross, and my grandfather singing to me, with his gruff voice, the " Magnificat" of the Montpellier shoemakers. Some time afterwards my father became lieutenant- colonel at Douai, and to my dearest reminiscences I must add, the Sunday parade and the polygon battery. My good Ursula did not always comprehend the poetry of the military exercise, my mother was afraid of an acci dent; they endeavoured to make me renounce that fa vourite amusement, by surrounding me with playthings and sweetmeats; but if I succeeded in surprising the moment when my father was buckling on his sword to go out, I would hang myself round his neck, and they gave way. Scarcely did I . arrive at the exercise ground, before I left the arms of Ursula to pass into those of the soldiers ; they made me ptit the matfch to their pieces, laughed at my courage, and shewed hbw much they loved tiieir little female bombardier. The summer brought me back to Villers- Hellon, and my sports beeame suited to the scene without being more quiet. The sheepfotds were full of fine merino lambs; the smallest let themselves be tormented by my caresses, while the biggest replied to them by butting me with their heads, Sometimes, also, when my nurse forgot to keep her eyes upon me, 1 would climb on the back of a stotit and fat sheep., which frightened at being made to play the part of a charger, robbing, shaking itself," making me roll in the middle of the straw, made me laugh like mad, always followed by some tears of vexation. Then 1 must have new- laid eggs every morning for my breakfast, must feed the fowls with, my own hand, follow the little dncks to the edge of the pond, have flowers to pull to pieces, good fruit to spoil. My health being very delicate, it was forbid to make me cry; and I was a happy, spoiled, self- willed child, with a good heart and a very bad head. t was five years old when my mother presented me with a little sister, and to show her to me I was carried to my mother's bed ; t thought the baby ugly, I compared it to a little unfledged sparrow that had been given me the day before, and, for punishment, had only one kiss. Sorrow- ful enough at this only kiss, the silence ordered, the ob- scurity of the apartment, I went to hide a tear upon my father's shoulder, and cave but an indifferent welcome to that other little girl they were going to love as; auch as I was loved. This birth of Antonine greatly perplexed me. I, at first, believed she had come from Heaven, where the stars are, but it was too high to fall from without hurting her- self; then the midwife, and the accoucheur, who boasted of having brought her to me, were neither fair nor hand- some, like the angels of the good God. They told me of a cabbage under which she " was sleeping— I did not be- lieve it; for two days I searched through alt the cabbages in the garden without seeing anything of the kind; at length, on the third day, I remained convinced that my sister had come in ail egg like a chicken : only her egg was much bigger, it oughtn't to be seen by a chit', and a doctor only could break it. I dared not confide my disco- very to any one, but it prevented my sleeping fur a long time, and I was quite proud of it. My aunt, Garat, was brought to bed of a daughter al- most at. the same time as mv mother. The two baptisms took place together, to which was joined that of Hermine de Martens, who, born in Prussia, had been brought to be baptized in France— that my grandfather might be her godfather. The godmother being unable to attend at the ceremonv, 1 was etiosen to replace her. When I arrived at the church, in the midst of all the peasants, hanging to my grandfather's arm, with a large bouquet and ribbons— but ribbons, from head to toot, 1 lost my memoiy, and the words I had for more than a month taken so much pains to learn entirely escaped me, aud I had to be prompted by the schoolmaster, who had the crueltv to do it quite loud, and without sparing my vanity of five years. —" I was greatly humiliated ; and when just after I had to give him bon- bons, 1 refused to do it; my grandfather was angry— I was very naughty— and 1 passed from the church to the dark room, where 1 moistened with my tears some excellent sweetmeats, that assisted me to forget that sad falling off. In a year afterwards I lost my good grandmother"; I only remember her caresses, her full black eyes, which were always smiling on me; the flowers that she taught me to know and to love ; her pretty aviary, near which I was forced to be mute and steady. She hadn't left her bed for a long time, she made me get on it, and amused me with long ribbons, of deep colours, which I first pa- tiently rolled up, and then pleased myself with unrol- ling them. My grandmother was the daughter of an Englishman, Colonel Campton. She was nine vears old, and still iu mourning for her father, when God called her mother away from her. Madame de Gentis, governess to the Duke of Ortean's children, was the providence of the poor orphan ; on her arrival in France, she welcomed her as she would have done a relation, and made her share the lessons of her royal pUpil, Mademoiselle d'Orteans. Madarile de Valence, Madame de Genlis's daughter, took the voung Herminia to her house, added to the gift orf a perfect edscatlon, the benefit of her intimate affec- tion ; made her joys and her sorrows her own; and, with her last sigh, received ber last thought. This is how my good grandfather spoke to me of his marriage. Mademoiselle Herminia Campton was, at eighteen, a delicious young girl, little, but graceful, with hair blacker than the raven's wing; her eyes looked extremely mild when 9he was not excited, pouting lips, and a saucy little nose. t M. Collard, the friend of M. da Genlis, saw her, and became madly in love with her. On arriving from the extremities of Gascony, poor, in ten brothers, my grandfather bad been placed byM. de Talleyrand on the road to fortune. He was handsome- elegant; the most difficult might have given him a hus- band's diploma— his offer was accepted. M. Collard had been arrested, before his marriage, as a Girondist; his marriage took place after the !) th tliermi- dor. Roberspierre's death had saved him. Contractor for the armies of the Republic, under the Directory, be- greatly increased his fortune, for which he was again indebted to the Prince Talleyrand, who be- came his son's godfather, and chose the lovely Princess Borghese for godmother. That delicious sister of Napoleon was then only Ma- dame Leclerc, and resided in the chateau of Mont Go- bert, in the neighbourhood of the Ghateau of Villers- Hellon, that my grandfather had just purchased. It was there the baptism took place. The Prince of Benevento, desirous of showing his splendour and good taste, had sent for a rich and elegant " corheille" from Paris, which was to contain ribbons of all the colours in the rainbow, flowers pretty enough to rival the gayest of the parterre; in short, all those costly inutilities of the toi- lette that are meant not to be copies of the fashions of to- day, but to anticipate those of to- morrow. The pack- ages arrive ; they are to be opened in the saloon ; every one eagerly crowds round to admire, and they find ribbons, a year old, faded sashes, gloves, big enough to hide four tittle hands in them, such as they ought to have covered ; paper flowers, and chalk sweetmeats. Madame de Talleyrand had made the change in a moment of jea- lously. The' godfather's despair could not calm the dis- appointment of his pretty companion ; and my uncle was baptized amidst au atmosphere of vexation and ill- temper. My grandfather scarcely ever quitted Villers- Hcllon unless to attend the sitting of the legislative body. Having no tastes, but veritable passions, the duration of which did not equal their violence, he made it his hobby, and he rode it at afurious rate, during two years, to plant gar- dens, orchards, woods, construct roads, and form warrens. Then having been to Chantilly, aud seen the merino esta- blishments, lie had the sheep- mania, during five other years. All his sheds, outhouses, were metamorphosed into sheep- folds, his fields into artificial meadows. The shepherds crook again became the sceptre of this new golden age; and, if the sheep were admirable, the shep- herdesses were charming, and capable of making their fleecy charge be forgot. My grandmother, who liked neither sheep nor shep- herdesses, invited neighbours and friends, brought up ^ UPON AN EQUAL FOOTIXCI Although in civil broil engaged, This fact it very clear is, Thev're on an equal- footing, though Their lender standing queer is ! sembled my . tisch'evous, her children, passed her s'. oring; in regretting Paris, and her autumn in hoping for it. She early married her three daughters. My mother, the eldest, was handsome, ofa caln'i beauty that pleased the heart more than the eyes ; ami. * b. le> graceful, pos- sessed of solid and attaching quali ties 5 s" e was the favourite of her father. In 1815, she married M. Cappelle, captain of ar- tillery. Herminia, younger hy two years, ri grandmother. There was nothing more more piquant than the expression of tier ptyvs' go " my, unless, however, it was her wit. She anit natecl my grandfather's house by her vivacity. She m Hjrried in 1817, the Baron de Martens, a Prussian ani* diplo- matist. , Louise, tbe cadette, could only be compared to- the sweetest of moss roses. That lovely and laug. b ' ng child of fifteen, threw her dolls aside to play at madai. ne. She married the son of an intimate friend of my eranii- father, M. Garat, director general of the Bank of France. To this interesting trio, must be added my untae Maurice, a noisy and favc- urite lad, who passed ten months of the year at college, the vacations at Villers- Hellon. My grandfather and my grandmother, had frequent discussions tosether as to the profession they should put him to, which would give rise to little friendly disputes, which ended by their adjourning the question to the next day,— then to another next day ; in s^ hort, days passed away, the years along with them, anc( my uncle, of himself, came to the decision— of doing no- thing. My grandfather, after his wife's death, confided the care of his house to his daughters, who came alter- nately to cheer his solitude. My mother, being the eldest and the favourite, was oftener, and more parti- cularly calh'd to represent her thev regretted. Good and pious, th,* dispenser of her father's bounty; the amiable interprCtess of his cordial hospitality towards his friends, she ev ery day became more indispenable to him, and the summers of all our years were given to Villers Helton. That dear little corner of Picardy, was the paradise of my childhood. 1 was so happy there, so well- beloved, so completely spoiled. IS was not my! excellent grand- father alone that I again found there ; it was not only very good aunts, very good- natured cousins, the spring, . the flowers. There were also two old servants devoted to the family, who coaxed us when we were naughty; who had always a kiss for a bruised forehead, a pre- served apricot to make us forgot our tears. There was the old coachman with his white hair; the good pea- sants who carried us in their arms, as they had carried our mothers ; the little children curtseying to us as we came from mass, and with whom we would afterwards fight in the excitement of our childish play. In tbe winter, we returned to my father, who was at that time director at M6zieres. On leaving our Villers- Hellon, we wept as far as Reims; but then, forgetting all but the Tiappiness of seeing my father again, we were m despair at the slowness of the horses, our im- patience was quite intolerable, till the moment when tbe drawbridge creaked beneath the weight of our calecbe ; when the soldiers carried arms, and when we were both of us clasped in the arms of the dear long absent. I have forgot everything relative to1 M& zieres, our house, that stood by itself, near a powder- zine; a little goat that used to follow lis ever ~ and a charming family we often visited. The J— was a fat man, seldom seen except in th room. His wife was good- tempered, pretty mate friend of my mother. She had a little g Henrietta; they also wanted me to make a but she was too childish to comprehend years; too much indulged to be their slave. When our disputes became too noisy and v, Viscount de J , her uncle, would come peace between us, by telling us the prettiest st It was he who taught me, " Little Red Riding Hood; —" Puss in Boots," — " The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood." He was the very picture of good- nature. Some vears afterwards be was killed, while still young, by a kick on tbe chest from a horse ; I have long wept and regretted him. It was at Mezieres tkat my lessons commenced ; a serjeant- inajor taught me to write and to walk. ' I, every morning, repeated a lesson in sacred history and geography, and in the day time, was initiated in the mcomprised charms of crotchets, double crotchets, and gammas. 1 didn't take much pleasure in study, and availed my- self of tbe arrival of a visitor to escape into my father's office, whence I would drag him on to the ramparts ; where I would race with my little goat; slide deliciously adown the green slopes, and when I was fatigued, or too much out of breath, my father would talk to me of the Little King of Rome ; the lovely Imperial Angel, whose portrait hung at my bed, and every evening received my prayer. In this manner passed away two years, divided be- tween Villers- Hellon and Mezieres. My grandfather came to see us the last year, with my aunt, De Martens and ber daughters. Herminia was fair and rosy- cheeked, and reasonable enough to become a point of comparison not very flat- tering to myself, which made me think her pedantic and wearisome. Antonia, on the contrary, admired her so much as to sacrifice our French games to her Ger- man games ; they were intimately connected, and I was wicked enough to try to spoil all the little plans of pleasure they formed. Berthe was still in arms, and knew nothing but to cry and sleep. One day an officer.— M. P was in an extacy of admiration before my pretty cousins. My aunt, with proudest modesty said, he flattered far too much. " Oh ! madame," he enthusiastically said to her, " you can say aloud that you are proud of them." Does not the ow l find tier owlets charming^ The expression became quite the rage, and the poor man ever after, remained tbe owl of all the ladies. The following sum- mer, at tbe epoch of the coronation of Charles X., I saw- Prince Talleyrand for the first and last time. My grandfather had the happiness to receive him at Villers- Hellon. ( To be continued in our next,) TETE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLES' POLICE GAZETTE. THE DEATH GRASP; OR, A FATHER'S CURSE! » TT » H AV « * R* P " XLA, THE OUTCAST," KTC. ( Continued from our last.) It would require far greater power of eloquence than we are possessed of, to depicture correctly the state of distraction into which Madame Laurette was thrown, upon the mysterious disappearance of her son. She was. more than usually depressed on the day in the evening of which the circumstance took place which " we have been describing, and which threw Henri into the power of Allessandrio Robelli, the brigand chief, and when the time which he generally absented himself had elapsed, and night had get in, she became so un- easy, that, in spite of the remonstrances of Mrs. St. Albyn, ( whose brother, at her request, had hastened to the Villa di Venoni to make inquiries after him), had the greatest difficulty in the world to prevent her from leaving the house and going herself in search of him. Thisi terror, as may well be imagined, was not a little increased, when Mr. Wakefield returned, and informed them that Henri had quitted the villa Bome hours be- fore, and they had every reason to believe that he went ' direct towards home. A strange foreboding that some- thing had happened to him, at the same time came over Marceline and her mother, and they felt very uneasy at his absence, entreating Mr. Wakefield to make every Inquiry after him, and to furnish them with the particu- lars of the result as early as possible. This Mr. Wake- field did, and the information he was enabled to obtain increased the agony which Madame Laurette, Marce- line, and her mother had previously experienced. A large pool of blood was discovered on the spot where the combat had taken place between Henri and his as- sailants, and a portion ofhis dress, which had been torn away in the affray, fully proved that he was one of the persons who had been engaged in the combat, and the circumstance ofhis disappearance, gave them too much reason to believe lhat he had fallen a victim to some • villains whose design had been robbery and murder. The horror of Madame de Floriville and the others was indescribable, and the utmost • xcitement prevailed in the neighbourhood where Henri was known, but no person had witnessed the event, and could not form the least conjecture to whom they should attribute it. The marks of blood were traced to within a short distance of the mountains in which the brigand's cavern was si- tuated, but there all clue was lost, and it was therefore concluded that the unfortunate young man had been at- tacked by some of the daring gang of Allesandrio Robelli, and murdered, and thus all prospect of his restoration was banished from their minds. Madame de Floriville was in a complete state of frenzy, and Mr. Wakefield and his sister, who saw but little occasion te form any other opinion than the one she entertained, were at a loss for argument to console ber. No circumstance could have been the occasion of more powerfully evincing the strength of the affection which Marceline entertained for Henri, than the one of Trtich we are writing. For several hours she was in a • complete state of insensibility, and when she did regain her reason, her mind had evidently received a shock, from which it did not seem at all probable that she was likely soon to recover. In vain did Signora Venoni endeavour to console her, the circumstance was too awful to admit of any alleviation of her anguish. Her first, her only love, it appeared, was thus lost to her for ever, and the morning of her hopes, her spring of happiness, was at once overclouded in a manner which nothing could ever dissipate. That Henri had fallen a victim to some of the desperate brigands that infested the adjacent mountains, she entertained not the slightest doubt, but what had become of his body, she could not form the least idea; as it did not appear probable that the assassins would have taken upon themselves the trouble of conveying it from the spot where the crime had been perpetrated. In vain were all the inquiries that were made, and the distraction of all who were Interested in the awful circumstance became almost in- supportable. All the arguments that Mr. Wakefield and his sister could make use of to quiet the intense agony of Ma- dame de Floriville were ineffectual, and such was the impression it made upon her mind, that she was con- fined to her bed, and for several days was in a state of delirium, from which it was apprehended shs would never recover. The fate of tbe unhappy lady was the most adverse and lamentable thsv had ever " heard of, and certainly it did appear that the curse of her father, invoked upon her head so many years before, pursued her with most nndue severity. " Oh, God I" she exclaimed, when reason had in some degree resumed its sway over her mind, " surely my fate is too severe. Have not the years of bitter suf- fering 1 have endHred been sufficient to atone for that act of imprudence to which I was urged only by the power of a misplaced affection. My son, my poor mur- dered Henri, why was I permitted to live to endure such a trial as this ?— Almighty Father, since it has been thy will to deprive me in this dreadful manner of the only tic which held me to life, in mercy put an « nd to my earthly sufferings, by taking me \ o thyself." She wrung her hands, and went off into a paroxysm of grief too violent for description, and defied all the efforts of Mr. Wakefield and his sister to soothe her. I consolation had they to offer her ?— The untimely if Henri appeared too evident to admit of their g her the least reasonable room for hope. As for ine, the dreadful event cast a blight over her > opes, which nothing could remedy ; melancholy change which it had worked in her prospects, y, the volatile girl, had, in a few short hours, lto a state of premature old age, and she was ~ ith a fit of despair from which nothing could er; in fact, it seemed as if her senses were fall a sacrifice to the heavy shock which her i had sustained. Murderwas ofsuch common oc- currence in that country, and at the period of which we are writing especially, that it was thought no more of than the most ordinary circumstance, and but little or no inquiries were ever made into it, and thus the per- petrators of the most heinous crimes were too often suf- fered to escape with impunity. Mr. Wakefield was, however, most indefatigable in endeavouring to elicit all the information he could upon the subject, ar. d lie was not without hopes that Henri had not perished, al- though, what had become of him, he had no means of forming even the most remote idea. It had been so long since they had heard anything of the Duke Monterino, that he never for a moment en- tered their thoughts, or they would, in all probability readily have come to ihe right conclusion. „> It was about a weak after the mysterious disappear, auce of Henri, that Madame de Floriville, entering her dressing room one morning, found a letter on the table directed to her, in a strange hand, and which no one in the place could give her any account of, or in what manner it came there. In the greatest haste and tre- pidation, she broke the seal, and read the following lines :— " Madame Le Sange may rest her mind contented ; her son is not dead. He was found badly wounded by the persons in whose care he now is, but is rapidly re- covering. How soon he will see his friends again, de- pends entirely on himself." This was all that the letter contained, and although it satisfied Madame de Floriville and her friends that Henri was not murdered, it involved them in tbe same state of mystery as to what had become of him, and in whose power he was, that they had before beay in. They racked their brains in vain to form ev< n t|, e slightest idea, and their anguish was very little abated by the circumstance. Madame Laurette could not ascertain from any of her servants how the letter had been place, d where she found it, or from whom it had come, and the mysterv was so great that they all became quite lost in per- plexity, fear, and doubt, and knew not in what manner to act. The note had staled that the restoration of Henri to his friends depended entirely upon himself but how it could do so, was to thorn all perfectly in- scrutable. By whom, too,— if the letter spoke the truth,_ had the attempt upon the young man's life been made P— They could not call to their recollection one I Times" an appeal " To THE BENEVOLENT AND Ilu- individual to whom he could have given cause for MANE," on behalf of a distressed literary gentleman. enmity, the Duke Monterino, as we have before stated, never once entering their thoughts, and the statement in the letter appeared far from probable, as they felt convinced that, if his restoration to them depended upon himself, he would take the earliest opportunity to return. Thus were t'ney left in the maze of perplexity, and without being able to come to any decision as to the best means of extricating themselves. Another week passed away, and still they could not gain any farther intelligence of Henri, and the liberal rewards that had been offered to any one who could furnish tbem with any information, had all failed to have the desired effect. The misery of poor Mar- celine had now settled into absolute despair, and it was melancholy to see the rapid inroads which intense grief and anxiety were making upon her constitution, and which defied all the efforts of her mother to obliterate or alleviate. Asfoi Madame de Floriville, she was at times in a state bordering upon distraction, and it was remarkable that she should be able to retain her senses under such a heavy affliction. Marceline was one day seated in a small arbour in the garden of the Villa, wrapped in deep and melan- choly meditation, when she was suddenly aroused by hearing her name pronounced in a voice which was fa- miliar to her ears, and looking up, her astonishment and terror may be imagined, when she beheld the hated Duke Monterino standing before her. " Proud, yet too fascinating girl," he exclaimed, his countenance glowing with admiration and sensual desire, " once more I come to offer you the homage of a heart of which you are the sole mistress. I have sought, but in vain, in absence to drive your beaute- ous image from my mind; but in spite of the scorn with which you have treated me, I found that to be a task which was far beyond my power to accomplish. Mar celine, believe me, I love you to distraction; I am willing to make any sacrifice for your sake, deign then to banish the scornful coldness with which you have hi therto treated me from your breast, and hear me, while on my knee I solemnly vow to love no one but you, and to devote all my thoughts, all my attentions to the pro- motion of your happiness " Whilst the detested nobleman was thus speaking, he had forcibly taken the hand of the blushing and offended maiden, and, in spite of her efforts to release it from his hold, he pressed it to his lips, and breathed upon it the most warm and impassioned kisses. " Forbear, my lord,'' she exclaimed, Tising indig- nantly, and fixing upon him a look sufficient to abash the most insensible being ; " by what right do you in- trude upon me, unbidden, in this manner ?— Begone, I have already assured you of my hatred towards you, and the outrage you committed when last we met, was every way calculated to increase that dislike. Leave me, my lord, or I will, bv my cries, summon those to my aid you may not be prepared to meet." " Lovely girl, this obstinacy is ridiculous," ejacu- lated the duke ; " my passien is so violent that I find it impossible to stifle it. There can be no danger too great for me to encounter for the sake of gratifying it, and " " Help! help!" screamed Maroeline, terrified at the increasing boldness of Monterino, who still retained his hold of her hand, and urged his hated suit with the most alarming determination. " Nay, then," exclaimed the duke, " since it is so, I must use violence to secure that which I am determined shall be in my power, namely, the possession of your person. Ah I your cries are vain I I have those at hand who will quicklv assist me in my designs. What ho, there 1" Immediately on his giving utterance to these words, three fierce- looking ruffians rushed to the spot, and throwing a mantle over her head, so as nearly to suffo- cate her, and entirely prevent ber from raising any outcry, they bore her hastily from the garden out at the gate, when, overcome by her terrors, she became insensible. " Quick! quick! away with her!" cried the duke; " we have not a moment to lose!— Bear her with all the speed you can to the carriage ! She is mine ! she is mine !" The fellows obeyed the mandates of Monterino im- plicitly, and the insensible maiden was quickly con- veyed to a short distance from the Villa, where a ve- hicle was in waiting, and in which having placed her, the duke seated himself by her side, and the carriage was driven precipitately from the spot. It would be impossible properly to pourtray the feel- ings of exultation which Mouterino experienced when he had thus succeeded in getting Marceline in his power, it was so great that he could scarcely contain himself. He hung over her insensible form, and gazed upon her uncommon beauty with the most inexpressible feelings of delight, and again and again he polluted her ruby lips with his kisses. He had for some time had this design in contemplation, and, having at length succeeded in removing Henri, the principal obstacle to the gratification of bis wishes was done away with, and thus his triumph was rendered the more certain: He had been in the neighbourhood, incog, for several days past, anxiously watching for an opportunity to ac- complish his design, and on the day on which it has been shewn he was so fatally successful, he had seen Signora Venoni quit the villa, and when she did so, having acci- dentally left'the garden gate open, he was enabled to gain admitance into the place, and to take Marceline by surprise in the manner we have described. It was his intention to convey her to a casino he hadin a remote part of the country, which he but seldom inha- bited, and where he thought she was less likely to be discovered, and lie had taken care to have everything in preparation for her reception. 11 was some time before Marceline was restored to sensibility, and when she again did become conscious, she was so terrified at finding the situation she was placed in, that she almost suffered a relapse, and a deadly ehill fell upon her heart, which completely blighted every other feeling than that of the most intense des- pair. " Beuteous Marceline, you must pardon me for an act to which 1 have been alone urged by your srornful treatment, and the power of the love I entertain for you ;" said the duke, looking into her face in the most persuasive manner;—" be not alarmed, no danger shall attend you, and every indulgence, every happiness that the most ardent attachment can bestow, shall be at your command." Villain!" cried Marceline, darting upon him a look of the deepest resentment;—" release me! Why am I detained? Whither are you conveying me?— Restore me to my mother, or you shall have Cause dearly to rue this daring outrage." '* Be calm, sweetest Marceline," said the duke, " again I tell you that 1 mean you no harm, and that 1 will act only as honour dictates I" " Honour I" repeated Marceline, in a tone of the most ineffable contempt," pollute not the sacred senti- ment by naming it. Dsd you profess honour, could you act in the base manner you are now doing ?— Release me, I say, or my cries shall raise assistance, aud bring you to disgrace and punishment." ( To be continued.) THE MAN OF FEELINC. BY RALPH RIGMAROLE, ESQ. THE Rev. Mr. Almoner was a man of most philan- thropic temperament. He never stirred abroad without previously wntll supplying his pockets with half- pence, and, whenever he saw an object of commiseration, cha- rity invariably melted his heart in a copper,— nor could he encounter a poor sailor deprived of his legs without endeavouring to console him for the loss, by giving him alms; but so numerous were the calls on his compas- sion, that he had scarcely bestowed a penny upon one picture of misery, before he had to feel for another ! Mr. Almoner, however, began to suspect his best feel- ings were not unfrequently imposed upon, and it was not long before his suspicions were confirmed; he, therefore, came to the determination of never relieving another individual without previously inquiring into the merits ofthe case. It was with this intention that he quitted home one morning, having read in " The With a little difficulty he at length arrived at the place where it was stated the poor author might be visited. He found the " aspiring youth" quartered in a garret; and, as he ascended the stairs, he ceuld dot help think- ing that if Mount Parnassus were only a sort of " Mount Pleasant," where lodgings could be obtained, there would scarcely be a poet now- a- days but would reach its summit. At length Mr, A. was ushered into the apartment*—'" the gentleman would be with him in a few minutes"— during which time he amused himself by taking a survey of the room.—" Sorry stabling," thought he, as he glanced round it, " for the Pegasus." It contained one bed, one decrepid old chair, and an equally infirm table, whereupon were deposited a small gallypot Converted into an inkstand, a pen evidently having seen some service, and what was to all appear- ances, an account- book. " This," said Mr. A.," doubt- lessly contains the list of subscriptions," and, so saying he commenced turning over the leaves. Suddenly, he stopped ;— he rubbed his eyes, which gradually rounded into the dimensions of two cannon balls ; and his mouth betrayed a cavity somewhat similar to the Thames Tun- nel. " A- a- a- h!" exclaimed he, " can I believe my eyes ? What do I see ' £. s. By six Brutal Assaults, . . .49 By live Daring RobbeWe| • I •>' .66 By— eh'? No! it cannot be - » he can never be reduced to that!" Again he rubbed his eyes,— Mast it is too plain! £. s. By three horrid Murders . . .7 10." He threw down the book and paced the room. " Where have I come to P— what shall I do ?" cried he,— but hark! the fiend !— he approaches! Ah I the poker— that shall defend me!" The author entered, but his appearance was certainly far from intimidating. He was long and thin as a note of admiration— slender as his income ; he was habited in a black coat— rather seedy— a thing not to be wondered at considering how frequently it had been sown! " Sir," said the man of letters, bowing—" I regret to have kept you waiting, but I was upon a very difficult subject."—" Upon a very difficult subject!" echoed Mr. A. " Yes, the fear- ful truth is HOW revealed— he has been burking some one below." " And you know, sir," continued the author, when once we gat upon a subject it doesn't do to leave until all is finished." " The inhuman monster I Shall 1 interrogate him ? Young man, let me intreat you to give Over these evil ways— let me beseech of you not to imitate Burke." " Oh ! no, sir, I copy from no one; my style, 1 can assure you, is quite original." " Oh, the abominable wretch dispatches them in a new way !" " But, said the literary man, approaching his visitor, " will you allow me to offer you a chair, and fo take that poker " " Stand off!— stand off I" ex- claimed Mr. A., flourishing the implement— stand off! I say." " Really, sir, I am at a loss to conceive the reason for this conduct." Mr. A. pointed to the book which was still lying open. The man of letters smiled, and explained it was his account with " The Times'' news- paper, and the Brutal Assaults, Daring Robberies, & c. were simply the detail of those enormities committed by others. Mr. A. laughed heartily at the mistake, gave the poor author five pounds to compensate him for his conduct, and retired. ERNNESTINE DE LACY I OR, THE ROBBER'S FOUNDLING. BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE DEATH CRASP," KTC. ( Continued from our last.) TO CORRESPONDENTS. We are very sorry that the errors complained of by " A BLUE JACKET" occurred, and will take care thai such mistakes do not happen again. We are extremely obliged to him for his favours. " DR. SYNTAX," is accepted. We advise THOMAS NEWRY not to attempt to write poetry again We cannot make any promise of the kind to " ALPHA." Declined:— The communication of W. MORTIMER, J. M., S. WOOD, ( Stockport,) R. W.' L., and P. BAXTER. " VERITAS," and " ELLEN M."— We cannot say. " SKETCHES OF CHARACTER," Ifill not suit. O. M'KEOGH, ( Dublin,) arrived too late. " CRYPTONOMA," is requested to accept our thanks. F. P. MACBETH.— It has been aniwered. MR. MAY'S communications will be attended to. The book himlly lent us by R. T. GRANNELL is perfectly safe, and will be done with in a week or two. Under consideration :— A. M. Received with thanks, " ANNA, MINSTREL OF THE HEATH." *** All communications to be addressed ( post paid) to the Editor of THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES, 231, High- street, Shoreditch. The circumstance caused a great excitement in that part of the country, and although the wealthy were heartily glad that they had at last got rid of that desperate gang which had so frequently lightened their purses as well as put them in bodily fear, there were many among the poor and humble who deeply deplored the fate of Osmond dad his followers, in whom they had frequently found such generous friends. But Osmond had not perished, although it was with the greatest difficulty he escaped the terrible fate of his com- rades, all of whom had fallen either beneath the swords of their assailants, or by the flames that destroyed the an- cient and powerful edifice which had for so many years af- forded then so formidable a retreat. The whole of the lower part of the castle was in one mass of flames, so that it was impossible for him to secure his retreat that way; and, indeed, tbe greatest portion of the upper part of the buildingwas blazing awav rapidly, and escape seemed to be almost impossible. With the greatest difficulty he reached the door through which Lord Raymond and his party had retreated, and hastened along the subterranean passage which led to the forest, but when he gained the steps that communicated with the trap- door over the se- cret entrance, his despair may be imagined, when he found it closed, and that it resisted all his efforts to open Lord Raymond had not only ordered his followers to fasten the trap, but to roil the ponderous stone over it agnin. . The madness of desperation now seized upon the brain of the robber- chief, and for a second or two he stood un- certain in what mauner to act, butthe suffocating smoke which made its way along the passage aroused him to action.— He determined not to fall without making a re- solute effort to save himself. fiven in that fearful situa- tion, vengeance filled his mind ; that feeling he had not yet been able to satiate, and he could not, dare not think of dying, until he had obtained the gratification for which he had so long been seeking'. Drawing his mantle across his month and nostrils, to preveut his inhaling the smoke, from the effects of which he was almost blinded, Osmond returned by the way he had come to the chattel, and there tbe scene was truly terrific. On every side an earthly hell Was raging, ana the roaring and crackling of the furious element, and the noise of the falling masses, were appalling beyond des- cription. All hope seemed cut off, but battling with the flames, the same as the shipwrecked mariner would with the raging waves, Osmond at last succeeded in reaching a flight of stone steps which led to the upper part of the cattle, and iu spite of their burning heat, he rushed hastily up them, and gained the room to which they led after being severely scorched. The fire had reached this apartment, but the flames burned not so fiercely as in the other part of the fabric. Osmond rushed towards a lofty casement, which he dashed hastily open, and without giving a moment's thought to the danger of the leap, sprang from it into the court yard. He was stunned for a short time by the fall, but not hurt, and in a minute or two starting to his legs, he as- cended to the top of the wall, along which he ran until he reached the principal tower, to which he gained admit- tance, and having opened the gates, fortunately found that the drawbridge was down, and consequently, he was quickly enabled to reach the forest. There he had not been many minutes, and had been compelled to pause, in order that he might recover himself from theeffectsof the excitement and exertion he had undergone, when he beheld the ruins of the castle fall, and nothing now re- mained to mark the spot where it once had stood, but the walls of the court- yard and the towers by which they were flanked. Osmond placed his back agaiflst the trunk of an ancient oak, and folding his arms across his broad chest,- fixed his eyes mournfullv on tbe smoking ruins ; the proud and " Godfrey," cried Ernnestine, in a voice of the greatest agitation, " do not distract ine. He upon whom 1 have placed my affections— oh, heartless cruelty;— oh, shame- less injustice !— Godfrey, hear me." " Dost thou not love Lord Raymond ?" passionately and impatiently interrupted the impetuous youth. " I esteem him, Godfrey; nothing more, as I hope for mercy hereafter." " Esteem him!" reiterated Godfrey, in a tone of bit- terness ;—" oh, what a mockery is that name. Ern- nestine, thou dost deceive thyself; that passion, which thou callest by so wrong a name, is love, fervent love. I see it in all thy conduct towards my fortunate rival. In thitie eagerness to be in his presence, in thy reluctance to quit the same roof beneath which he resides. Godfrey de Lacy hath no fortune, no chance of wealth, but that which he may acquire by his own exertions. St. Aswolph is rich, is noble, and hath a flattering tongue. I tell thee, Ernnestine, that tbou dost love bim, and,, moreover, that thou wilt become his bride." " Godfrey de Lacy," said the blushing damsel, her feelings aroused to the utmost pitch of indignation by the manner in which the headstrong young man spoke, and the words to which he gave utterance, " thou couidst never have loved me, or thou wouldst not act thus. Ilie poor girl, whose truth thou canst thus distrust, could never have possessed thine heart." Ernnestine,"- ejaculated Godfrey, after a brief pause, ' J 1 mnmiot •. oil ril £ 1 lin. THE PENNY PEOPLES' AND POLICE GAZETTE. The vast resources of this journal, for the amusement of its numerous readers, are illimitable, which we feel confident has been amply proved since the commence- ment of our paper, eighty weeks since. Novelty after novelty has been presented in rapid succession— every rational taste consulted, and no expense spared to gratify the same, by the engagement of eminent authors in every department of literature ; and the oonsequence is, that THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLES' POLICE GAZETTE, IS read and admired by every one. Ever anxious to be the first in the field to present the public with any extraordinary novelty, the pro- prietors have been at a considerable expense in form- ing a new feature, the first portion of which will be found in the present number, and will be continued • very week until completed ; we allude to TnE ME- MOIRS OF MARIE CAPELLE, MADAME LAFARGE, WRITTEN BY HERSELF, and translated from the French expressly for this paper. This work, which is at present creating such a remarkable sensation in France, will be found to be one of the most surprising and deeply- interesting narratives ever presented to the public, giving a full explanation of tbe whole cir- cumstances of that mysterious affair, and clearly re- vealing the real perpetrators of that dreadful crime for which the unfortunate heroine of the memoir is now undergoing the sentence of perpetual imprisonment. We are convinced that we have no occasion to say more upon this subject, to recommend it to the atten- tion of our readers, and we. advise them to give early orders to their booksellers for the future numbers of this paper, to prevent disappointment, as the demand is expected to increase to a very great extent. INDUSTRY OF THE PRESENT AOE.~ I shall notice but one more movement or the age as indicating the tendency lo universality 1 and this t » its industry. How numberless are the forms which this tikes! Into how many channels Is human labour pouring itseltj How widely spread is the passion for acquisition, not for simple means of subsistarice, but ( or wealth I What vast enterprises ugi- tate the community ! What a rui- h Into ail the departments Of trade! How next to universal tbe insanity of speculation I What new arts spring up I Industry pierce, the lorests, and startles with her axe the everlasting silence Commerce is the commanding in- terest j and this has no limits but the habitable world. It no longer creeps along the shore, or lingers in accimcmed trackB, but penetrates everv Inlet; plunges into the heart ot uncivilised lands, sends its steamships up unexploded tivers, girdles the eanh with railroads, aud thus brakes down the estrangements of nations. Comm rce is a noble calling; it mediates between distant nations, and makes I- en's watsu, not, as formerly, stimulants to war, but bonds of peace. Universal intellectual activity is due, in no small degree, to commerce, which spreads the thoughts, inventions, and writings of great men over the earth, and gathers scientific and lite- rary men everywhere into an intellectual republic. So is carries abroad the missionary, the Bible, the Cross, and is giving univer- sality to true religion. goth'c edifice of which '/ ie had so long ruled the master, was destroyed!— Where too, were his bold associates ?— Gune gone!— and a pang shot through the heart of the robber which he had not experienced before for some time !— it was many years since he had found himself, as it were, alone, iu the world !— A curse, a heavy malediction es- caped his lips upon the head- of those who had been the cause of the calamity, and then having once more fixed his eyes iutentlv upon the spot where the Castle of St. Alwvn had^ stood, he turned away; darted hastily on- ward, and was soon lost in the deep recesses of the wood. Amid tbe excitement which these circumstances might naturally be supposed to occasion in the breast of our heroine as well as the others, it could not be expected that the strange conduct of Godfrey in refusing Lord Raymond and Sir Egbert de Courcy the service they re- quired of him, could be easily driven from Efnnestine's mind, and it caused her much uneasiness and perplexing thought. To what cause could she attribute it, but, that ofjealousv, and which had completely destroyed those feelings of humanity that had before so particularly characterised him ?— And when this idea occurred to her, It occasioned a feeling of indignation in her breast, to- wards Godfrey, ( who could thus, in spite of her solemn asseverations, still doubt, her truth) which she found it impossible for her to subdue. But to act in that cruel and dishonourable manner towards a female, and that female the sister of the nobleman who had stood forward so pre- eminently as his friend in the hour of danger, was most unpardonable, and it was so unlike the general conduct of Godfrey, that she has half inclined to doubt its reality.— The day after the restoration of Lady Marguerite to her friends, as Ernnestine hail seen nothing of her lover, neither did Ranulph, his father, or Hubert Clensham inow anything whither he had gone, she became very uneasy, owing to his mysterions conduct, and unable to remain in the Castle of St. Aswolph in so painful a state of suspense, she quitted the place with a determination to hasten to the residence of her foster parents, to consult, with them what was best to be done, to ascertain whither Godfrey was gone, the motives fof his singular behaviour, and what were liis intentions. She went alone, alihough Lord Raymond wished to accompany her, and was proceeding along, buried in deep thought, when she was suddenly startled by beholding the shadow of ahumanlorm, re- flected by tbe ravs of the sun upon the green sward, and raising her eyes, she beheld Godtrey advancing towards her ; his step was hurried but unsteady, and she noticed in a moment, the paleness ofhis countenance, although it was stamped with an expression of determination which plainly shewed that he had fully made un his mind to some desperate act. On perceiving Ernnestine, he started back a few psces, and seemed to be slightly con- tused, but he quickly recovered himself, and walking up to the maiden, he took her hand, looked for a tew mo- ments intently in her countenance, aud then in melan- choly accents, said ;— " Ernnestine, we meet, probably, for the last time. Ere the sun hatu sunk behind the western hills, he, who once flattered himself that he owned thy love, will he far from that spot where he first drew the breath of life." " Once owned mv love, Godfrey," repeated our hero- ine, the tears trembling in her eyes, and her bosom heaving with the various feelings that agonized it;—" oh, this is cruel. Tell me, Godfrey, bow have I deserved it, and what is the ineauing of this strange and un- natural conduct ?" " Unnatural conduct!" " Ay. didst thou not refuse that service to Lord Ray- mond St. Aswolph and to Sir Egbert de Courcy, thy master, whi. ch the common dictates of humanity should have prompted thee readily to have grauted ?" " I did, and the motives that urged me to do so were Slicli as, in my opinion, were sufficiently strong, and would prompt " me to behave iri a similar manner, were I now asked to do a like favour." Ernnestine gazed at him with a look of astonishment., reproach, and incredulity, but he seemed fully prepared for the interview, and shrunk not beneath her glances. " Can this be Godfrev de Lacy ? he whom I thought the very soul of honour ?" she exclaimed ; " but no, no; thou canst not speak the real sentiments of thine heart; some wild infatuation hath taken possession of thee, and urges thee on to acts of madness." " Ernnestine," returned Godtrey, " thou mayest blame me; thou mayest think me cruel, ungrateful, ungene- rous; hut the motives that guide my conduct are too powerful to be resisted. I have long struggled with the demon that rages within me; 1 have long endeavoured to stifle the thoughts that have gained possession of my mind, hut in vain. Ernnestine, 1 come to bid thee fare- well, probably a last farewell; and oh, may he, upon whom I have placed thine affections, love thee as fondly and sincerely as 1 have done." " thou mayest deem me cruel- thou mayest call me un- just- or thoit mayest deem me m? d but I cannotbanish the distracting ideas from my mtn. d. Ihmk °° t, how- ever, . hat I will prove any obstacle to thy real idesires, no, fairest girl, my presence shall no ld< ger d.^ urb thee my mind is made up. I go from hence; K « d while ite s purple current still flows within my veins, ' ™ other shall possess thine heart, thine hand, % ic° os ™ t prayers shall be offered up to Heaven for thU, e "" P" " Oh, whither wouldst thou go, Godfrey ?— WhitK" r would this wild delusion hurry thee ?" cried our heroine, in a voice almost choked by the agony of her feelings. " To where the martial notes of the clarion shall' mingle with the groans of the dying and the shouts of the conqueror," answered Godfrey; " to the battle- field, where I perchance may win a glorious name,- or meet an honourable death. Life for me bath lost its charms ; all, ail now is a barren desert, dark and drear;, but I must away. Ernnestine, bless thee, bless thee, iit- whatever station of lite thou mayest be placed, and deign in thine orisons sometimes to think of him, who, per- hatm mav then be breathing his last upon the field of carnage. Fareweli! farewell! farewell!" « ' Thou shall not leave me, Godfrey," shrieked our heroine, in frenzied accents, and clinging to mm;- ' nay, nay, thou cansS not, tb. ou wilt not be so cru°', . " Unhand me, Ernnesti. ne," cried Godfrey; my mind is' made up; nothing can shake me from my purpose. Again, farewell, and every blessing attend thee. Sli C| Ula it be my fate to return from tbe strife, and I should v\' « n for myself an honourable name and station iu society, then, indeed, if I should find that I have wronged thee, and that bnt I dare not trust myself with the bright vision. Adieu! aud if we never meet again, adieu, adieu for ever." " Hear me! hear roe, cruel man!" exclaimed Ern- nestine, deliriously ;—" oh, God! oh, God !" Godfrey de Lacy made no answer ; but fixing upon the poor girl one look of the most intense agony, he tore him- self away, and rushed with the greatest precipitation from the spot. . ... " Godfrey! Godfrey!" cried our heroine, with clasped hands and distracted looks; bat he was gone; and, over- powered by her feelings, she sunk upon the earth in a state of insensibility. Fortunately, iu spite of what Ernnestine had said to prevent his accompanying her, Lord Raymond was in- duced to follow her at a distance, tearful that there might be some of the robbers, who had, probably, escaped from the destruction of their retreat, lurking about in the wood, who might take advantage of her unprotected state. He had seen the meeting between her and God- frer, and approaching nearer, and concealing himself from observation, he was enabled to overhear part of the conversation which had passed between tbem. He HOW saw at once the motives of Godfrey, in refusing to be their guide to the secret entrance to the castle of St.- Alwyn ; and although he could not flatter himself that he at present possessed any more than ErtmestineV esteem, as she had said, his sanguine hopes tempted bin? to believe tha « time would ripen that feeling into one of a more tender nature in her breast, especially in the ab- sence of Godfrey, whose determination he felt the ut- most satisfaction at. The agitation of Ernnestine was so great, that he was several times half tempted to inter- rupt it, but was prevented by other feelings, aud remained in the place where he had concealed himself until the departure of Godfrey and the insensibility of Ernnestine„ when, rushing forth, he raised her in his arms, and after endeavouring, in vain, to recal ber to animation, he fled with tbe utmost precipitation, in the direction of ttie castle, where, iu a short time, he arrived, and consigned his beauteous burthen to the tender care of his mothes and Lady Marguerite. ( To be continued in our next.) LECEND OF THE THREE SAINTS. In the year 1341, an inundation, of many days' con- tinuance, had raised the water three cubits higher thart. it had ever before been seen in Venice; and during a stormy night, while the flood appeared to be still in- creasing, a poor old fisherman sought what refuge he- could find, by mooring his crazy bark elose to the Riva di San Marco. The storm was yet raging, when a person approached, and offered him a good fare if he would ferry him over to Sun Giorgio Maggiore. ' Who,' said the fisherman, ' can reach San Giorgio on such a> night as this ? Heaven forbid that I should try I' But as the stranger earnestly persisted in his request, and promised to guard him from harm, he at last consented- The passenger landed, and having desired ihe boatmatl to wait a little, returned with a companion, and ordered him to row to San Nicoli di Loii. The astonished fisherman again refused, till he was prevailed upon by a further confident assurance of safety, and excellent pay. At San Nicolo they picked up a third person, and then instructed the boatman to proceed to the Two Castles at Lido. Though the waves ran fearfully high, the old man, by this time, had become accustom- ed to them ; and moreover, there was something about his mysterious crew, which either silenced his fears, or diverted them from the tempest to his aompanions. Scarcely had tbey gained the strait, when they saw a galley, rather flying than sailing along the Adriatic, manned ( if we may so say) with Devils, who seemed hurrying with fierce and threatening gestures, to sink. Venice in the deep. The sea, which had hitherto been furiously agitated, in a moment became unruffled ; and the strangers, crossing themselves, conjured the Fiends to depart. At the word, the dasmoniacal gallery van- ished, and the three passengers were quietly landed at the spots at which each respectively had been taken up. The boatman, it seems, was not quite easy about his fare ; and, before parting, he implied pretty clearly that the sight of this miracle, after all, would be but bad pay. ' You are right, my friend," said the first passenger, ' go to the Doge and the Procuratori, and assure them that, but for us three, Venice would have been drowned. I atn St. Mark ; tny two companions are St. George and St. Nicolas. Desire the Magis- trates to pay you; and add, that all this trouble lias arisen from a Schoolmaster at San Felice, who first bargained with the Devil for his soul, and then hanged himself in despair,' The fisherman, who seems to 1 had all his wits about him, answered, that he mi tell that story, but he much doubted whether he sho be believed ; upon which St. Mark pulled from finger a gold ring, worth about five ducats, say ' Shew them this ring, and bid them look for it in treasury, whence it will be found missing.' The was discoveied to be absent from its usual custody, the fortunate boatman not only received his fare, an annual pension to boot. Moreover, a solemn cession and thanksgiving were appointed, in grati to the three hoiy corpses, which hud rescued from calamity the land affording thein burial. It is pleasant enough to consider the changes that a linen goes by passing through various hands. The finest piece* land, when worn to tatters, assume a new whiteness more t than the first condition, and oI t* n return in the shape ot 1 their native country. A lady's chemise may be metamor to a billet- doux and come Into her possession a secuni towel, or napkin, worn to tatters, may be taken from a d converted into a valuable piece of furniture In a Prfnct Old Manuscript. TETE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLES' POLICE GAZETTE. THE ROYAL FAVOURITE. AN ORIGINAL ROMANCS. ( Continued from our last.) " Murderer'." he exclaimed, springing towards him, my sword shall revenge that poor man's death, and lid the world of a loathsome, withering curse." " Hold! — stand back!" exclaimed the stranger, • coolly, drawing a petronel from beneath his cloak, and presenting it at Gilbert's head. " Stand back! or 1 myself will call the watch, aud charge thee with the murder." " Wretch !" retorted Gilbert, " and will they believe thy assertion— uuknown and friendless as thou art ?" " Will not the blood on thy ha. uds and sWord bear ine out in my accusation ?" asked the stranger, with a grim smile. Gilbert looked with dismay upon his hands, atid ' found that they, together with his sword, had become stained with blood while stooping to render the unfor- tunate Jacob assistance. The stranger availed himself of this momentary confusion to examine ihe body of Jacob, apparently for the purpose of obtaining the papers now ill the possession of Gilbert. " I am again foiled," he muttered from between his teeth, as lie arose from his search. " But his secret di'* s with him 1" and he turned towards Gilbert, who had watched his ill- concealed disappointment with exultation. '" Boy!" he exclaimed, " we have met before, land you know my power. It is necessary that this bo'jy should be removed, and the river will soon hide it 5rom the sight of man. You must render me the requi- site assistance." " Never'." replied Gilbert, his eyes flashing indigna- tion. " Sooner will I —" As he spoke, cries were heard at one end of the street, and in the next instant the gleaming cressets of the watch illumined the hitherto dark place, and they found themselves surrounded by a number of burly fellows, armed wilii halberds. " Who has done this ?" asked one of them, approach- ing the body of the Jew. The stranger drew his hood closer about his face, and pointed silently to Gilbert, who, before he could reply, found himself in the rude grasp of three or four of the men. " Liar!" he exclaimed, violently, " ' tis false ! It is he himself who is the murderer." " Ha! say you so?" said the man who had fir< t spoken ; " then b ' th must accompany us." And before he could make a movement t" .„. „ stranger found himself as firmly sec- ^ J^ bS The remainder raised the body , . ground, and, preceded by the - ot ,' 1a ™ h, fr" ™ J* ® Gilbert and his mysteri' - men who h? d ^" f wards the Tower wl- "" JS companion, hastened to- £ close nroximto " ere the for, ner s00u fouud llimst if Tower P , f0 his late lodgings in the Beauchamp The Countess of Nottingham left the chamber, and in a few minutes Lord Stair stood before the queen. " My Lord Stair," she said, " here are the warrants for the execution of the conspirators, aud see that it be not delayed beyond to- morrow's morn. Look well to your prisoners, my lord, and see that none escape.— Your bead shall answer for their safety." Lord Sta'r bowed and withdrew, not, a little pleased at this sudden determination, and fully resolved to carry out his order- to the strictest letter. Information wat " given to each prisoner of his certain fate, and two guards were placed in every cell to ensure their safety. Three times during the night did the queen counter- maud her orders for the execution of Essex, and as many times, instigated by the Conntess of Nottingham, did she issue fresh. She passed the night in anguish, and the morrow found her in soriow, but still vacil- lating between love and revenge. Essex, in his dark and gloomy prison, awaited in frelful impatience the sutfess of his suit— misgivings of the couut- ss's fidelity occasionally flashing across his mind. His state of su- peuse was soon r> lirved by the appearance of Lo d Stair, who, iu the most delicate manner, informed him that his death - warrant had been signed by Elizabeth, and that his execution would take place on Tower Hill, early ou the morning— thus dashing for ever from his lips the brimming cup of hope, and leaving nothing iu its place but a calm re- signation to his inevitable fate. ( To be continued in our next.) THE MURDER OF THE WILLOW CLEN, CHAPTER XVIII. THF. trial of Essex, for rebellion, took place in three days after his defeat, and, as might have been imagined from the character of his judges— most of whom were his inveterate enemies, and who wished nothing more than the downfall of the Favourite— he was found guilty of the treason, and sentenced to be beheaded. His ex- ecution was decreed to take place in two days, in case the queen, whose bosom still harboured thoughts of love towards him, should relent, and be induced to sien his pardon. The Countess of Rutland, also, was unceasing in her en'. reaties for mercy, and it was more than pro- bable tl' at his pardon would eventually be obtained. F° r '. he purpose of thwarting these plans, the Countess of N< . ttinghain and Lord Cecil, who still continued their bati ed towards Essex, and who aloue were aware of his possessing Elizabeth's signet- ring, were untiring in jeir efforts to prevail on her to sign his death- warrant on tbe irtstant— she wishing to defer that painful task until the morning appointed for his execution, enter- taining hopes that he would yet call on her for the ful- filment of her promise, so strongly did her vanity and love struggle against the injury done to the sovereign ana the state. Essex had been ruminating over his fallen fortunes, when the door of his prison opened, and the Countess of Nottingham appeared. He bowed slightly, begged her to be seated, and enquired ironically to what good for- tune he was indebted for her visit. " My lord," she returned, " you. have been deceived. At our last interview with Eliz.^' neth, it was necessary that I should appear as yo;, iv enemy. It wounded lier silf- love, and obtained ' our pardon. But a truce to what has past- we w:,[\ come to the present. You, doubtless, are aware chat your execution will take place on the morrow >" murrow ?' " I am," repr, ed he; firmness. " It mav 1 and can meet my fate with — v be so, my lord," she continued. " Your greatness ) las fallen— it is true. But it is not yet too FT . retr'eTe all. You possess the siguet-' ring of J Z jhetli, with a promise to grant whatever request may make ?" " 1 have, lady," replied Essex; " but I will not— cannot stoop to ask my life of her." " For once you must wave this false pride, Devereux, for the sake of the queen— for the sake of your wife— for the sake of all 1" " It is useless, lady, to persuade me; 1 am deter- mined, and nothing shall shake my resolution." " Think of your coming fate, my lord;— that noble fO'. in to be dragged in dire contumely to the public scaffold— the taunts of the mocking crowd— the tri- umphant exultation of your enemies, when tbe fatal axe has fallen : think of these, my lord, before you cast away the last chance of existence." She paused, and Essex appealed lost in deep thought. At last he exclaimed, " You have conquered me— I will once more solicit her pardou." " You do well, my lnrd," said the countess; " your • death- warrant is not yet signed, and all will yet be well." " But by what means can I convey this request ?" " 1 will bear tbe ring and thy message to the queen, and I doubt not of success." " Thanks, lady— a thousand thanks. Here is the only link between lite and death," he continued, giving her ihe ring, " and on thee all hope depends." " You may rely on my using the utmost influence 1 possess in your behalf," rejoined the countess, a gleam of exultation lighting up her features as she received the ring. This was perceived by Essex, who ex- claimed,— " May 1, indeed, rely on you, lady?— But no; give me back the ring, aud leave me to my fate." " I know not why you should thus doubt me, after what 1 have told you, Devereux; but take back your ring if you cannot trust nie." " 1 will trust you," he replied, after a moment's he- sitation, " and Heaven forgive you if you play me talse !" Tbe countess placed the ring in her bosom, and bid- ding Essex adieu hut for a short time, left the prison, and hastened towards that part of the Tower which contained the royal apartments. As she passed along the ramparts fronting the river, she paused, and looked cautiously around her. No one was within sight— she drew the ring from her bosom, and iliriw it into the water, exclaiming, " Tis done !— he has now no hope, his death is certain, and my rival shall deeply mourn the loss of her favoured lover." Aud she hastily pur- sued her way. It was by the orders of Elizabeth that she visited Essex iu his pri- on, but it was her own enmity to him that prompted her to destroy his ouly hope of pardon, and iu after years she bitleily repented of her treache- rous conduct. On reaching the royal apartments she found 1he queen aloue. The death- warrant of Essex lay before her, unsigned as also those of Babington, Salisbury, Savage, and otKers who had been tried and condemned at the same time. Elizabeth's features were pale— very pale, and shewed that ber grief for Devereux's mis- conduct had preyed deeply on her mind. She raised her eyes as the Countess of Nottingham entered the room, and asked, in faltering tones, " What says tbe dear rebel, good Lady Anne ?— Does he claim the fulfil- ment of our promise, or is tjiis tiembling hand to con- sign hiin to the executioner?" " Alas ! most gracious madam," repl'ed the countess, " his answer Is nought but scorn and contempt. He will not deign to'ask a favour ot Elizabeth." " Then the blood be upon his own head," exclaimed Elizabeth, furiously, aud seizing a pen, the blanks in all the warrants soon bore her signature. " You will desire Lord Siair to attend nie," she added; " and also see that the Countess of Rutland is not admitted to our presence," ( Concluded from our last.) " Mrs. Godfrey,'' he said, regarding her intently, " I am inclined to suspect that you are aware of the act your husband has committed, and of his present retreat." " I know not what you mean, Mr. Fenton," replied Susan, the consciousness of falsehood driving the tell- tale blood to her face. „ " T'' en , whv com, I> 1y at once w'. t< i our request to open the door ?" he asked in ^ ; one 0f doubt. 4 The lateness of the ttnd the ione| i„ ess of the h , le' • rc- « rne< 1> " made me cautious. But , . at has ml nllBhand done that you should thus hunt b ™ like a wild beast: ?" Come, my good woman," he replied, with a signi- ficant look," it is of little use your denying it any fur- ther. His retreat is known " " Gracious HeaVen I'* exclaimed Susan in alarm, and almost sinking to the ground with terror, " then all hope is lost. You cannot— you will not betray him I" " Why should I not? why should I prevent justice from taking its course with one who has so loWir been known as the most desperate and successful poacher on my uncle's estate ?" Oh, Mr. Edward," exclaimed Susan, in an implor- ing tone, " if you have the least spark of mercy in your breast, the least pity for tbe unfortunate, you will not surrender him into the hands of these myrmi- dons. His life, until very lately, has been one dark struggle against poverty and misery, and now hifi con- science is stained with the blood of an innocent man. Think, sir, of the horrors of remorse, the years of peni- tence that he may yet pass, the silent awful monitor within him— of his wandering from his home— branded with that Cain- like curse— the name of murderer— and you will say such punishment is enough." Susan ceased, and looked earnestly in his face, as if she would read every thought that was passing through his brain. He regarded her in silence for some mo- ments, and appeared as if lost in deep thought. " 3£ bur husband Is safe from me," he at length ex- claittled, " but he must quit the country instantly, if the men should fail in discovering him. But we may be overheard if we remain longer. I will join the searchers," As he spoke, he turned from Susan, who seizing his hand, pressed it to her lips in gratitude, but she did not see tbe look of triumph that flashed across his features as he walked away. " There is one obstacle to my wishes disposed of," he muttered to himself, " and it shall not be long ere the oiher follows him." The men were employed during the above conversa- tion in examining every available place of concealment in or near the cottage, but without success ; and they now vented their disappointment in ransacking the va- rious drawers and boxes containing ( he apparel of the owners— during which process they were soundly rated by the good old dame, who complained lomdly of the manner in which they were treated. The melancholy event seemed to have loosened her tongue, and r. one of the men appeared at all anxious to encounter that sharpest of all weapons. In the midst of one of the loudest remonstrances, a knocking was heard at the door, and a gentlemanly man of about middle age entered, followed by a con- stable. The men instantly uncovered their heads, and whispers of " the squire— the squire," ran from one to the other. * " I see you have not succeeded in taken the mur- derer," he said, immediately en entering, addressing Fenton. " No, uncle," he replied, " though we have been un- ceasing in our pursuit." " He must and shall be found," exclaimed Sir Wil- liam Gainsford ( for so was the squire called), " if his capture cost me half my fortune. Let part of these lazy knaves examine every nook of Ihe country for miles round, white I, accompanied by the rest, will hasten to . Preston ; and a thousand pounds to the man that takes him, dead or alive." " You shall be obeyed, sir," replied Fenton ; " I myself will head the party." '"' ' Tis well," added Sir William ; " go, all of ye , I will join you in the Willow Glen at the hack of the hall in a quarter of an hour. I would speak a few words to ( his Mistress Godfrey." The cottage was soon cleared of its intruders. Fen- ton, as he passed the table on which ihe humble gnpper had been prepared, caught up a sharp knife of pecu- liar shape, and. glancing significantly at one of the men, who instantly returned it, left the cottage. Sir William closed the door, and beckoned to Dame Jervis to leave ( he room. He then advanced slowly towards Susan, who, upon his appearance, had sank into a chair, overcome with agitation, and stood for some moments in silence before her. She regarded him with a trembling eye, her tongue refused its utterance, and she sat motionless as a statue before him. His look appeared to chain her eye to his, as ( he uaagic of the serpent's glance enthrals the helpless bird, and she could not remove her gaze from his hated countenance. At last he spoke. They were words that pierced to her very heart; but there was no help for her, and she was constrained to listen to him. " Susan Godfrey," he said, in a voice rendered al- most inarticulate with exaltation, " you have it yet in your power to save your husband." 1 f it is by complying with your infamous proposals, Sir William," exclaimed Susan, starting from her seat, " it were better that my husband, guilty as he is, pe- rished on the gallows. If that is the condition, 1 will hear no more." " As you please," coolly replied Sir William; " I will not compel you to accept my terms." " It would not be well if you were," exclaimed the indignant woman ; " for there is one within call who would not sutler his wife to be so insulted with impu- nity." " Ho I is it so ?" " It is, Sir William, and it may be better for your- self if you do not risk a meeting with him. He is des- perate now, and he inav not stop at blood." Sir William Gainsfurd almost instinctively retreated towards ( he door at this threat; but recovering his salf- possession, he exclaimed— " Susan Godfrey, I have you now in my power. You have indignantly refused all my addresses, and I told you 1 would be revenged. 1 now know your husband is concealed in this collage ; and in less tban ari hour I will return, bringing wilh nie those who will raze the cottage to the ground but what they will find him. Your husband on the gallows— yourself reduced to wretchedness and want— your mother begging from door to door for a crust of bread !— aye, you shall yet be mine, and before long, too." He rushed from the cottage ; and Susan, faintly ut- tering " Heaven have mercy on me !" fell senseless on the ground. Her mother, alarmed by the noise, rushed into the loom, and seon succeeded in recovering her from insensibility. " The trap I the trap I" she exclaimed, as soon as she returned to consciousness. " Richard must leave this place instantly, or in a short time Sir William will re- turn, and then all will be lost." With the assistance of her mother, the planks were removed, and Richard descended. '' Richard— dear Riehardl'' sobbed Susan, clinging convulsively round her husband's neck, " we must part for a time, for yoil are no longer sale here." " How, Susan I" he exclaimed; in surprise) " not safe ? How tail that lie, when t have remained undiscovered during such a rigorous search as tile cottage has under- gone ?" " How it is I know not, dear Richard, but Mr. Fen- ton said he knew of your place of concealment. I do not know how he obtained his information." " If Fenton was aware of this," said Richard, mis- trustfully, " it is strange that he did not use his know- ledge, and make me a prisoner. He has shown a vin- dictive spirit towards me several times within the last few months. I do not understand this." " It Was at my entreaty, Richard," she replied, " lhat he did dot betray you to the constables, and I am truly grateful to bim fer hi? forbearance;" " I cannot believe it j lilts tduld net have been fhe cause of his allowing me to remain undiscovered, I cannot think that man capable of an act of mercy since his villanous conduct to your poor mother before our marriage; turning her, old and ill as she was, out of the house in which she vvas born, to perish in the cold Winter blast for aught he cared. No, Susan, I cannot believe that that man could be capable of doing a ge- nerous action." " But how could he have discovered the place of your retreat ?" asked Susan. " That is also a mystery to me. The place was only known to one besides myself— Tom Dowlan— he helped to contrive it, and has often used it as a place of refuge in tile hdur of danger." " Tom Dowlan, Richard !" exclaimed Susan, in sur- prise ; " why he accompanied the party who searched the cottage. He must have betrayed you, the false villain I" " It will be a bad day's work for him if ever he cross my path again," he muttered, grinding his teeth in bit- ter agony at being thus hunted by friend and foe. " You are right, Susan— we must part, but only for a short time. 1 must henceforth bid adieu to all happi- ness, for the blood of a murdered man weighs heavily on my head. But I bore Norton no enmity, and what I did was only done in self- defence. Heaven help me in this fearful extremity I" " Go, Richard, ere it be too late," said his wife, placing in his hands a small bundle, which her mother had been hastily packing up. " Take this money — it will enable you to leave the country. Write to me soon, for I shall know no peace until I again behold you, and in safety. Pray often to God to forgive you for the crime you have committed, and my prayers shall also be unceasing for you." She was interrupted by deep sobs, so full of anguish that Richard could not endure it longer. He pressed one long fond kiss on her burning lips, tore himself from her, and, uttering a faint " farewell 1" darted from the cottage, leaving Susan in an agony of grief. almost stupefied with alarm, he dragged him hurriedly away flora that scene of blood. They had not long disappeared when lights gleamed in the wood; and the men, returning from an unsuc- cessful search, appeared, hastening towards the rendez- vous. One of them reached if before his companions, and, before he had proceeded a dozen steps, he stum- bled, and fell upon the body of Sir William. His cries alarmed his companions, who hastened to his assistance. Nothing could equal their horror when they beheld the still bleeding corpse, disfigured by numberless wounds, and staining the spotless snow with a crimson stream. They stood some moments in silent astonishment, none daring to speak or move. It seemed as if the accursed place was to be the abode of naught bat deeds of hor- ror, and each beholder trembled as he looked on the lifeless form before birrt, At length the silence of the placfe was broken by a loud shout— the rustling of bushes was heard — and Fenton, followed by Tom Dowlan, appeared, exclaim- ing— " Well, what luck, boys ? Have ye trapped the murdering rascal ?" This exclamation broke the spell, and half a dozen voices answered simultaneously— " Oh, Mr. Fenton, your uncle " " Well, what of ray uncle ?" fiercely interrupted he, breaking through the crowd. " Ha! what villain has done this?" he asked, apparently ia the utmost surprise and horror, as he caught sight of the lifeless form of his uncle. " That is unknown at present, please your boooar," replied the man who first discovered the body. " Unknown !" echofid Fenton. " Yes, your honour," said the man; " I stumbled over the body as 1 entered the glen, according to Sir William's own appointment." " Can this have been Richard Godfrey's doings?" asked one of the others. " Nonsense," replied a second; " ifbe had been here he could not so easily have escaped us." " True," replied the first speaker. " Have any of you examined the body ?" asked Fen- ton. " No, your honour," replied a gamekeepers CHAPTER II. Ox leaving the cottage, the party in search of Rich- ard divided, and took separate routes, spreading them- selves over the country. It still snowed heavily, but the wind had abated, and the flakes fell quietly to the earth. Fenton, beckoning to the man who had seen him secure the knife, and who was the Tom Dowlan mentioned by Susan as having betrayed Richsrd, took a path by themselves, and were soon lost to view ; and in a few minutes the space around the cottage was si- lent as ever. " It was a lucky thought of your's about the knife," observed Dowlan to his companion, as they made to wards the Willow Glen, " and will prevent suspicion being cast on us." " You are light, Dowlan," replied Fenton. " Sir William said he would be in the glen ia a quarter of an hour. If we find him alone he does not leave it again alive. The deed once done, what obstacle then remains to my obtaining possession of his estates ? None. It is Ihe same wilh regard to Susan, for her hus- band dare not show his fare in these parts again, even if he should have the good luck to escape." " I am almost sorry for Richard, too," remarked Dowlan, " for he always behaved fair in a division of game ; and I have heard that, before he joined us poachers, he was what might be called a very steady chap." " Silence," exclaimed Fenton. " If you dislike ihe job you can leave it, and I will finish it myself." Dowlan returned no answer, and they pursued their way for some time in silence. A few minules' walk brought them to the glen, where, however, all was quiet. It was a gloomy- looking place, apparently well suited to the perpetration of sucii a deed as was con- templated by its occupants. A huge willow bent its straggling branches, now covered with a thick coating of snow, from a steep hank at one side, looking like some gigantic skeleton, fit guardian of that lonely place ; and a murky pool, now changed to ice. in summer threw its pestiferous odours around, and formed a fit resort for croaking, speckled toads and other noxious vermin. It was not the first time that a murder had been com- mitted wi( hin its dark recesses, for a beauteous and once innocent girl had there met her death from the hands of her seducer, and her remains slept in peace under the shadow of the willow's wide- spreading branches. The peasants reported that the glen was haunted, and that the figure of the girl, dressed in white, was to be seen at night weeping over her grave. Be this as it may, Fenton and Dowlan had heard these tales, and, though not inclined to place any credence in them, their errand of blood, combined with the terrors of the intense darkness, and the moaniBg of the wind among ( he trees, tilled tliein wilh a superstitious horror. They hardly dared to look around, almost expecting the ap- parition of the poor murdered girl tQ meet their guilty eyes. Dowlan at length, totally overcome with dread, pro- duced a brandy- flask, which, after first taking a long draught, he handed to Fenton. The effect of the spirits was soon visible, and they impatiently waited Sir Wil- liam's arrival. " Hark 1" exclaimed Fenton, placing his hand heavily on Dowlan's shoulder—" hark 1 he comes." As tie spoke, a loud rustling was heard among the bushes at a little distance in front of them, and in an- other moment Sir William Gainsford leaped into the glen. He looked anxiously around him for some mo- ments, and then, as if satisfied with his inspection, sat dow n on the trunk of a tree to await the arrival of his men, ( his being, as was mentioned in the previous chap- ter, the place of rendezvous. Fenton now gave Dow lan the knife, and pointed ex- pressively to his uncle. The man took it quietly, felt its edge, and then crept cautiously behind Sir William. Fenton saw ( he knife raised to lake his uncle's life : feelings of remorse— compassion— perchance of long- dormant love— slole across his breast, and be would have cricd out— but it was too late. The knife de- scended upon Sir William's back with a dull, heavy crash, and buried itself to ihe hilt. He rose from his seat with one agonizing cry, and, seizing Dowlan by the throat, dashed him violently to the ground. Fenton— the cries of his alarmed conscience com- pletely stilled by the fear of discovery— darled from his concealmenl, and, dragging Sir William from the prostrate Dowlan, struck him violently in the head wilh his clenched fist. Being almost exhausted with the loss of blood, the victim fell heavily on his face, showing the knife still sticking in the wound. Dowlan savagely drew it forth, and repeatedly plunged it into the qui- vering body ; then, perceiving that life was quite ex- tinct, he turned to his companion, and, seeing he wag were all too much alarmed. We had but ju9t found If as you came up," " Lift the body from the ground," said Fenton," and see if you can discover by what instrument this foul deed has been committed." And he glanced, as he spoke, towards Dowlan. None of the men offered to move in compliance with this order, and they looked at each other timidly and irresolutely " Cowards 1" exclaimed Fenton, " are ye afraid of a dead man ?" No one answered him ; so, beckoning to Dowlan, he tremblingly raised the body from the ground, and pre- tended to examine the wounds. But a deadly sickness came over him— his uncle's ghastly eyes, protruding with his death agony, seemed to glare threateningly on him, and with a shudder he laid the body down again upon the ensanguined snow. Dowlan, seeing his condition, now advanced, ex- claiming— " We but waste time. If we are not active, the mur- derer will soon be beyend OHr reach," and he stooped over the body. " What is this ?" he continued, draw- ing the knife from the body, and holding it up to the view of the astonished rustics. The glare of the torches flashed redly upon the blade, and showed that there was a name engraved upon it. " Here is a clue to trace the murderers with," he added, with an air of exulta- tion. All drew their breaths while he read the inscription, and they leaned forward in the most anxious suspense, curiosity aud horror strangely mixed in their counte- nances. k R. Godfrey,'" read Dowlan, slowly and dis- tinctly. Godfrey again!" shouted Fenton. " By'heavens! I thought so." " Godfrey I" exclaimed two or three; " impossible." " Read for yourselves, then," angrily rclprted Dow- lan, throwing the knife towards them. A look at the fatal weapon dispelled all doubt, and gloomy and determined looks took possession of the whole of the little party. Deep curses and fearful oaths of vengeance were breathed against the being who had caused all this destruction,— who had changed the eve of that joyful day— Christmas— into one of mi- sery and weeping,— who had deprived children of their fathers, and mothers of him who loved, watched over, and protected them. The gamekeepers looked to the charge and priming of their pieces, and stole from the spot in silence. Several of the servants raised the body from the ground, and moved slowly towards the man- sion ; while Kenton and Dowlan, exulting in their suc- cess, hastened to assist in the pursuit. Fenton could not leave his guests, and hoHrs of misery passed slo wly on. - » The dreaded hour of midnight passed, and still the guests were grouped round the fire, and still Fenton endured the tortures ofthe damned. A servant entered the room, and whispered to Dowlan that a man in tho dress of a sailor had demanded an interview with him, and that he would not be refused. " I think I've seen his face before, somewhere," said the servant, " but I can't cull to mind where it was." " A sailor!" muttered Dowlan ; " wii. o the deuce can it be ? I know no sailors. Tell him to' wait till the morning," he added, aloud ; " I'm better engaged at present?' " So I told him," replied the servant; " but. it was of no use— he said he was determined to see you. " Well, then, I suppose he must. Send him to' ' be poiter's lodge, and I will join him there inafew mo- ments." The servant left the room, and Dowlan, after swal- lowing a goblet of port, and excusing himself to the company, hastily followed him. On arriving at the porter's lodge, he found that the man could not be induced lo enter the house, but that he persisted in remaining outside. Dowlan uttered an oath on hearing this, but stepped into the open air. It was a fine, sharp, frosty night, and the moon shone out brightly among some light, fleecy clouds, rendering everything perfectly distinct; and the snow crisped lightly under the foot. It was a very different night to that on which the murders had been committed. The figure of a man in a rough pea- jacket and tar- paulin hat stood at a little distance from the entrance- porch, with his arms folded, apparently lost in deep thought, for he started abruptly at Dowlan's rough sa- lutation, " Well, brother." said Dowlan, slapping him fami- liarly on the shoulder, " what is your business wilh me at this untimely hour ?" The man turned sharply round at these words, but merely said, " I am glad you are come." " In the name of God, who are you ?" asked Dowlan, starting at the deep tones of the man's voice. The stranger turned his face lo the light of the moon, . and raised his hat, disclosing the well- known features of Richard Godfrey ! Dow'an fell back in the most undisguised alarm, but instantly recovering himself, he shouted Murderer !" and rushed desperately upon him. But Richard was too quick for hln:.- He coolly drew a pistol from his jacket, and, presenting it at his head, threatened to blow out his brains it he uttered a sound. Dowlan was paralyzed at this un « >.', ecte<, , urn' aod stood - - '. n alarm. ' conversation with hard ; " but this The Wil- and there hair CHAPTER III. MONTHS passed away, and nothing was ever heard of Richard Godfrey. Everybody firmly believed that he was the murderer both of Sir William Gainsford and his gamekeeper, James Norton. The circumstance of Sir William having joined in the pursuit gave colour lo this, and the discovery of the knife gave all the confir- mation that was needed. Besides all this, Richard's character as the most determined poacher ors Sir Wil- liam's estates, and the well- known hatred he bore to- wards him, engendered by insult to poor Susan, made it still more probable ; and those who pitied Godfrey were more numerous than those who condemned him. Tom Dowlan's conduct towards Godfrey had been a subject of wonderment among the villagers, as he had h « en the particular friend of Richard, and he it was who first induced him to desert his honest course of livelihood. He had taken up his residence at the man- sion, and seemed to have considerable pow er over yeung Squire Fenton. who, on succeeding to bis uncle's es- tates, had launched out into every species of extrava gance and dissipation ; more, however, it appeared, to drive away something that pressed heavily on his mind than from any pleasure he took in them. Strange rav- ings had been heard to issue from his room at Ihe dead of the night, and one or two in ( he hall had ventured toinsinuale that Richard Godfrey might not be so guilty, after all, as was generally supposed. But it would not have been prudent for much to have been said, and so there the affair rested. Susan and her inoiher, loo, had disappeared simulta- neously about two months after the murders, and no traces of their retreat had been discovered, although several of the neighbouring gentry had taken an inte- rest in them, and caused every enquiry to be made ; so it was generally supposed that they had left the place for the purpose of joining Richard, and the village soon relapsed into its former peaceful state. Christmas came round again, nnd the windows of the old hall looked cheerful from the reflection of the many lights within. There all was jollity and mirth— the logs crackled and blazed on the hearth— the merry song went round— and the wine- cup passed rapidtyfromone to the other. Feuton was the most boisterous among that noisy group, and he swallowed bumper after bumper of wine as if wishing to drown some madden- ing reflection : and w « > ll enough he might— it was the anniversary of his mule's murder! One of the com- pany recollected it too, and spoke of ( hii different scene the old hall had displayed on ( he preceding Christmas eve. Fenton tried in vain to turn the conversation, every word of which went to his brain like a drop of molten lead. The chord had been struck— it suited well with the humour of the place, the hour, and the com- pany— and the whole of the revellers forgot the merry, soul- enliVening dance, and crowded round the fire to talk of deeds of darkness— of fearful visionary things, seen only by those whose consciences were seared by crime. Tom Dowlan saw the agony « f Fenlon, and, with the malice of a fiend, exalted in it, and encouraged the horror- loving guests in their pastime, making occasional allusions to the circumstances of the murder. Fenton winccd under ihe lash, and looked, and threatened with his look, but all to no purpose. Dowlan seemed to glory in his power, and would not cease his torments. ing at him for some moment* " I must have some few rnomen you, Tom Dowlan," at length said lli.;, is no proper place— we mny be interrupt*. ' low Glen is but a short distance from hence, we are safe from interruption." " The Willow Glen!" exolaimed Dowlan, his standing on end with horror; " I cannot go there- nay, I will not." " Tom Dowlan," rejoined Godfrey, in a firm tone, " you well know my character. I have made up my mind lhat I will speak with you there, aud go yon shall, dead or alive." Dowlan cast a despairing glance towards the house, and then accompanied Richard in silence towards the glen. They soon reached it, and, to Dowlan's un- speakable horror, Richard paused immediately on the spot where Sir William was murdered. Everything appeared just the same as on the night of the murder, and, when he looked around, he almost expected to see- the snow stained with ihe dark red blood. Godfrey seemed to enjoy his misery, and they stood gazing at each other for some moments, At length Godfrey broke the. silence. " On last Christmas eve," he exclaimed, pointing to tbe ground oa which he stood. n foul and unnatural murder was perpetrated, of which I was acoassd—- you know how falsely. Nay, start not, for you must anil shall hear me out. Was it not enough lhat 1 should have to answer for the death of poor Norton, without that of Sir William ? I lay concealed among' the branches of this willow— saw ( he murder perpetrated without being able to render the least assistance— anti afterwards heard myselt accused of the foul deed by the miscreants themselves. Shall 1 tell you the name* of the mutderers— here, on the spot where the deed was done?" Dowlan, completely overcome by surprise and terror at the discovery of a witness to their crime, could not retuin any answer, and Godfrey continued— I had sworn that a day of reckoning should come for your betrayal of my hiding- place, and I will keep my oath if you do not answer me one question, and that truly." " What is it ?'' eagerly asked tbe terrified man, for he saw that he was totally in the power of Godfrey, be- ing unarmed, while the, barrel of another pistol glis- tened in his opponent's pocket. " Where is my wife ?" " I know not," replied Dowlan, with evident hesita- tion. " She left the place some months back, in com- pany with her mother." " Liar!" ejaculated Godfrey; " you know w, enough that that villain Fenton forced her fro home. Her mother set out to join me the sam and told me of the base outrage. She died arms." " If what you say is true, I know n matter." " Come, Dowlan," said Richard, coo pistol, " I will not be trifled wilh. If me where I shall find her, before ( hree you are a dead man." Dowlan looked in the face of th saw ( here was no prevaricating. " She is confined in a room at the I known but to two or three of the serva- bribed to keep it a secret." Enough— but a word more, and T am satisfied. How did you obtain the knife with which you committed the murder ?'' " Fenlon took it from the fable in the cottage." Godfrey paused a moment, as if in deep thought, and then said— " I will rescue Susan from his clutches, if I perish on the gallows. " You must accompany me to a magis- trate," he added, addressing Dowlan, " and by dis- closing the true murderers, take Ihe only menus of saving yourself from the hands of justice." Dowlan worn out by the excitement of the last hour, consented, and, on his evidence, a warrant was granted for the apprehension of Fenton. The officers found him in a state bordering on distraction, for one of the guesis, on the previous night, when overcome by wine, had told him ofthe hints thrown out by his servants, and, on his resenting it, had expressed his decided belief in the truth of the report. Stung by the reproaches of con- science and the agony of remorse, he confessed to the murder, and also acknowledged that he had bribe. d Dowlan to raise a qHarrel between Richardand Norton, in which the latter lost his life, for the purpose of ob- taining possession of Susan. All his plans had suc- ceeded too well, aud Susan was then an inmate of the Hall, but he had beeu unable to triumph over her, and she remained as chasie as when she entered it. The morning after his confession, he wa9 found dead in his cell, apparently from poison. Tom Dowlan suffered the penally of transportation, and was to be heard of, many years afterwards, as an extensive sheepowner in Botany Bay. Richard Godfrey, immediately after the deposition of Tom Dowlan, gave himself up to justice. The jury well considered the case, and finding, from the confoa- sion of Fenton, that no malice existed, took into consi- deration the misfortunes be had undergone, and acquit- ted him. Who can describe the heartfelt pleasure ffiat swelled the heart of Susan on pressing her husband to her heart once more— who lecal the tears of joy that were shed as they again took possession of their little cottage, and poured forth a fervent thanksgiving to Heaven that happiness had once again returned to theou J. U. R, : v : THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLES' POLICE GAZETTE. THE VILLAGE LECEND. A ROMANTIC NARRATION M DRAMATIC BLANK VERSE. wS^"! tl"' r Cheer " Balle M gossiping, When it draw, near the witching time of nlght. » ® ' i TII. ATR'S ( fDlnc JOHN KETCH OLD MAN. CHILD, > LD MAN. TIILD. OLD MAI/ ' HJ- OLD MANU. BLAIR'S GRAVE, Thou hast been told aright Our village is, indeed, tbe fearful theme Of a mysterious tale.-— ni tell it thee. hear it; rfld i » n thank thee— Why do mloo^ go pale? T ® ?#, Aewme, but Tft « I 9 ' tempt, old as I am, and fearless, £ . , my tongue about that story, lad, jjr straight a sorrowing sort of awe steals o'er me, . at ' palls my very soul. Is't so sad ? . v Aye, sad enough, I ween. But still more fearfui; than ' tis sad j and yet More strange than either. You make me but more urgent.— Oh, let me hear it. Well, then, about two centuries ago, A strange, romantic youth was wont to live, ( From whence he came no soul on earth could say,) In the lone cottage that's upon the moor, Which now a mouldering mass ot ruin stands, And seized by palsied Time's destroying hand, Seems lesser every day, aad, tottering, wastes In pristine nothingness. Well, then, this youth, . Whoso looks were solemnly contemplative, Did use to sit and read at books all night, And meditate thereon. Sometimes at tales Of ancient times,— and oft at histories : But his chief fav'rite book was poetry. Thus would he waste long winter nights away. As soon as dusk came on, you could have seen His lighted taper twinkling faintly thro' The evening's twilight; and behold him set Before an ol j grotesque and time- worn table, With eager eyes transfixed upon the page Which fed his hungry soul Thus would he sit Beading, and musing on what he read, Till Nature, conquering o'er his strange desires, In sleep would seal his eyes. And peasants say, That when they've passed the cottage, long ere dawn, His lamp was aye rekindled, and him set, As I have said before. In summer, too, Scarce ere the sun had look'd along the heavens, He could be seen, with Btaff and book in's hand, Pacing the lonely wood. And, if one chanc'd To meet him, he would try to evade the path : Or, gaining soft upon him, he woul i say, [ phrase; 4,4 ' Tis a sweet morn, this, friend," or some such But scarcely lift his ey « * s up irom his book. Thus he lived on lor weeks, and months, and years^ Till vO, poor wretch !) as one did pass his dwelling On a dark, wild, and a tempestuous night, And, fancying he heard voices in the cottg'gf Peep'd thro' the student's window, whei, ^ las • He was but talking wildly to him. 5^'- ' Yea, plucsing leaves out of hi* love. I books } Then, childish- like, would l' nt them at the fire And laugh to see them So thuB he lw. d For some short time, s » \ arming all the village. I do remember well " grand5glre 8ay ( He told it when t ^ thing wa8 ^ fe>) Sometimes v lth n8 » er a hat upon h1g head| Mong a? flclng gnowg> and in the cold, bleak winds, JJ ® Q jcroll unheeding.— Oft without a shoe stocking on his feet, ' mid icy pools ( Seeming as proof ' gainst winter's pinching power, And most invincible to keenest pain) Would wade his blistered limbs. At other times He'd rave around the village like some savage, Wild, bare, and coverless. Again, as calm, As wild before, comes dress'd fantastically With straws, and branches tefn from forest trees, Making strange gestures in each face he met; Till one morn, when he was not to be seen Within the cottage, nor about the woods, Nor nowhere in the village could be heard of. pays passed on days, and yet no word of him. [ not. " Weeks wan'd, and months rolled on, yet he appeared But ere he was amisslng, he was wont To climb the heights of the stupendous rocks, Which to sound reason bade a fierce defiance, And whose dread, craggy brinks, with solemn awe, Inspire the heart of man. Yet, on the tops Of the most tall ungainable ascents, And loftiest sky- capt precipices, Whose summits nought but heavenly things e'er saw, The idiot would appear.— So ' twas supposed By all that then inhabited the village, That by some accident, or wild intention, The maniac muat from oft some ponderous cliff Have fallen. Into the sea. Oh 1 most strange! OLD MAN, 1' ha strangest is to come.— For yet amid The ruins of the very self same cottage Which he did once inhabit, sounds are heard, And there an IDIOT WITNESS oft appears, Bemocklng at the moon— with such dire yells, And hideous grinning, and unearthly sounds, ith the pale moon- beams glaring thro' the gaps Where features once did sit— there he remains, With looks most goblin- like, until the cock His shrill- tongued trumpet tunes, When, suddenly, away the spectre flies— Skims thro' the dark as ' twere an airy feather, And lights upon the rock, whose horrid brink, Sloping tremendously, scowls o'er the d$ ep, When, instantly, adown its awful side The spirit sinks reluctant, and ' tis thought Plunges ' neath ocean's dark and mystic wave! hleld- Field, Newcastle- on-' lyne. WILLIAM KELLY, CHILD. CROSS READINGS. Found by two bricklayers, while engaged in pulling down an old ouse, uuder the roof, a small bag, containing— nothing at all. Found a lady's reticule, containing— 21bs. of fine Epping aau- tges, a 41b. loaf, 151bs. of potatoes, and loz. of snuff. • s^ SO REWARD.— The aforesaid sum will be paid to any person hjo will bring the party or parties to justice for tie following teadful offence: viz., setting fire to the— River Lea, on account f there having been so many accidents. Left by some gentleman unknown, in a private box at Drury < ane,— two fine male elephants, two tigers, one ape, three monkeys, ad a fine boa constrictor. discovered in a Paddington omnibus,— two well thatched cot- s, each having adjoined three acres of good soil. Rent very — ate. "' ednes'day next, Van Amburgh will swallow— three well- foun jackalls, one rattle- snake, and six bears. Against time, for a thousand guineas, was most admi- iast weejC) on the Doncaster ground, by— Madam- ^ bai Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, with her usual tion. and effect. * number unknown— the late very heavy shower 1 ok a stroll along Regent- street yesterday, in V leaver— in a beastly state of intoxication, c consented to— jump Jim Crow for six nights 1' of the North, in addition to his already won- SNvill swallow— the Great Western Railroad. , announces to the public, that he can supply i most imperfect sight with spectacles, to enable lem to see— from London to the Nore and back, for four shillings. Lord John Russell is about to be united for the third time in edlock; the fair object of his choice is— 200 stone in weight. Lord Brougham has just returned from— Botany Bay, with 250 jnyictg. Killed in Oxford- street, having run mad, and knocked down two Id women and a boy— Morison's Pills. Wants a situation in a gentleman's family, where a boy is kept— urgess's Sauce. Lost out of a lady's reticule— Lloyd, Publisher, Shoreditch. August 5,1841. FOXKY. ' TIS SWEET TO ROVE WITH HER I LOVE, WRITTEN BY A. KYNE. When morning, bright with radiant light, Relumes each scene with splendour, And pearly dew to shun her view, Flies from the verdure tender. While furze and broom breathe sweet perfume, From bush and tree, while music sallies j Tis sweet to rove with her I love, Among, among, the breezy vallies. Beneath the trees to woo the breeze, That shuns the noon ray burning; When reapers lie, till down the sky, The day- god is returning. While furze and broom breathe sweet perfume, With her I prize, in shaded alleys Tis sweet to rove, and whisper love, Among, among the fertile vallies. And when eve draws her mist- wrought gauze, Around the giant mountain, And from her car displays her star, Ray'd at light's fleeting fountain; Where furze and broom breathe sweet perfume, While heart with heart in fervour tallies, " Tis sweet to rest on Zelie's breast, Among, among the silent vallies. THE BRIDE OF SCOTLAND. With roseate blushes glows the bride, As her flowing auburn hair, With the silken snood Is tied, The last time she its folds may weal. The bridegroom in her beaming eyes ltends the triumph of his love; In vain to screen their light she tries, Still he dares the veil remove. His whispers call a vermeil blush, As crimson over Heaven steals; In vain she softly murmurs 44 Hush !'" With kisses her sweet lips W sealed. THE OR, HANGMAN'S BRIDE. A LEAF PROM TYBURN TREE. ( A Dramatic Taid., founded on the Popular Piece of that name, how Performing at the Theatre Moyal, Sadler* s Wells, with unbounded applause.) puzzled j " you certainly never exactly said you did, but I'm sure you never said you didn't." You talk this rarely, clown; but it is useless. See, the rose is mine; aud, before I was aware of his intentions, Jamie had snatched the rose from Barbara's bosom, and placed it in the button- hole of his own eoat. Jack, although not in time to pre- vent, was quite in time to revenge this act or gallantry, and closing on the instant with Jamie, would in a few moments have thrown the Scotchman to the ground had not the affrighted Barbara in. terpoaed « 44 John.' dear John J— for my sake, hurt him not.'' " Oh, don't John me, I want nothing but a fair and open fight." 44 Nor I," said Jamie; 44 leave us, Barbara.'' " Now, listen to me both. The fi'st who approaches to do the other harm, that man I'll never wed.'' " This is all very well, and I agree to drop this quarrel for the present; but this I will say, that the time is now come to say aye or nay, and to name the happy man." " Well spoken," said Jamie, anxiously. " Be it thus. Speak ! Barbara,— speak !'* " Alas P replied the agitated girl, 44 the- e is a cause which will prevent 1 am— I— I— cannot name it!''— and throwing herself into Jamie's arms she burst Into tears. ( To be continued in our next.) ® fjeattm ELLEN. CHAPTER I. HOW JACK KETCH BEHAVED AS AN APPRENTICE— AND HOW HE RECEIVED AN UNEXPECTED VISIT. They hung him on a leafless tree, Soon ended was his pains. They hung him by the Water's edge, Then cased his corse in chains. That baneful day the sun shone through, The skies were blue and clear, No,— not a rain- drop fell on him, Or for him woman's tear ! So he died. In his pride,, e renowned Buccaneer S ' THE ROPE WALK. ONE bright summer's morning, in the year 1759, in a Rope- wt^ k on the banks of the Thames, in the neighbourhood of Execution Dock, a roper's apprentice was hard at work and singing with no unmusical voice the ballad with which we have thought proper to commence our present story. He was an ill- favoured youth between 19 and 20 years of age, of slight and active figure, and was busily employed In finishing a coil of rope. At the end of the song he gave a deep sigh, and exclaimed,— " The devil's in it, I can't sing, I am so infernally out of spirits; but, then, I'm sure I've cause enough, for doesn't Barbara Allen scorn me, and " Here he was interrupted by a powerful voice which exclaimed,— 14 Here, Jack, you young rascal, open the gate, or I'll break every bone in your skin, yot » lacy villain, I will.'' Jack, well knowing" it was his master's Boreas Bluster voice, hastened to open the gate, and soon discovered that the worthy rope- maker was wound up to an extra pitch of excitement.— He was a portly, red. nosed gentleman, about the age of five and forty, in possession of broad shoulders, a good leg, and an axcellent pair of lungs, which he never missed an opportunity of shewing off to the greatest advantage, much to the annoyance of his City friend, Sir Titus, who had come on a visit for the benefit of his tender nerves. 44 Blunderbusses and Tliuhder !'" cried Boreas at the highest pitch of his voice, 44 what treatment is this ?— Come, bustle! bustle !— HilUo! John! HllUa!' » 44 Really ray most obstreperous friend,'' exclaimed Sir Titus, " you quite disarrange my too susceptible organs of health. What with your noise and this jaunt to Execution Dock to see the four pirates hung this morning, I am really quite overcome— this plea- sure is too much for me.'' 44 Pleasure, indeed !" grumbled Jack. " What's that you say, you young rascal?'' halloed out Boreas. 44 Why, I can't find much pleasure in seeing four fellow- creatures hung," said Jack. 44 Odd rat it, lad,'' said the master—" they were only pirates.— Remember that." " I remember only that they once were men !'' 44Ha! ha ! ha! you wouldn't like then to be a hangman, Jack?'' cried Bluster. 441 a hangman !— I would rather be a dog !' was Jack's reply,— and once more he sulkily returned to his work, whilst Sir Titus and the rope- maker entered the dwelling, for the purpose of recruiting their strength by the inward application of sundry slices of boiled beef, accompanied by some copious draughts of strong ale, which Sir Titus declared was the best remedy for delicate nerves, which he had ever met with in the whole course of his existence. During the interesting discussion which was taking place within dcors, Jack continued his work without, still thinking alternately of the four pirates who had been hung that morning, and of the striking charms of his beloved Barbara Allen, when he was dis « turbed by the entrance of an elderly personage of most repulsive countenance, habited in a plain suit of shabby mourning, who, without ceremony, was making his way through the roue- walk to the orchard at the back of the house- 44 Hollo ! you old fellow !'' cried Jack, 4, if you trespasses on these here premises you will be persecuted.'' 44 Persecuted !— All,'' replied the elderly personage, 44 persecuted! I am accustomed to that." " Areyou, indeed !— then, perhaps, you're a thief?" 44 No thief, am I, but the terror of thieves— I am a thief killer !' 44 A thief killer,'' exclaimed Jack, starting back in surprise. 44 How many, old fellow, do you think you've killed?'* " Dozens.'' was the qtiaint reply. Dozens," laughingly exclaimed Jack— 44 what fools they must have been to let a poor weak thing like you perform the office for them.'' ! They couldn't help it,'' said the gentleman in black. 14 Their hands must have been tied then,— of that I'm very cer- n." ;< Quite right,— they were; I tied them myself— don't start— we're both of one trade,— ropers both. Your hand, my brother;, You have heard that four pirates were hung this morning— they are hanging now in chains. I did the office for them !'' " Murderer!"' cried Jack, horror- struck,— 44 you are a hangman. Receive the curses of an honest man ;— thus do I hurl thee from me—" At the end of this speech, the mysterous gentleman in black was measuring his length on the ground, and Jack had retreated to the other end of the yard, evidently shunning1 the presence of a personage for . which he had expressed so extraordinary a degree of contempts 44 So,— so," soliloquized Barabas, ( for such was the name of the intruder,) rising with difficulty, and rubbing his sorely- bruised shoulder ;—" like all the world, he despises me,— and for what?— My office !— Humph! Let him take care, for woe shall come to him for that!— It shall!— it shall!'' So saying, and shaking his fist with a threatening look at Jack, the hangman left the place. 44 So,— so, the old wretch has gone at last,'' said Jack, peeping from the door of one of the outhouses, whither he had retired for the purpose of shunning the despised and hated hangman. 4' Well, ill- luck go with him, that's all I say and now for a clean shave, a clean shirt, my beBtcoat, and oh!— for Fairlop Fair and pretty Barbara Allen. , In the course of a quarter of an hour, Jack was fully equipped for his journey, and had certainly much improved his appearance, al- though not sufficiently to make him either an interesting lover, or a desperate lady killer. Poor Jack !— there was, indeed, a something most rfepiiisive in his countenance;— a something impossible to mistake, although moat difficult to describe} in fact, the hangman's look was in his Jace. 41 And what's your business, friend?" said Jack, ( in no mood to be delayed,) to a tall, sea- faring man, who had just entered the yard. 411 would, purchase, a piece of rope," was the stranger's an- swer. The speaker was a man of tall, commanding figure, rather past the middle age. Hia countenance, by some, might be called handsome, but very swarthy, much weatherbeaten, and one on which dissipation and excitement had stamped their well- known marks. 44 How much would you like master?" said Jack, " here's a piece of my own spinning— will you take the whole ?'' 41 No,'' said the stranger, 44 a few yards will be enough,'' and seizing the rope, and throwing down a crown in payment, he was out of sight before Jack had picked up the piece of money, and recovered from his astonishment. 441 have heard of folks throwing away their money before, but I never till now, could believe such a literary fact. Come, if I don't give Barbara Allen a treat to Fairlop Fair with this, my name's not Jack Ketch. So now for a short cut through the orchard, and then for the Cottage of Content." Not two minutes had elapsed since the stranger's departure, before Jack had entered the orchard, and was making the best of his way in the direction of Barbara's cottage, when his attention was attracted by the cry of44 Help !'' from various voices, and op hastening to the spot whence the noise proceeded, he found hi3 late customer hanging by the dearly- bought rope to the branch of an old apple tree, attended by two yokels, who, with h nils in th « ir pockets, hal owed out for help, without affording ai- y to the - t object of iheir wonder. Jack seeing in an instant how matters J stood, scrambled up the tree with the agility of a monkey, and with one stroke of his clasp knife, severed the rope, which he i had that morning finished with so much professional pride, ancj. COVF. NT GARDKW.— The revival of Colley Cibber's very clever comedy of She Would and She Would Net has been attended with great success, and ^ e have no doubt but that it will be performed very often here. Madame Veslris will do well to produce some of the best productions of Shakspere, Miissinger, Beaumont, and Fletcher, Sheridan, & c., as her comedy company is very powerful. Of the new comedy called Vanity; or, What will the World Say ? we will give a lengthy notice in our next. HAVMARKET.— The excellent play of Riches, altered from Massinger's City Madam, by Sir J. Burgess, has revived at this theatre, and seems likely to remain a faV^ rite for some time. Mr. Macready's Luke, and Mrs* Fdrlin^' a Lady Traffic, are admirable delineations, and the wholtf tlic characters were, in fact, most ablv sustained. Sheridan P1*? of The Be88ar ° f Bethhal Greeri, lias also been piw * uved here, and received LLOYD'S LIST OF POPULAR WORKS SIXTY- FIVE HUMOUROUS ENGRAVINGS BY AN EMINENT ARTIST, AND TEN NEW COMIC SONGS ( BY PREST) FOR ONE PENNY! ! ! " THE PENNY S~ UNDAY TIMES GALLERY OF COMICALITIES," CONTAINS THE FOLLOWINO ORIGINAL COMIC SONGS, WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE WORK :— A Private Still. The Contented Man. Happy Land— a Sad Lot. My Sarah and Me. Poor Jack— Please Re- Mem- Domestic Economy. ber Jack. Brandy and Salt. John Delf— in his CUDS. Population ; or, It's a'l owing Hard- Up ; or, shocking1 Ex- to the Family Ointment, tremities. AND ALSO THE FOLLOWING GRAPHIC SKETCHES: - The Maid of the Mill.— A Gen# r » l Rising.— Physical Force.— Bringing Him too ( Two).— A frlack Fait.— Ladies of the Court.— His Mind ft on the Rack.— Settling a[ c] Count; Double Entry.— Friar Bacon.— Giving Himself ( H) airs.— Contracting an Acquaint- ance,— A Heavy ' well.— A Good Bite.— HodgeN Best.— Sedau- tery Occupation.— Currant Jam ; a Friendly Squeeze.^— A Neat Turn- out.— A Votary of the Nine.— Taking the Pledge.- Warlike Guise ( Guys).— Food for Reflection.— Ceiling Whtfcfcs; a Bel- frey — A Promising Child.— A Boy in a Fit.— Giving no the Ghos » . — Cabriolet Society.— Pleasures of 44 Fancy."— Best Lo. udon Porter — A Back Settler.— Going by the Post; General Delivery'— Com. of Age.— Cutting Him to the Quick.— Breaking Cover^— Sauce ( Source) of the Nigger ( Niger).— A Dey's Pleasure.— A Sad tV^ ht. — A Belly Full of Grapes.— The Changeless One.— A Private fiu*- — Taken in A[ r] rest. — The Lively Smack; Looking Out fon.' Squalls.— Hebrew Melodies.— A Funny Pair.— A Good Calling.— A Shocking Stick.—' The Pot- b iy.— Surimut 8hort.-— Detachmen of Cavalry.— Deprived of the Use of their Organs.— Neat as Im- ported,— A Free- Booter.- Fancy Fair.— At a Stand- Stifl. - An Un- happy Attachment.— Coming it slap. %* THE EMBELLISHMENTS HAVE BEEN ENGRAVE AT THE ENORMOUS EXPENSE OF 1,000 GUINEAS 11 In Weekly Numbers at Id. and Monthly Parts at 4d., the New and Highly Interesting Romance of KATHLEEN! OR, THE SECRET MARRIAGE. The First Number, containing Eight closely- printed ^ ages, Two spleudid Engravings on separate paper, and a most Magnifi- cent Wrapper, presec ted GRATIS with No. 54 of " THE PENNY SUNDAV TIMES, AND PEOPLE'S POLICE < TAZETT » ." entertainments Bernard's ragedy in an instant, the lifeless body of the stranger was lying on the grass beneath. 44 Some brandy!— quick, yotl fools !'' cried Jack, descending, and rushing to the assistance of the stranger. 44 Do you thihk you'll do the man any good by staring. at him ! Some brandy and a silver groat to him Who's first back." Off the yokels started, and off cAme the noose from tbe stran- ger's neck, for Jack understood the handling Of a ro£ e as well as even any hangman— in fact 44 it appeared to come naturally to him ;" and in a short time after sundry applications of cold water to the temples, and brandy to the mouth, the intended suicide was sufficiently recovered to reply to the questions of his youthful preserver. 44 My lad, you have saved my life, but I cannot thank you— to me ti ls life no longer hath its charms— nay, you laugh. Then hear my story, and be yourself the judge, i have been till of late a seaman, and have trod the deck, a gallant captain, oft the Spanish main, where, by toil and travail, I amassed a sum to render me, on mv return to this my native land, content. My ship and propert y I turned to gold— that gold to jewels, secreting them in a girdle, which, for security, I ever wore about me. Thus, as I thought, protected, I took my passage in a homeward- bound ship ; the wind blew fair— woat ardent hopes I entertained ! In the night a land- breeze came— ere the morn, a storm. One ship was wrecked upon the Sicily Rocks— this form cast on the sand, not quite bereft— Would that it had been so ! for when I woke to life, I found my girdle cut— my jewels gone." 14 Well, master," replied Jack, 44 yours is certainly an unfor- tunate story, bat still you should recollect that altho' you've lost all, there's many, like me, who haven't any thing to lose— besides, riches don't always make a man either happy or respected. I am sure our neighbour, Sir Gregory Lynx, of the Moated Grange, is quite sufficient proof of that." 44 Wha< !" cried the stranger, wildly, starting to his feet, " Sir Gregory, with the gash!— I think I know that man— he with the scar across his forehead. Villain ! my knife shall pay him for his treachery." And drawing from his pocket a large clasp knife, he stood for a moment in an attltud « of attack, then, dropping the knife, he fell, exhausted by the effort. 44 Poor fellow!" said Jack, picking up the knife, 44 he's dead to a certainty. I don't think it prudent to give iiiin back his why, what's this ? J— k,— it is iny father's knife; one I have played With— ayk, a hundred -? mes— he, too, had sailed upon the Spanish main; but he, alas ! did not return.— Answer me, i/ iend, at once; — who gave you this ?" 44 What means this question ?" asked the stranger, rising,— 41 it was the dying gift of. one with whom I sailed,— his name, John Ketch, my friend !' 44 Then you are mine," said Jack, seizing the stranger's hand and shaking It with violence,— 44 he was my father— let me keep this knife." 44 You shall, my lad, and also make your fortune. This Gregory of the Gash is an old friend of mine— he must be invited. Re- member, there is but one rule to be observed. Only do as I do, and say as I say, the business will be done. At three, we'll meet at Fairlop Fair." 44 We will,'' said Jack, 44 and now fof Barbara Allen.'' So saying, the new friends shook hands, and started on their different ways. CHAPTER II. THE ROSE. HOW JACK KETCH SUCCEEDED IN HIS COURTSHIP, AND HOW HE AND BARBARA ALLEN WENT TO TWE FAIR. ON the afternoon of the same day on which the events occurred, of which we have made mention in a former chapter, a young maiden was sitting at the door of a plain but neat cottage, on the borders of Epping Forest, busily employed in forming nosegays from a heap of flowers which lay fresh cut beside her. 44 What a lucky day has this been for me,'' exclaimed Barbara Allen, for she it was,— 44 what a number of nosegays I have sold to be sure. I declare, I've quite money enough to pay my rent, and I sha'n't be afraid of Sir Gregory's steward, come when he will.'' 44 Nor of Sir ( Gregory himself; I hope, my pretty damsel," sain the worthy personage, stepping forward from behind a clump of trees, from which friendly spot he had been admiring the charms of the pretty Barbara for some minutes. The damsel started, not that from the manner of the speaker she had aught to fear, but as the truth should alwtys be told,— there was a something in Sir Gregory's countenance which few could look on without tear, and none without disgust. He was a man of good figure, somtwhat beyond the middle age of life ; richly and very gaily dressed, al- though his countenance was pale, careworn, and much disfigured by a frightful scar, nearly tl> ree inches in length, from which he had acquired among his poorer neighbours, the title of Sir Gre- gory with the Gash. 44 Your worship must be tired," said Barbara, putting on her very best looks, and her very best curtsey;— 44 you have come some distance from the Grange, and without your horse. Shall I get your worship a chair, or will you take refreshment?" 44 Neither, my pretty maid," replied Sir Gregory, seizing her hand, and attempting to drsg her towards him. 441 came for another purpose.— In the first place I would have that there— what business has it lying on that pretty neck ?" Barbara, however, was aware of his inteution, and rushing from him before the knight had time to effect his rude purpose, she stood a few paces distant, bestowing cn him such a withering look of scorn, th* t Sir Gregory was for a moment staggered; but plucking up his courage, he again advanced. 44 If it cost me my ufe, I will grasp that flower." 44 And if you even touch it, Sir Gregory, it shall do so, I promise you.'' 44 What, rascal!" cried Sir Gregory, turning wildly to the in- truder, a young man of very prepossessing appearance, about the age of one- and twenty, r'ressfd iii a Very plain daik suit, " will you interfere with me, who could buy you and your whole family with half my wealth?— A poor Scotchman !— a precept quoter— poor and proud." The blood mounted to the Scotchman's cheeks, and his hand grasped his cane in a firmer manner. than before. " Be quiet, and quarrel not, Jamie, for my sake— he is my landlord, and has beon a soldier." 441 care not for him, Barbara— I will protect you with my life." 44 Fool! stand bacK. I said I would have that rose. Out of my way, sir— dread my rapier'* point." But Sir Gregory had reckoned without his host; for as he ad- vanced towards Barbara and her protector, with his sword drawn, he was mnch surprised to see the young Scotchman ( whom he had sunposed to be unarmed), drawing from his cane a sward, and taking the position of defence, which at once told the ex- perienced eve of Sir Godfrey that he had no mean adversary to contend with. 4* I teach the art of defence within the classics; shall I give you, Sir Gregory, a touch of my calling?" 411 fight not with such as thee; my sword is kept for higher game thau pauper tutors; besides, I see my servant coming— I am, doubtless, wanted at the Grange." So saying, Sir Gregory put up his sword, with a fierce look at Jamie, and a, half- angry, half- loving glance at Barbara Allen, he retired from the garden. 44 Barbara, you will give me that rose, and will you go to the fair, as you promised ?" 44 Jamie, I will go to the fair, as I promised, but the rose I will not give." 44 Why cruel to me, and to others kindr I have fairly won the rose, like a knight of old time. Barbara, let me take it from you.'' " None of that, young fellow, if you pltase," said another in- truder, in the person of Jack Ketch, who, in best bright blue coat, scarlet waistcoat, edged with gold lace, and three- cornered cocked hat, had come to the Cottage of Content, determined, like Csesar, to see, fight, and conquer, or rather, to use his own words, 44 to strike Barbara Allen all ofa heap at once." - ,4 What do you mean?' said the Scotchman, to whom Jack was a strauger ? 44 what do you mean by this interruption ?" " Oh, as for that matter, my meaning's plain enough. My sweetheart shall never bestow a rose upon any man that don't de- serve it, or, more properly speaking, to nobody but myself." 41 Your sweetheart!" echoed Barbara. 44 Did I ever tell you I loved you, John?" 44 No," said Jack, scratching his head, and appearing rather with warmth throughout. The oi have been Foreign Affairs, with Oleste, a..' clever farce of The Boarding School. A new called Nina Sforza is anttounced to be in active pre^ ration. STRAND.— Punch has set tbe audience in good spirits every evening since his appearance at this theatre, and a very pleasant fellow he is. The plot is soon told An itinerant caterer for public amusement in the shape of a keeper of jPunch and Judy, and who has the eupho- nious appellation of Snozzle ( acted by Keeley) has got master Punch and mistress </ udy into a scrape, for they are placed in custody at a public- house for a bill of fare which their master Snozzle is uawtltSng and unable to pay. T& ey are soon, however, set at liberty, for Snozzle overhears ihe lamentations ofa loVe- sick swain, who is in a very desponding humour as to the attain- ment of his object with his fair one. Snozzle strikes a bargain immediately with the lover, and! for the redemp- tion of his Punch and j" udy show, he enlista himself in his service, and promises to put all things squafe again with respect to the voting lady. Snozzle now proceeds with the enamoured'gentleman to the front of the house ofthe incarcerated beauty— he as Punch and his newly made friend as the musician. The scheme succeeds, ior the gentleman afterwards went away with tfre young lady, and as Punch has ( he onus operandi, he comes in for a full share of applause. Mrs. Keeley, who has a humourous character, created much laughter, and almost divided the laurels with Punch. There are many hu- mourous scenes which we have not space to notice, but we advise a visit to master Punch himself. A new bur- letta, called Attic Freaks, written by Mr. C. Webb, has also been produced here with much success; and Leman Rede's excellent mythological burletta called The Mis- sion of Mercury, having been revived, with alterations by the author, it would be remarkable if the house was not crowded every evening. SADLER'S WELLS.— Mr. G. Almar's extraordinary new \ drama o ? Jack Ketch ; or, a Leaf from Tyburn Tree, is ' received, nightly, with the most tumultuous applause, and too much praise cannot be awarded to Mr. Honner for the liberality and consummate taste he has displayed in putting it upon the stage. The scenery is beautiful, and the eifect most picturesque and striking. The ex- cellent acting of Mrs. Honner in this piece is beyond all praise. For the plot, & c. we refer our readers to the Dramatic Tale in the present number. The house is literally crammed to the ceiling every evening. CITY.— Lucy Lisle continues to be an immense fa- vourite at this theatre, and the capital acting of Miss Daly has ensured bumpers to the management every evening. A new trifle, possessing considerable humour, called The Ghost Story; or, The Sentimental Green- grocer has been produced with success, the principal characters being allotted to Dunn and Miss Daly, who excite mtich laughter and applause. An extraordinary novelty written by Mr. C. Webb, is said to be in a state of forwardness* PAVILION.— Emily Fitzormond and Susan Hoply have proved two of the greatest hits ever made at this thea- tre, awdhave attracted numerous audiences. Theodore Romberg, the celebrated violinist, has also been en- gaged, and drawn down thunders of applause every evetling of his extraordinary performance. Various novelties are in active preparation. VICTORIA.— Since the re- appearance of Miss Vin- cent, and the reproduction of that most beautiful and successful drama, Susan Hoply, this theatre has been crowded to suffocation : and to add to the great attrac- tion, the powerfully effective drama of Madeline; or, The Wooden Shoemaker and His Wife, ( originally pro- duced by Mr. Oshaldiston) has been brought forward with immense eclat, Miss Vincent sustaining the charac- ter of the heroine in a manner beyond all praise. The piece itself is of the deepest interest, and the able acting of the different performers in the parts allotted to them, deserves the highest eulogiums. SURREY.— The new equestrian drama called The Battle of Blenheim, is got up in a splendid manner, and has made a decided hit; but we must defer a more par- ticular notice ot it until a future number. GRAVESEND THEATRE.— Mr. Prest's celebrated nau- tical drama of Gallant Tom, which has been produced with great spirit by Mr. Neale, the clever manager of this theatre, has been received with the greatest enthu- siasm, and has drawn excellent houses. We will more particularly notice it next week. The Albert Saloon, White Conduit, and Marylebone, shall be attended to in our next. LINES ADDRESSED TO MR, DILLON, ( BEING SOLUTIONS TO HIS RIDDLES IN NO. 77.) BY C. W. WHITE. Dear Dillon, the muse again hath shed Its lustrous brightness round thy head; And in the TIMES I greet with pleasure, Your verse, so good, in rhyme and measure : In it I trace a patriot's tire ! Who gainst oppression tunas his lyre— Who ' gainst a sect with truth rehearses, And shows their baseness in his verses. But hold ! your riddles still remain, And I have got them to explain : ( That's if I can)— for they are hard. On! On! if I can t I'll ask your pardon. I. The first is puzzling and distressing, But surely44 His" denotes possessing s Possessing what?— Oh ! ask a44Tory "— He'll tell you place, and call it glory. But44 History "— the lamp that lights the past—- Is the word I've sought, and found at last! II. Oh, Heaven! what next? my mind still ponders, To pierce thy riddle's mystic wonders ; But44 Pill " and44 Age," combined in one, Is my solution to your pun. And now allow me, sir, to write. Your humble servant, CARLO WHITE, ANSWER TO J. CULLUM'S CHARADE IN NO. 53. To solve your charade I've been soreiy perplex'd, And with you and myself I've been very much vex'dj I found it at last— I'm glad to state ' Tis ANTHROPOPIIAGINIAN, mate. Maidstone, HOOKBY. Now Publishing in Weekly Numbers at Id., and Monthly Parts at 4d., * EMILY FITZORMOND Z OR, THE DESERTED ONE* With No. 1, ia presented GRATls, Two Magnificent Plates and a Wrapper. Now Publishing", Nu Monthly Part' Pe°° y' " nd Four- 5* nn* ERNNESTINE DE 0R » THE ROBBER'S FOUNb^ 4NC' With No. 1, ls presented GRATIS, 8plendid Engraving, on separate paper, and a Wr^ V^ er. Price ls. 6d„ Elegantly Boond, containing 92 pages ot closely printed letter- prrss. illustrated ivlth 12 Supeiior Bngraviajs, MASTER HUMPHRIES' CLOCK. " BOS,'' MAKER. A MISCELLANY OF STRIKING INTEREST. Price Ss., Neatly Bound In cloth and lettered in gold, containing 38 spirited Engravings, and 202 close) v printed pages, HAINSFORTH'S CELEBRATED HOMA. WLE. ENTITLED A LECEND OF THE TOWER OF JLONDON. Price 3s. « ( 1., Neatly Bound In cloth and lettered, jt'- ontalnlng 252 pages of closely printed matter, illustrated with 32 & l » B" vings, VALENTINE VAUXZ TRICKS OF A VENTRILOQUIST. Price 3s., Neatly Hound in cloth and lettered, containing 188 pa W of closely printed letter- press, illustrated with 25 Elejant Engravings, the Nautical Romance of POOR LITTLE JACK. BY K. V. MARRIOTT. " There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack." QUITE NEW!!! Just Published, to be Completed in Fifty Numbers, No. 1, Trice One Penny, of VANDERBURGH'S DRAWING- BOOK; OR, YOUNG ARTIST'S PRECEPTOR. The Proprietor of this littx e work seeing the great, necessity for a Drawing- Book oi thl ® kind, which will en able the poorer youth, as well as the mo^ e wealthy, to obtain in- struction in this art, lie is induced to brln'^ before the public a woik which will enable every person to lb^*? ome a proficient without the aid of a master, and at so trifling ."• n expense, that all may, with ease, attain an acquirement hlthei^ O out of their reach. Each number will contain four pages of letter- pres'* instruc- tion, and Three Graphic Illustrations, or Four Graphi Illus- trations, and two pages of letter- press, no simplified and exph^ ned, as to be easily understood by every capacity. This work is particularly recommended by parents and guar- dians, as a present ta the younger branches, as it will prove a source of amusement and profit, as well as an easy aad cheap method of instruction in one of the most necessary branches of education. Published every Saturday, by W. Strange, 21, PaternosteY- RoWp. and sold by all booksellers in town and country. OLD PARR'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. AMOST SINGULAR DOCUMENT has re^ cently been brought to light, and is now in the possession1 of the REV. WM. ARTHUR, of EAST PECKHAM; it appears to- have been written l y tbe celebrated OLD PARR, who attaiued the almost incredible age of 152 years, and who left this document to a relation. It is written on parchment, and although upwards of 200 years old is In an excellent state oi preservation. The follow- ing is an wxtract:— These do certifie yt ye undermentioned is ye method of preserving health, which by ye grace of Almighty Goa has caused me to attain to my miraculous old age. Al- beit in my youth 1 was afflicted with ye Bloody Flux and King's Evil, but which all left me by using some dayes ? herbs as herein wHtten. Here follows the receipt— Moreover, I bequeath to my second Great Grandson ye method I employ for preparing ye medicament. Given this day, and in ye 147th year of my age. THOMAS PARR, Winning ton, Salop, Januarie 17 th, 1630. The Clergyman who holds the valuable document above- men- tioned, has, by the assistance of a very able Chemist and Physician,, caused tbe receipt of OLD PARR'S to be made into Pills, and, al- though only a space of eighteen months have elapsed since the trial, upwards of 700 cures have been effected, more than one- half of which were considered incurable ; and what is more remarkable* cases which possess the very opposites as regard* outward symp- toms : the balsamic and invigorating effects on the blood produced by these medicines is perfectly miraculous ; many who have kept their beds for years have been so speedily re- invigorated with an infusl. m of new blood, and consequently of new life and strength, that their re- appearance amongst their fellow- beings, who had long given them up as incurable, is looked upon as the greatest of the many great wonders of this MIRACULOUS AGB. The whole of our system is built up from the blood— nerves, sinews, muscles, and even solid bone ;— this beiof? the case, the grand object is to keep this precious fluid ( the blood) in a pure and healthy state, for with- out this purity disease will shew itself in some way or other,— thus diseases of every description have all been cured simply by the use of PARR'S LIFE PILLS,— thus shewing that what haa been con- sidered different disorders, and requiring different treatment, all originated In the same cause, and can be cured by one uniform treatment. PARR'S LIFE PILLS, although powerful in con- quering disease, yet are as pure and harmless as new milk, and may be administered with confidence to the invalid, however weakly from long ill- health, who will soon enjoy those delightful symptoms of a return to strong health, viz., good appetite, sound sleep, and an increase of animal spirits. To have produced a medicine so benign and mild In Its operation and efiects, and yet * o effectual in searching out and curing disease of however long standing, exhibits, on the part of Old Parr, deep research and a thorough knowledge of his subject. Those who have been the instruments of restoring this long- lost secret to the world, feel confident when they make the assertion— that NONE NEED DESPAIR, that if only a fair trial be given, the result will be a restoration to health and happiness: 14 Thus shall their humble labours merit praise. And future PARR'S be blessed with honour'd days." This Medicine is sold by EDWARDS, St. Paul's Church Yard, London, in Boxes at ls. li£ d., 2s. 9d., and Family Boxes lis. each j the Boxes at 2s. 9d contain equal to 8 small, and those at lis. equal to 5 at 2s. 9d. Full directions are given with each box. Dec. 18, 1840.— In order to protect the public f- rom imitations the Hon. Commissioners of Stamps have ordered 44 PARR'S LIFE PILLS " to be engraved on the Government Stamp attached to each box, without which none are genuine. LONDON :— Printed and Published by E. LLOYD, 231, High- street, Shoreditch; and at 8, Holywell- street, Srtand. - eHi?