THE tttttoaii AND PEOPLES' PENNY tmt POLICE GAZETTE. No. 96, LONDON:— SUNDAY, JANUARY 30, 1842. VoL 2. CHRISTENING OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES. SHARP AND FLAT. The London sharp the joskin spies, And tries hv chaff to make him savage ; And tries his best to pick him up, Thinking him green as summer cabbage. While Diggory Dungfork prides himself Upon his cunning, with a smile He cries, " ' Twont do, I'ze too far North," Yet lets him rob him all the while. Polftt. MANSION HOUSE. nn SCRAPING AM ACQUAINTANCE. A MAN named George Dint- ley, a milkman, was charged before the Lord Mayor with attempting to drown himself. A policeman deposed to catching him in the act of springing off the parapet of London Bridge, and that it was with great difficulty he could prevent him from putting his wicked and rash design into execution, It appeared from the statement of the deiendant, who was a Urge, stout man, with a most woeful visage, that he had wandered in Ihe milky way for many years, had a good walk and a large run of business, and was a man of Bubstance; but it seemed that he was not destined to find his life all " milk and honey," for sorrow suddenly peeped in upon him. It was preceded by the most un- bounded joy, for he behald, and loved, and was beloved in return, by a fascinating dress- maker, who lived iu the same street as himself, and compsred with whose charms " Milk)" thought those of Venus insignificant. The lady's name was Miss Arabella Watkins, and, barring a defect in one ogle, and her le/ t leg being rather shorter than tbe right, she was, in vulgar phraseology, " none so dusty." Miss Arabella vowed a great attachment to " Milky," and he was filled with delight and blissful anticipation. Milky" was so impatient for her to become his wife, that he was for putting up the bsnns immediately ; but Miss Arabella declared that she did not like to do things in such a hurry, as it wasn't decent; and, therefore, " Sky. blue," much against his will, was constrained to await her pleasure. Everything, however, went on very well, and " Milky," after going his " walk" of an afternoon, used to walk her out, and took her to all kinds of places of amusement, and he bought her dresses and frillegigs, and never thought himself so happy as when he was making her presents. But one unfortunate Sunday— unfortunate, indeed, fer poor " Milky"— business prevented him from paying her his customary visit, and Miss Arabella Watkins walked out alone. It so happened that fancy led her as far as Kensington Gardens, and there she promenaded with no little show of " how- nice- you- look" terms with herself; and so many were the persons she there saw, that she never once thought of " Milky." She was proceeding on ber way from the gardens, when she dropped her silk purse, containing one shilling and sixpence and four- pennyworth of halfpence, and was about to stoop to pick it up, when she was prevented from doing so by a tall and fashionably- dressed swain, who picked up the purse and restored it to its fair owner with the graceful air of a knight- errant, bowing so low that his nose nearly came in contact with his toes. Miss Arabella— oh, fatal moment for the future happiness of poor " Milky I"— was, classically speaking, " struck all of a heap." She blushed— she cnrtseyed— was troubled with a short cougk— and really thought the gentleman was one of the most bewitching young men she had ever seen. " Milky" was a bear compared with him— a per- fect rhinoceros. She couldn't think what she could have been about ever to have fancied him. As for the gentle- man, he was perfection itself; he was a perfect Adonis. Such elcgance 1 such grace 1— and he still bowed— yes, and he smiled. Oh 1 such a smile; and then he sighed " Ah, ah I" and she could not help breathing responsive " a- heml" which seemed to arouse the gentleman into a fire of admiration ; for, after two or three sweet words, he begged that she would allow him to take her arm and escort her to her home. She learned that the gentleman was a clerk in the Bank, and in good circumstances; and she thought, that this was a very good chance ( far prefer- able to the milkman) because it was so very genteel, and she should move in such a respectable " spear," and she, therefore, determined to stick to him. The gentleman, Mr. Alexander Squibb, was equally captivated with Arabella, and on parting, another ap- pointment was made, and the fair Arabella prided herself upon having made a complete conquest. But poor " Milky," when he called again, how different was his reception 1 The faithless Arabella merely put her head out of the window, and told him that she did not want any more of his milk, and that he needn't trouble himself to call again. He could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. He knocked violently at the street- door. No answer. A second time he knocked, and rang the bell at the same time, when Arabella once more put ber bead out of the window, and desired him to go about bis business. " But, my dear Arabella," he cried, fervently. ' " Get away, you nasty dealer in chalk, and. water," answered Arabella ; " I'm not your Arabella now ; I'm somebody else's Arabella. Get away, or I'll call the police 1" The milkman heard the announcement of Arabella's in- fidelity. He groaned, he clasped his forehead, and burst into tears. From that time the milkman was a miserable man, and in his fits of abstraction watered his milk so much, that he lost nearly all his custom. He became the butt » f the boys; for instead of crying " Milk below 1" he was in the habit of shouting " New Arabella, oh I" At length he heard of the union of the faithless Ara- bella to Mr. Alexander Squibb, and, driven to distrac- tion, after watering his milk, he determined to water himself, and accordingly proceeded to London Bridge for that purpose, when he was prevented by the police- man. The Lord Mayor reprimanded the disconsolate milk- man severely on his conduct, aud discharged him, and " Milky" walked his chalks with many heavy sighs. SUPERSTITIONS OF SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. Birth, marriage, and death, are important eras for man, whatever may be his rank or station ; but, among the com- mon people, they are generally attended with more eclat when the situations in life are compared. At death, many practices were formerly adopted, and opinions held, which are now almost forgotten. Until of late years, it was not only common, but ad- mitted of few exceptions, for a great number of persons to assemble together at night in the house where the corpse lay, and there hold the lykewake. The party consisted generally of young people of both sexes, where almost every species of rustic amusement, except singing and dancing, was entered into with avidity. Rural spor^ and games were adopted, and generally so contrived as to pro- duce forfeits. The company was regaled with bread and cheese, beer, and a dram ; and the mirthful hilarity of the party was generally as unlike the occasion of tlieir meeting as it is almost possible to conceive. A new squad assembled next evening, and the same scenes were repeated nightly, until the corpse was interred. When a boy, about fifteen, I recollect of being one among twenty at a lykewake, and so excellent were the sports, and so keenly did they engross the attention, that I, and one or two more, attended two successive nights, without having had any sleep through the intermediate day. I conceive this fact as sufficiently illustrative of what was generally going on upon these occasions. The house was often so full that there were not seats for the company ; and I have seen the bedside, where the corpse lay uncoffined, occupied by two or three, from the wantof other accommodation.— Au old friend of mine related to me a whimsical anecdote that occurred at a Iykewake, where be was present. The company being short of sitting- room, two young fellows were seated on the front of the bed, where the corpse was stretched. According to the fashion of the times, one ol the young men had a leathern belt about his waist, buckled over his jacket; his companion, an arch wag, recollecting that the deceased had a crooked finger, slily, and gently, lifted up the dead man's hand, and fastened the crooked finger in his companion's belt; then rising with an air of easy indifference, he walked to the door, from which, with counterfeited emotion, he called to the company, that a house in the village was on fire ; all got up, attempting to rush out; among the rest, the man on the bedside also arose, but felt himself suddenly pulled back, and, as he supposed, by the dead person behind him : so powerful was the impression, that he fell back- wards across the bed in a swoon, from which he was with difficulty recovered. A very strange and even wondetful story is still often talked of, as having occurred some time in the last century, at a lykfiwake in this country. Mr. William Craighead, author of a popular system of arithmetic, was parish schoolmaster of Monifieth, situate upon the estuary of the Tay, about six miles east from Dundee. It would appear that Mr. Craighead was then a young man, fond of a frolic, without being very scru- pulous about the means, or caleulating the consequences. There was a lykewake in the neighbourhood, attended by a number of his acquaintance, according to the custom of the times ; Craighead procured a confederate, with whom he concerted a plan, to draw the watchers from tbe house, or at least from the room where the corpse lay. Having succeeded in this, he dexterously removed the dead body to an outer house, while his companion occupied the place of the corpse in the bed where it had laiu. It was agreed upon, between the confederates, that when the company was re- assembled, Craighead was to join them, and, at a concerted signal, the impostor was to rise, shrouded like the dead man, while the two were to enjoy the terror and alarm of their companions. Mr. Craighead came in, and after being sometime seated, the signal was made, but met with no attention,— he was rather surprised,— it was repeated, and still neglected. Mr. Craighead, in his turn, now became alarmed, for he conceived it impossible that his companion could have fallen asleep in that situa- tion : his uneasiness became insupportable,— he went to the bed, and found his companion lifeless I Mr. Craig- head's feelings, ( as may well be imagined,) now entirely overpowered him, and the dreadful fact was disclosed,— their agitation was extreme, and it was far from being alleviated when every attempt to restore animation to the thoughtless young man proved abortive. As soon as their confusion would permit, an enquiry was made after the original corpse, Mr. Craighead and another went to fetch it in, but— it was not to be found. The alarm and consternation of the company was now redoubled ; for some time, a few suspected that some hardy fellow among them had been attempting a Ro- land for an Oliver; but when every knowledge of it was most solemnly denied by all present, their situation can be more easily imagined than described; that of Mr. Craighead was little short of distraction ; daylight came without relieving their agitation ; no trace of the corpse could be discovered, and Mr. Craighead was accused as as the primum mobile of all that had happened : he was incapable of sleeping, and wandered several days and nights in search of the body, which was at last discovered in the parish of Tealing, deposited in a field about six miles distant from the place from whence it was removed. It is related, that this extraordinary affair had a strong and lasting effect upon Mr. Craighead's mind and con- duct; thathe immediately became serious and thought- ful, and e\ er after conducted himself with great prudence and sobriety. Such are the particulars ofa story, which, however in credible it may appear, I have heard currently reported by many different people, who had no opportunity of hearing from each other. Since I began to write this paper, I inquired of an acquaintance if he ever heard the story, just mentioning Mr. Craighead's name, and the particulars were again repeated to me, such as they were impressed upon my memory twenty or thirty years ago. There seems to be very little difficulty in accounting for the death of the young man, without any supernatural in- terference ; for a combination of compunction and- terror might have seized him, ( after taking the place evacuated by the corpse,) sufficient to suspend all the functions of life; but the disappearance of the other dead body does not seem to me capable of being accounted for b v any natural cause; for it is by no means probable t'la any A COLD DUCK. A present would have' n& h<\ Bg _ such a distance, and also subsequent*" fi% i&., t their own secret; we must, therefore, give creav& W the agency of some superior being, or disbelieve matter at once. At death, many freits are still observed, some of which are strange enough. When a person is dying, no one in the house, of whatever age, is allowed to sleep ; for this I' have heard no reason, farther than that it was unlucky. It is also believed, that when a person dies unseen, tbey who first discover him will die in a similar manner. When one expires, the clock is immediately stopped, and the dial- plate covered with a towel; mirrors are also covered in a similar manner. All the cats belonging to the house are caught, and put in immediate confinement. The reason given for this is, that they would endeavour, if possible, to pass over the corpse, and the first that they crossed after would be deprived of sight. When the body is dressed and laid out, a Bible is often put below its head, while a plate with salt, and another with a piece of greea turf, is placed on the breast. It is also a common practice in some quarters of this country, should the corpse be conveyed to the church- yard in a cart, for some one, immediately after the coffin is put upon the cart, to say, " Now, what is that horse and cart worth?" I have been at some pains to learn what was meant by this, but never could receive any other reply but that it was the custom. Among the lower classes, the female relatives crowd about the door, when the corpse is carrying out, and frequently give most audible vent to their grief; sometimes the widow will insist upon carry, ing her deceased husband's head part of the way to tbe grave. The husband always walks to the cburch- yard, and lays in his wife's head. TETE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLES' POLICE GAZETTE. THE DEATH GRASP; OR, A FATHER'S CURSE 1 » Y THK AUTHOR OF " ELA, THE OUTCAST, ( Continue A from our last.) A few nights after this, Adolphe returned home at a late hour, and in, a state of mind which plainly rrc. spring, Floretta speedily recovered, and in the many care8 which attention to her child required, she found more exquisite pleasure than she had for some time before ex- perienced. But she little anticipated the dreadful shock which was in store for her. Hitherto the conduct of Adolphe had been most unex- ceptionable, and the Count and Countess Schedoni, as well as Floretta, really imagined that he had seen the showed that something particular had occurred to " vex folly and iniquity of his ways, and had determined upon him. He threw himself in a chair, despairingly, and, aTeform ; and, although the devastation he had already clasping his forehead, seemed to be in a state of great mental anxiety. Floretta approached him, and laying her delicate hand upon his shoulder, addressed him in her usu?> l tender and affectionate manner. " Tell me, my love, my Le Clerq," she said, " what has occurred to distress you thus ? Oh, do not conceal anything from the bosom of your wife who " " My wife, Floretta'." repeated Adofphe, with a wild look,—" my wife 1" " Yes, my love," tenderly returned Floretta; " your own wife— your affectionate Floretta." •* Oh, speak to me not, Floretta,— speak to me not," ejaculated Adolphe, in a tone of despair. " I am a wretch unworthy of you, deserving only of your hatred and your scorn 1" " What mean you?" " What mean I ? Have not my wild and dissipated habits already nearly squandered away the whole of your wealth ? And now again, after the vows I had pledged to you that I would abandon the cursed dice, this very night I have again been enticed into the guilty haunts of ruin, and lost a large sum of money i" " Heaven give thee strength to withstand the tempta- tion in futurecalirly exclaimed Floretta, raising her beautiful ey « M towards Heaven as she spoke. " But 1 will not reproach thee ; no, my husband, again I suppli- cate thee, to repent, and heed not that Which thou hast already lost. Thank God 1 we have still enough left to live in comfort if not in splendour 5 and if thou wilt but do as I desire I shall be too blest, too happy 1" " Noble, generous- minded woman!" cried Adolphe; " what a villain have I been to thee. And wilt thou again take my word ?" " I will— I willl" answered Floretta j " and some- thing assures me that thou wilt not again deceive me." " Oh I this is tuo kind— too confiding— too affec- tionate 1" " You knew, my dearest Theodore, that I shall shortly become a mother; and I know that our little one will so engage thy affections, that thou wilt riot be happy out of its sight." " I should be a monster of the blackest dye," cried the guilty Adolphe, whom Floretta knew only as Theodore le Clsrq, " did I again deceive such innocence as this 1 Flo- rctta, canst thou indeed forgive me ?" " Say no more about it, my love," replied Floretta, with a sweet smile. " Come, come, chase the gloom from thy brow; thou wilt promise me not again to fre- quent those ruinous haunts, and I shall be perfectly happy." " Promise 1" exclaimed Adolphe, with an air of fervour, " I will swear, I will take any oath; and a hateful de- spicable wretch I should be were I to again deceive thee, and " " Oh, I will take your word, I need not your oath, dear Theodore," cried Floretta; " but dissipate this me- lancholy. Let me see you smile and we shall again be happy!" And, as the gentle Floretta spoke, she threw her deli- cate and exquisitely moulded arms around the neck of the deceiver, and with an angelic smile, pressed her lips vehemently to his cheeks. The guilty Adolphe, callous as he was, could not help shuddering when he thought of the crimes he had per- petrated, and the manner in which he had deceived her. But it must be remembered that at that time Adolphe knew not that our heroine was still living; neither had he taken any trouble to ascertain whether she was or not. He, however, returned the caresses of his wife; and the too- confiding Floretta, forgetting at once the past, and believing all he said for the future, felt the most un- bounded happiness, and did not for a moment suspect that he would again deceive her. Alas 1 little did she know the villain upon whom she had, unfortunately, thrown herself away, or how truly wretched would she have been. For several weeks after this Adolphe closely adhered to the promise he had made, and was seldom or never absent from home, and then only when business called him. He behaved to Floretta with the utmost attention and kindness, and she had no cause to suspect that he would again deceive her. The Count and Countess Schedoni frequently visited Floretta, and they marked, with the most acute anguish the change which De Floriville had wrought in her cir- cumstances. They saw plainly that her fate had became linked to that of a most incorrigible villain ; but it was useless, they knew, to talk to her upon the subject, as it would only render her doubly miserable, and not in the least alter her situation, unless she would again accept of their protection; and even should she do that, it was not at all likely that Adolphe would cease to annoy her. Floretta never murmured nor complained to them, and it was only by the alteration which they perceived in her looks that they could tell the sorrow whiph she at times xperienced. '. nd a poor miserable guilty being was Adolplie de ' ville; his conscience continually upbraided him for • in which he had bshaved towards the beau- a, and the awful phantom of the murdered " oisson continually haunted his sight, and cold, the clammy, the awful death i the dying man had fixed it upon struggle. Since his union 1 increased tenfold ; when ented with the most fright . vakened to encounter the spectres of his dfully tormented of crime. Any accumulation of repentance, in the but it was not • e his earthly torment desperately did he seem to plunge vortex of crime and dissipation. In one sense i was to be pitied, for there appeared to be a spell upon im, from which he could not escape; and he might truly have been called the doomed man. At length that deeply interesting period, the accouche- ment of Floretta, arrived, and she was safely delivered of that beauteous girl who has been introduced to the reader as Marceline. Adolphe appeared to hail the little stranger with much delight and affection; aud Floretta, as she gazed with eager eyes upon the countenance of the little innocent, felt all the rapture of the young mother for her first- born, and an increase of love for her husband. She removed her eyes, from the face of her babe, fixed them with an indescribable look of tenderness upon Adolphe, who was seated by her side, and throwing her head upon his shoulder, fell into a paroxysm of tears and sobs. How could the hypocrite endure this ? Most keenly did his conscience smite him. He tried to speak, but could not; but he pressed . Floretta to his bosom, and seeming to return all her affection, she was too blessed, too happy, and satisfied! Floretta was almost constantly attended during her confinement by the Conntess Schedoni, whose maternal attentions were a great source of comfort to the former, and served materially to advance her convalescence. Marceline was a fine healthy child, asd even in infancy displayed that extraordinary beauty for which she was afterwards so celebrated ; and even Adolphe could not help gazing upon her with a feeling of love and adrnira. tion. Possessed of a naturally strong constitutinii, and . happy in the imagination of the love her hushahtf Sore his off. caused in her pecuniary affairs was very great, they hailed such an occurrence with pleasure, as the peace of mind of her whom they loved as affectionately as if she had been their own daughter, would be saved from total destruction. They were all soon, however, to be fatally undeceived. For a few weeks after the convalescence of Floretta, Adolphe continued very well, and was unabated in his attentions to her, and in evincing his love for the little Marceline. But at that time he was contemplating one of the most diabolical designs which could possibly enter the human mind. Although be played the part of the hypocrite before Floretta and her friends, in private Adolphe felt himself truly wretched. On the one hand, conscience smote him for the deceptive part he was acting, and on the other, his old propensities worked so powerfully on his mind, that he could not withstand their temptation. To remain with Floretta in his present situation, he felt would be utterly impossible. The tempting demon was at work again within him, and urged him on to the same succession of crimes that had hitherto marked his guilty career. Again and again he ruminated what plan he should adopt to escape from the trammels in which he was held, and to be able to mingle in his old scenes and with his former associates; and at length he determined to collect all the money together he could find, and aban- don Floietta and her child for ever! This base resolution, however, he could not put into execution without some hesitation; and when he beheld the innocent and affectionate smiles of Floretta, he men- tally cursed himself for one of the most heartless and di abolical scoundrels in existence ! Nothing, notwithstand- ing, could make him swerve from his determination, and he only watched an opportunity to put it into execution. This soon presented itself. Floretta with her infant had gone on a visit to the Count and Countess Schedoni, and Adolphe excused him- self from accompanying her, on the plea that he had business to transact that day which he must attend to, but that he would call for her in the evening. Floretta was satisfied, and they separated. She had not long been gone, when the villain completed his infamous plot. Poor Floretta waited in the utmost agony and anxiety hour after hour of the time which Adolphe had promised to call for her ; and when she found that he still did not come, her uneasiness became so great, that she could not contain herself, and the Count Scbedoni at length yielded to her wishes and accompanied her home. They no sooner entered the house, than the fatal truth was presented to them. The money- chest was standing open, emptied of its contents, and the whole of Floretta's jewellery which he could find, the wretch had taken with him. On the table was a note in his hand- writing, in which he laconically bade her farewell for ever, telling her that she need not entertain the slightest hopes of seeing him again. The senses of Floretta immediately left her on this horrible discovery, and for several hours she remained in such a state as quite beggars description. The Count despatched a domestic to the Countess with the particu- lars of the circumstance, and she quickly attended, and never left the bed- side of the sufferer the whole of the night. The whole of the following day Floretta was com- pletely delirious, and raved incessantly of her husband, and the barbarous manner in which he had treated her. The Count and Countess were quite shocked at the inhuman behaviour of Adolphe, and, had they not too certain proof of its truth, they could not have believed that such heartless, such systematic, such cold- blooded villany could exist in human nature. Every attention was paid to the unfortunate Floretta ; but so powerful was the effect which it had upon her, that her medical attendants were at first fearful that the most fatal results would ensue : but by their skilful treatment, the goodness of her own constitution, and the unremitting attentions of the Count and Countess, she did gradually recover ; but a settled melancholy had fallen upon her heart, which nothing could remove. Sbe never even mentioned the name of her husband; but pressing her offspring frantically to her breast, she pas- sively suffered herself to be led to the vehicle which the Count had provided to convey her to his villa, where he determined that she should reside with her child under the protection of himself and his lady, as she had done up to the time of her unfortunately becoming acquainted with the miscreant De Floriville. By the assiduous attentions of her only earthly friends, who tried all in their power to tranquillize her mind, Floretta in the course of time became more calm, and in the innocent smiles of her infant, endeavoured to blunt the keenness of her sorrows. Adolphe was never heard of, and there could not be any doubt but that the villain had quitted the country. Three years passed away in this manner, when the good old Countess was seized with a violent malady, of which she shontiy- died; and from that moment it was very evident thatlfeie Count had received a death- blow. So fondly attached as they were, and having lived so many years together, it was not likely that the decease of the good old lady could have anything but the most powerful effect upon the Count; and notwithstanding he received every care and Bolicitude from Floretta, he could not combat with his sorrow, and only two months had elapsed after the decease of the Countess, when the Count was borne to his place of everlasting rest. Floretta felt the good nobleman's loss as much as if he had been her own parent, and - she followed his remains to the tomb with a heavy heart. It was not long ere she was aroused, however, to other thoughts. The relations of the Count, with whom he had never been upon the most friendly terms, made their appearance; and it did not take her long to understand that her presence at the villa was not considered auy longer necessary, and she quickly retired from the place, The Count had bequeathed her a handsome sum, and she at last resolved to retire from the neighbourhood, aud live in comparative seclusion. She assumed the name of Signora Venoni, and fixed her residence where we first introduced her to our readers, and where fortune so sin- gularly introduced her and Madame Laurette to each other. ( To be continued in our next) have got scarlet- fever In their tent, and he 1> going to give them half- a- crown If they can bring it into the village, to be paid on the breaking out of the firtt undoubted case. This will fag the Union doctor to death, who is my chief opponent, and I shall come In for some of the private patients.' My surgery Is not Very well stocked at present, but I shall write to Ansell and Hawke afler Christmas. I have got a pickle- bottle full of liquorice- powder, which haa brought me in a good deal al- ready, and assisted to perform several wonderful cures. I admi- nister it In powders, two drachms In six, to be taken morning, noon, and night; and it appears to be a valuable medicine for your, g practitioners, as you may give a lar. e dose without produc- ing any very serious effects, Somebody was insane enough to send to me the other night for ft pill and draught j and if Jack Randall had not been there, I should have been regularly stumped, having nothing but Fpsom salts. He cut a glorious calomel pill out of pipeclay, and then we concocted a black draught of salts and bot- tled stout, with a little patent boot- polish. Next day. the patient finding himself worse, sent for me, and I am trying the exhibition of linseed- meal and rose- pink in small doses, under which treat- ment he is gradually recovering. It has since struck me that* minute portion of sulphuric acid enters Into the composition of the polish, possibly causing the indisposition, which he describes " as if he was tied all up in a double knot and pulled tight. 1 I have had one case of fracture in the b g of Mrs. Pinkey's Italian greyhound, which Jack threw allower- pot at in the dark the other night. I tied It up in two splinters cut out ol a clothes- peg, in a manner which I stated to be the most popular at the Hotel Dleu at Paris ; and the old girl was so pleased that she has asked me to keep Christmas- flay at her house, where she burns the Yule log, makes a bowl of wassail, and all manner of games. We are going to bore a hole in the Yule log with an old trephine, and ram It chuck- full of gunpowder; and Jack's little brother is to catch six or seven frogs, under pain of a severe licking, which we are to put Into one of the vegetable dl. hes. The old girl has her two nieces home for the holidays— devilish handsome, larky girls — so we have determined to bave some mlsletne, and give a prac- tical demonstratl n of the artl ' n of tbe orbicularis oris and leva* tores labiate superiorits et inferiors. If either of them have got any tin, I shall try and get ail r'ght with them ; but if the brads don't flourish, I shall leave it al- ne ; for a wife is just the worst piece of furniture a fellow can bring Into his house, espe- cially If ho Inclines to conviviality, although to be sure a medical man ought lo consider her as part of his stock In trade, to be taken at a fnlr valuation amidst his stopple- bottles, mortars, mea- sures. and pill- rollers. If business does not tumble in well In the course of a few weeks, we have another plan in view; but I only wish to resort to it on emergency, in case we should be found out. The railway passes at the bottom of mv garden, and Jack thinks, with a few pieces of board he can contrive to run the engine and tender off the line, which is upon a tolerably high embankment. I need not tell you all this Is in strict confidence; and if the plan does not jib, which 1 « not very probable, will bilng lots of grist to the mill. I have put the entrlneer and stoker at a sure guinea a head for the In quest, and the concussions in the second class will be of unknown value. If practicable, 1 mean to have an elderly gentleman, " who must not be moved under any consideration }" so I shall get him into my house for the term of his indisposition, which may pos- sibly be a very long one. I can give him up my own bed- room, and sleep myself In an old harpsichord, which 1 bought cheap at a sale, and disembowelled into a species of deceptive bed. I think the hint might put " people about to marry" up to a dodge in the way of spare beds. Everybody now sees through the oldchlff,- nler and ward- rebe turn- up Impositions,— but the grand piano would beat them ; only it should be locked, for fear any one given to harmony might commence playing a fantasia on the bolster. Our parlsldone- rs have very little idea of the Cider Cellars and Coal Hole, both of which places they take in their literal sense. I think that with Jack s assistance, we can establish something of the kind at the Swan, which is the principal inn. Should it suc- ceed, I shall turn my attention to getting up a literary and scien- tific institution, and give a lecture. I have not yet- settled on what subject, but Jack votes for astronomy, for two reasons, firstly, because the room is dark nearly all the time; and secondly, be- cause you can smug in some pots of half- and- half behind the trans- parent orrery. He says the dlssolvlog views in London put him up to the value of a [ dark exhlbiiton. We also think we can manage a concert, wh'nh will he sure of a good attendance, If we say it - s for some parish charity. Jack has volunteered a solo en the cornet- a- plston. He has never tried the instrument, but he says he is sure he can play it, as it looks remarkably easy hanging up In the windows of the music- shops. He thinks one might drill the children, and get up the Macbeth music. It is turning very cold to night, and I think will turn to a frost. Jack has thrown some water on the pavement before my door, and should it freeze, I have given strict orders to my old housekeeper not to strew any ashes, or sand, or sawdust, or any similar rub- bish about. People's bones are very brittle in frosty weather, and this may bring a job. I hope it wilt. If, in your London rambles, as you seem to be everywhere at once, you pilch upon Manhng, Rapp, or Jones, give my love to them, and tell them to keep their powder dry, and not to think of practisil g in tbe country, which is, after all, a species of social suicide. And with the best compliments of the season to yourself and " through the medium of the columns of your valuable Jour- nal" to your readers, believe me to remain, my dear old beau, yours very considerably, JOSEPH MUFF. Clodpole, Dec. 23,1841.— Punch. TO CORRESPONDENTS. The Anttcers by R. F. C., mill iot suit. The, Riddle shall appear. " A LOVER OF FICTION."— We thought we had stated sufficient reasons for the postponement ofthe New Ro- mance of " GERTRUDE OF THE ROCK;" it will ap- pear as soon as tke Author is convalescent, and ample amends made for delay by the quantity intended to be given in each number. R. N. BOWMAN, ( North Shields,) is declined. The Answtr by J. MORAV, ( Dublin,) is declined; also I," THE GENERAL POSTMAN'S ADDRESS;" and F. H. BORLAND. " OVID."— We will comply with your wishes as soon as possible. Accepted: M. THOMAS ; and S. WOOD. P. B. ( Sh » oters Hill.) We feel particularly obliged for your prompt attention in forwarding the copy. We will give immediate insertion to the Tale by our valued Correspondent J. U. It. Several of the numbers men• tioned are out of print, but the Publisher will endeavour io obtain them, if possible. All communications to be addressed ( post paid) to the Editor of THE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES, 231, High- street, Shoreditch. or foggy with much snow. A shower of snow is well described by Homer in the following lines, as translated by Pope:— " In Winter's bleak uncomfortable reiga A snowy inundation hides the plain ;, Jove stills the winds, s. nd bids the skies to, sleep; Then pour the silent tempests thick and deep , And first, the mountain tops are cover*' 1 oer » Then the green fields, and then th » « » ndy shore ; Bent with the weight the nodding woods are seen, And one bright waste hide* ;| ll the werks of men : The circling seas alon*. absorbing all, Brink the dissolving fleeces as they fall." The inclemency of the season now, compels the nume- rous tribes of birds to quit their retreats in search of food. The redbreast, the only bird that confides in man, begins to sfng. Of the docility of the robin, we have a pleasing instance given by Miss Charlotte Smith. " Two years ago," says she, " towards the close of the month of August, a robin frequented the drawing- room at B., and became in the course of the winter so tame, that as soon as the Windows were open in the morn- ing he used to come in, and seemed to consider it as his domicile, though he ajisjays roosted among the shrubs near the window. On feing called he readily made his appearance, and used to sit and sing at the back of a chair, or on the piano forte. He was a constant attend- ant at the breakfast table, and expected to be fed, like a domestic animal; for when we went out for a few days, he resorted to the offices, and followed the servants into the larder. My pretty robin, however, was a Very Turk in disposition, and would suffer no brother near the throne; for he drove away, with every mark of resent- ment, any of his compatriots, who, during the hard wea- ther, showed any inclination to share the advantages he had appropriated to himself; of which, indeed, he seemed to feel all the value, for, as winter advanced, he became so familiar as to sit and sing on my daughter's shoulder, and appeared to have totally lost all apprehensions as a wild bird. If he chose to go out, instead of beating him- self against the window, he sat on the edge of the frame till it was opened for him; or taking an opportunity when the door was opened, he flew through the green- house, or through the passages till he found his way out. He was a great favourite as well in the kitchen, as in the parlour, and it was with general regret, that early in the spring he was missed, and never returned. Had he re- tired to build, as robins are said to do, in woods and copses, he would no. t have gone far from the house, around which there are many thickets and shrubs, and where it was probable he was bred. It is, therefore, most likely that, being so tame and fearless, he was destroyed by A cat." The colt eating his winter repast is prettily delineated by Mr. Hurdis i— " In thick and horrent coat, no longer sleek, With heels undipped, and shaggy mane promiss, In his lone corner staadB the leering colt, At leisure relishing his scanty meal . Of thin up- shaken forage. To the cow That with a wishful look his feast surveys At fearful distance fixed, from his white eye Reversed, he flashes indignation strong And peremptory menace, crouching close, And trampling loose on his vindictive heel. With sullen laid down ear,'' We shall close the - present Diary with the following poetical " Calender of the months :"— See January first appear, Beat kept at home with plenteous cheers In February's faint essay, We gladly mark the lengthened day: Bleak March's keener winds succecd, Rough as the newly- mounted steed: April a flattering face will wear, Resembling a coquettish fair : E'en May is often proved a bite, Warms in the day but chills at night: Bright June, in gayest liv ' ry dressed, Of Flora's glory is the fest i July presides in Phcebus' smiles. Whose evening human care beguiles: Brown August sober pleasure brings, Maturing heat upon his wings : September offers to our reach Tiie clustered grape and blushing peach s October's warning influence yields The sportsmen pleasure in the fields: November's soaking show'rs require The changed coat and blazing lire : And dark December, in the end, Com" mends a book and cheerful friend. THE PENNY RALPH THE RECKLESS; OR,- THE TERROR OF SUSSEX. PEOPLES' POLICE GAZETTE. A LETTER FROM AN OLD FRIEND. My DJ- JAR PUNCH,— Here I am, you see, keeping Christmas, and having no end of lun amongst vhe jolly innocent grubs that vege- tate io these rural districts. All I regret is, that you are not here. I would give a ten- pound note to see you, if I had it; I would in- deed— so help me several strongmen aud a steam- engine! We had a great night in London before I started, only I got ras- cally sen wed; not exactly sewed up you know but hit under the wing, so that I conld not very well fly. I managed to break the window on t. he third, floor landing of my lodgings, and let my water- jug fall slap through the wash- hand basin upon a looking-' gla « s that was lying face upwards underneath j but as I was off early in the morning, it did not signify. The people down here are a queer lot j but I have hunted up two or three jolly cocks, and we contrive to keep the place alive between u « . Of course, all the knockers ciraa off the first night I arrived, and to- morrow \ Ve are going to climb out upon the roof of my abode, and make a tour alorg the tops ofthe neighbouring hounes, putting tuifs on the tops of all the practicable chimnf- ys. Jack Kandftll— such a jolly chick! you must be introduced to him — has promised to tie a cord across the pavement at the corner from the lam r>- post to a door- scraper ; and we have made a care ful. estimate tint, out of every half- dozen people who pass, six will fall down, four cot their faces more or less arterially, and two cor- tuse their foreheads. I, you may imagine, shall wait at home al the evening for the crippled ones, and Jack is to go halves n what I get for plastering them up. We may be so lucky as to procure a case of concussion— who knows ? Jack is a real friend. Be can- not be of much use to me in the way of recommendation, be- cause the people here think he is a little wild; but as far as seri-, ously tojuring the parishioners goes, be dfclttreshe wi? J lose no chan< © . He says he knows some gipaiei on the common, v. ho WINTER. Pale rugged winter bending o'er his tread, His grizzled hair bedrop'd with icy dew; His eyes, a dusky light, congealed and dead; His robe, a tinge of bright ethereal blue: His train, a motleyed, sanguine, sable cloud, He limps along the russet, dreary moor; While rising whirlwinds, blasting, keen, and loud, Roll the white surges to the sounding shore. Winter now unfolds his awful train, * vapours, clouds arid stormsand all nature appears but one dreary waste ; yet cold and gloomy as this season usually is, it offers to the grateful mind many an interesting subject of contemplation. Among these may be mentioned the effects of the hoar frost, or of the dew or mist frozen. This adheres to every object on which it falls, and pro- duces figures of incomparable beauty and elegance. Every twig and blade of grass is beset by it wfth innu- merable glittering pearly drops, or silver plumage. These appearances are still more striking, the farther we pro- ceed to the north. It sometimes happens, that a sudden shower of rain falls during a frost, and immediately turns to ice. But winter, in our temperate regions, exhibits very few phenomena, in comparison with what is visible in the arctic circle. Thomson, therefore, has judiciously en- riched his noble conclusion of the seasons with all the circumstances of picturesque beauty, or terrific grandeur, that could be borrowed from scenes far remote from us. The famished troops of wolves pouring foom the Alps; the mountains of snow rolling down the precipices of the same countries ; the dreary plains over which the Lap- lander urges his reindeer ; the wonders of the icy sea ; and volcanoes flaming through a waste of snow ; are ob- jects selected, with the greatest propriety, from all that nature presents most singular and striking in the various domains of boreal cold and desolation, where " Winter, arm'd wth terrors here unknown, Sits absolute on his unshaken throne ? Piles up his stores amid the frozen waste; And bids the mountains he has built, stand fast j Beckons the legions of his storms away From happier scenes to make the land a prey $ Proclaims the soil a conque= t he has won, Ana scorns to share it with the distant sun.' * COWPER. The most intense cold in England is usually felt in the month of January ; and' the air is either bright with frost, ABOUT the year 1485, Sussex was infested by a ' gang of robbers, who committed several outrages with impunity. Their leader was known by the name of Ralph the Reckless, and was the terror of Sussex and the surrounding country. Before going any further, we will give a history of Ralph. John Launton, a wealthy farmer in Derbyshire, had two sons,— Ralph the eldest, and Valentine the youngest, — who was a great favourite with his father. Ralph saw this with envy; and, know- ing that a will had been made in favour of Valentine, he resolved to murder his father and purloin it. One night, when they had all retired to rest, Ralph arose, and, taking a knife and lamp in his hand, proceeded cautiously to his father's bed- room, whom he found asleep : he then stabbed him in several places, and returned to his own room. In the morning Valentine, surprised at his father's absence, went ts his apartment; but what was his horror to discover him covered with frightful gashes. He rushed down stairs and gave the alarm that his father was murdered. The house was soon filled with neighbours, who condoled with Ralph and Valentine. After the old man was buried, the house was searched, and the will was found ( Ralph having forgot to look for it) by Valentine, who immediately took possession of the property, giving Ralph a sufficient sum of money to keep himself. Ralph's rage knew no bounds when he saw that Valentine had found the will, apd he soon spent the money that he had given him, He came to Valen- tine and demanded more, which he refused to give him. Ralph then threatened to accuse him of the murder unless he gave him some money. When he had gone, Valentine packed up all the plate and money and departed for London. Ralph, when he knew that Valentine had fled, thought it a good opportunity to lay the crime on him. The people readily believed him guilty. Ralph then took possession of the property: but scarcely had a week elapsed before he, in a drunken brawl, killed a companion, for which he had to fly. The property was then com fiscated. In a large cavern, near the forest in Sussex, were seated two persons over a large lire. One of them appeared to be about forty, the other no more than sixteen. They were habited in short jackets, black leggings, top- b^ ots ; their arms consisted of a brace of pistols, and a cutlass. They were siient for some time, when the eldest exclaimed,— " I wonder what keeps our captain so long ?'' " Why, Rufus, you want him here before his time,'' replied the other. " I thought his time was up long ago. How much does it want?'' " Half an hour." They then were silent again, until a shirill whistle was heard with- out. They then proceeded to the farther end of the cavern, and removed a large stone from an opening in the wall. When they had removed it, several men jumped into the cavern, and were welcomed by the two before mentioned. " Well, captain, what success ?" asked Rufus, addressing Ralph Launton. " Very fair: but we must start again in six hours,'' replied Ralph. " What for?'* " To intercept Sir Rowland Tracey, who passes through the forest close by, on his way to join the army of Richard at Leicester.'' " How many will you take with you?'* asked one ofthe band, whose name was Stephen. " All except two:'' and then turning to Rufus, said, — " come, lay the supper, and let us have a little wine.'' " Aye, aye, captain." After the supper was ended, t. hey all lay down to have some rest before they departed. When they had slept about four hours, Ralph awoke and roused the others. When they had all arose, Ralph gave them their orders : but as they were about to depart, Stephen refused to go. Ralph insisted on his going, when Stephen said,—= " I own you not as a captain ; so I will not go with you, < l You wont ?'' replied Ralph. " No, I will not." " Then y° nr doom is sealed. Seize upon him, and let him be well guarded until 1 return." " Very well, captain, I will guard him!" exclaimed one of the gang, whose name was Ulric. " Guard him well: i forfeit.'' They then departed, taking all with them, Ulric and the prisoner excepted. IT was a fine moonlight night, on which they departed to attack Sir Rowland Tracey. When they arrived in the forest, all was still; but they had scarcely concealed themselves in some bushes when they heard the tramping of horses, and the shouts of men. On they came, little thinking tlia?. danger was so near. When they arrived near where the robbers lay concealed, Ralph, followed by his gang, attacked the servants and the knight, whom they soon overcame. Ralph then, pistol in hand, went up to the knight and demanded his money, to whieh he answered : — " Never, while I have life!'' " The money, I say." " Never!" " No trifling,— your money.** " Never!'' " Do you know who I am 2'' " Yes, a robber.'' V Gentler words come, the money.'' " Never, while I have breath in my body!" " Then take your own earning!'' exclaimed Ralph, firing pintol at him, and scattering his brafhs about the carriage. He then rifled him of about 400I., and telling Rufus to bring the prisoners before him, sat down on the step of the carriage. When they were brought before him, he ordered them to be killed, which the robbers prepared to carry into effect, until three of the servants begged for mercy. Ralph asked them if they were willing, to join the gang, to which^ hey replied,— " We are.'* " Will you take the oaths put to you " Yes." " Ye are accepted. Are there any more willing to join us ?' f " I am," replied one. " And I," exelaimed another. No more consenting, Ralph ordered the rest t6 be slain, which was done accordingly. The oath was then adminstere- I to those that joined them, which was as follows :— " I swear to be faithful unto our captain, Ralph Launton, and never to divulge what I hear, see, er whatever may be done by any of the band of which I now become a member.'' After this being ended, they returned to the cavern. When they arrived there, Ralph blew a whistle; but not finding it answered, he, with two of the gang, raised the stone from the opening and entered the cavern, which was in total darkness. Ralph then called for a torch, which was soon brought to him. He looked around the cavern, but could not see Ulric or Stephen. He then dispatched seteral of the band in different'directions after them. Soon after one of the party sent out returned, bringing with him Stephen, whom Ralph commanded to be guarded well, until the others returned. When they returned, Ralph ordered Stephen to be brought be- fore him, which being done, he asked what made him desert the band. " Because I saw your brutality to the prisoners which were taken by you." " Indeed j and in what way was l. brutal ?'' " In killing those that refused to joitj the band.'* " But, yoil know, dead men tell no trstes." " I know it, and am, therefore, prepared to die ; but had I nofcj through my own stupidity, been caught, you and your band would soon have been destroyed: but, thank God I there is one yet left to hurl destruction on you.'' " Ah ! Ulric, is he not captured ?'* " N « , captain^ we have not seen him," replied Rufus. " Then let instant search be made for him: but before ye go, see the punishment of a traitor.' 5 Saying this, he fired at Stephen, and laid him dead at his feet. . Upon this, several of ths band were dispatched after Ulric. They soon returned, but brought no tidings of hjtm. Ralph then; gave the search over. A few days after the events narrated ia the last chapter, as the gang were sitting down to supper, they were alarmed by the tramp of houses. When they heard them, they put the lights out. Soori after the stone from the entrance waa thrown back, and several men entered j but they stopped when they heard one of tfce grang exclaim,— " Who goes there, friends or foes ?" " The latter," answered the leader, firing his pistol in the dire^ tion of the robber's voice. Ralph then commanded his gang to fire, which they did, hut without doing any harm, as the soldiers had moved on one side. They then fought desperrat^ ly for some minutes , but the robbers were evidently getting the' wprst of it, as several were laying dead on the ground. Ralph kneW this, and was in a great rage. He made up to the leader ef the. soldiers, whom he attacked furiously. The leader was on his guard, and. attacked Ralph in return, whom he\ poon overcome, by. giving him a severe wound in the abdomen. The fight was then ended by the robbers asking for quarter, which was granted. They then procured a light, aud the leader asked where the captain was. Ralph was pointed out, and the leader made up to him; but as he was on thepoirit of speaking, both started. Ralph then said,— " Valentine, my brother 1" " Ralph, and the leader of robbers { » ' " Even so: but let all your party some around me, and I will clear your character, for I feel the hand of death upon me.'' " Oh, say hpt so, dear brother !'* " Thanks for that kind word, Valentine; but we must make haste, or it will be too late to make any confession.'* " Ralph, they are all around you.'' " Very well, now listen:— Valentine, upon your departing from home, I thought it a good opportunity for accusing you of tb<?. murder; but you are innocent. The people believed me, aud I took possession of the property ; but I did not retain it more than a week, when it was confiscated for my killing a companion, who hinted that I had something to do ih the murder of my father.'' " But you did not murder him ?" " Yes, Valentine, I did do " " Oh, horror!'' " You I had always a hatred towards, because I knew that there was a will in favour of you. To secure this, I determined to slay my father. When I had murdered him, I forgot the will, and you found it. You know the rest. Do you forgive me, Valentine ?' " Yes, you have my forgiveness; and may God also forgive you.'' " Thanks— thanks, dear brother.'' " But what made you join a gang of robbers ?" " After I had killed my companion, I fled to Sussex, where I joined the present band, of whom I soon became captain.'* " You had better have same rest now." " Ah, no ! there is no rest lor me: even now I see the bleeding spirit of my father before me. Ah ! he beckons to me : I cannot stand it any longer," Saying this, Ralph made an. effort to rise, but could not through weakness. He then laid quiet for some time, when he agaiu raved,— " Oh, save me! for fiends surround me: but I Ifill cheat them. Ah ! I cannot— I choke— I die — help I" Sayintc thi? » his spirit- fled. J ° Valentine was much grieved at Ralph's death; and he gave orders to convey him to some other place until he should be buried. The other robbers who were killed were thrown into a large hole, which was dug in the cavern f ® r their reception. None of the soldiers were killed, and only two wounded. Valentine, with his party and their prisoners, after the burial of Ralph, proceeded to Winchester, where Henry the Seventh with his court staid. Betore proceeding further, we will relate what occurred to Valentine after his arrival in London. He heard that Henry, then Earl of Richmond, was in want of troops. He, with some money which he had, purchased a captaincy in the army. At the battle of- Bosworth, Valentine had the good fortune td save Henry's life, just as two of Richavd's army were on the point of slaying him. Henry, after being crowned, asked for him, but was informed that when the battle was en-^ ed, a man came and told Valentine something of great importance, as he then departed, taking with him his troops and the man Ulric. When they arrived at tbe cavern, Ulric was missing, and Valen- tine thought that he had made away with himself, as nothing more was heard of him. When Valentine arrived at Winchester, he related to the king what occurred to him, and asked what should be done with the prisoners ; to which Henry replied,— " Let them be hung as a warning to others.'' Henry then knighted Valentine, and gave him a large estate ia Leicestershire, besides his own in Derbyshire. Valentine soon alter was united to a beautiful young damsel, by whom he had several children. He lived to a good old age, and died respected by all who knew him. M. C. and if he escapes, your life will be the FAMILIES OP LITERARY MEN.— The Quarterly Review, in discussing an objection to the Copyright Bill of Mr. Setjeant Tal- fourd, which was taken by Sir Edward Sugden, gives some very curious particulars about the progeny of literary men. ' " are not," Says the writer, " going to speculate about the causes of the fact— but a fact it is— that men, distinguished for extraordinary in- tellectual piMver of am;- sort, very rarely leave more than a very brief line of progeny behind them. Men of genius have scarcely ever done so. Men of imaginative genius, we might say, almost never. With the one exception of the noble Surrey, we cannot at this moment point out a representative in the male line even so far down as in the third generation of any English poet, and we believe the case is the same in France. The blood of beings of that order can seldom be traced far down even in the female line. With the exceptions of Surrey and Spencer, we are not aware of any great English author of at all remote date from whose body any living person claims to be descended. There is no other real English poet prior to the middle of the eighteenth century, and we believe no great author of any sort— except Clarendon and Shaftesbury— of whose blood we have any inheritance amongst us. Chaucer's only son died childless. Shakspere's line expired in his daughter's only daughter. None of the other dramatists of that age left any pro- geny ; nor Raleigh, nor Bacon, nor Cowley, nor Butler. The granddaughter of Milton was the last of his blood, Newton, Locke, Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, Hume, Gibbon, Cowper, Gray, Walpolc, Cavendish— and we might greatly extend the list— never married. Neither Bolingbroke, nor Addison, nor Warburton, nor Johnson, nor Burke, iransu- ritted their blood. When a human race has pro- duced its ' bright consummate flower' in this kind, it seens com- monly to be near its end." Poor Goldsmith might have been mentioned in the above list. The theory is illustrated in our own day. The twj greatest names in science and in literatnre, of our time, were Davy and Walter Scott. The tirst died childless. Sir Walter left four children, of whom three are dead, only one of them ( Mrs. Lockhart) leaving issue, and the fourth ( Ins eldest son), though living, and long married, has no issue. These are curious facts. A MAN OP BUSINESS.— There's a chap down at Quamphegan so tarnation ' cute, that he refuses to pay the debt of Nature unless the discount is taken off.— Punch. THE HEART.— The heart is a living forcing pump,— a hollow muscular engine, with its cavities and their outlets, its contractile walls, and their strength and thickness so admirably adjusted, that the healthy balance of the circulation is continually maintained under many varying untoward influences and inward emotions which tend to destroy it.— Dr. Watson, in the Medical Gazette. HOLLOWAY'S PILLS AND OINTMENT— AN EXTRAORDINARY CASIS— Mrs. Fry, of Trafalgar B'. rret Wat worth, was on the 16th of April last admitted to Guy's Hospital as a patient, with a bad leg of five years standing ; it was nearly as haul as bone, with nine ulcers ail frightfully swollen. Not deriving the h< ast beneht from the treatment in the hospital, she left on'the 16ih of May. On the lSih of October she waa brought in a cart to Professor Hol- Ioway'a Establishment with her leg wrapped in a blanket. In five weeks it was radically cured by means of the Fills and Oint- meut, which are soia ac the Proprietor's establishment, 244, Strand, near Temple- bar, where advice may be h » d gratis, and sold by ev « ry. respectable ehemiit throughout the kingdom, in pots and boxes, at 1 « . 2s. 9d., 4s, 6( 4., Us., 22s., and 83 » , each. TETE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLES' POLICE GAZETTE. MEMOIRS OF MADAME LAFARGE, WRITTEN BY HERSELF. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH EXPRESSLY FOR THIS WORK. { Continued from our last,) We arrived in the morning at Chateauroux, where - we were ex- pected by M. Pontics-, private receveur of La Chatre. He was an fcncle, the first pelrson ot ray new family I saw. I wished to please him, to be amiable, affectionate, and I drove away the clouds that • till darkened my remembranpe by the omnipotence of will and vanity. '•••••• . M. Pontier was a man fifty years of age, with a frank, open phy- siognomy, of friendly and expansive words. He seemed charmed to see me, paid his nephew a thousand compliments on my account, and called me his child with such a rough, good- natured voice, that I Wit myself all disposed to love him. His wife was to accompany Us to Glandier. She was no longer young, was commencing that period of life when, without renouncing the pretensions of youth, we take the manias of another rge : she had an imperious, caustic, malicious mind, and unfortunV cly forgot it in her eyes even when she was putting honey on h<? v lips. They gave us a good br « * afa « t, when we were obliged to think of our departure. I had jus', then some moments « f buoyant spirits and having gone, I know not why, into my new aunt's chamber, I found ber reading the newspaper, while her husband was gravely , « £ gn air mt° a 8warm of white curl- papers. J? ollow my example, she said to me seriously ; " there is no- tning more cprwenient than to make a femme de chambre of one's nuieuna. M. frontier dtesoes hair divinely, laces ravishingly, and no one K^ nows better than he does to give grace to a bow, to show on tn « i shape and arrange the folds of a shawl." At that instant the model husband wanted to put a slightly trumpled habit- shirt on his wife's neck. Madame Ponticr, re- marking the lalse plaits, told 61. Pcntier " that he had had plenty of time since morning to iron them straight; that, however, it was not the first time she had noticed his indifference; that she was very wretched since her father's death, for she had ho longer any- thing she could love and that loved her but a dog." ThjaKavourite dog was a little Italian greyhound bitch that was put with us in the carriage, and that traitorously took a friendship lor me; and, as I saw it was ray cousin in Madame Pontier's heart* • 1 generously sacrificed myself to the relationship, and became the arm chair ofthe dirty and restless little beast. Madame Pontier spoke a great deal to me upon literature, of Victor Hugo's bad taste, who permitted himself not to take ltacine for his model, of Alexander Dumas' madness, of the sublime grandeur ofthe poets ofthe Empire, and, above all, of Madame Sands im- morality, who wrote like a cook, and thought like a fishfag. My dear aunt assured me that lady was not admitted into any respect- able, saloon of La Chatre: that the women who respected them selves did not even know her name, and that she had just fallen out, I believe, with a sub- prefect, who had wanted to ruin M. Pon- tier by lending him an infamous work called Leila. I dared av& wto her that I had read Indiana, and that I admired at least the magic and the fascination of the style, splendid and graceful as a diamond hid in the leaves of a rose. She raised her eyes to Heaven, and astonishing herself at so much perversity in so tender an age. M. Lafarge having got on the box, my aunt wished to gain my confidence; and, after having addressed herself to my vanity, by a thousand « xaggerated compliments, she told me I must have a vast deal of courage to leave Paris, that I was going to be horribly ennui, that it was quite a murder to bury me at Glandier between a husband rough and unpolished, and a mother- in- law without education, and without ideas. I was hurt at the part of victim she wished me to accept. I assured her that my tastes made mc fond solitude, that I had a great esteem for my husband, and that I should make it my pride to be agreeable and necessary to him. I also told her that I had the hope and even the certainty of often re- turning amongst my friends, to whom I should every year be re- stored by M. Lafarge's promises and business. . When night brought M. Lafarge into the carriage, his aunt in- dulged in a thousand jokes upon the wandering commencements of his honeymoon. He wanted to answer them* victoriously, but having had the unlucky thought to plead the cause of his love with trough and noisy kisses, I had my skin rubbed off by that public taking possession, and I at first defended myself feebly, then im- patiently. Madame Pontier began laughing at my prudishnessj so far removed from th°. primitive manners I was going to meet with, and related to me that one of the most popular customs of tbe Limousia was to invade, on the wedding night, the nuptial chamber, to carry the new married couple spiced wine, which they wer^ to share between them in bed. The wit of the amiable men ofthe company was judged ol on that occasion by the more or less quan- tity of blushes their jokes called int ® the cheeks of the young bride, — by'the more or less number of stifled laughs they provoked on the lips of the other women, greedy to see the bashful wife profaned whom they perhaps envied in tbe morning. " Oh \ you shan't escape it, my lovely niece, and Ldeclare myself the champion of that joyous tradition of the olden time," said Madame Pontier to me on concluding. " I conjure you, madame, to do nothing of the kind. I should not have strength enough to bear that sorry joke; and I would not pardon a husband who should let me be degraded by that humiliat- ing and unmoral pastime," CHAPTER XXXIX. WE were surprised at Massere by a frightful storm. To the thunder that rolled heavily over our heads succeeded a continuous and pouring rain; grey clouds ran along the sky and teemed to touch the very earth with their gloomy vapours, while a thick veiled the fields and woods. Shut up in the carriage^ we could see nothing but the white line of the road slowly unrolling; itself before us, the poor panting horses and the postilion buried in his waterproof cloak, with hoarse and savage shouts, urging on the fatigued animals to struggle against the unchained tempest; At eight in the morning I was shown some black ruinous tene- ments Which form a'c Uzerche the faubourg Sainte Enlalie ; then Wi? ' passed along a causeway, against which break the waves of th Vfczfere, and we alighted at a waggoner's aubergeto avoid meeting with a whole branch of the family with which I was to hold no intercourse* fend which lived in the only passable hotel in the town. Mfcda'me Pontier left me to pay some visits, and M. Lafarge in- formed me that the carriage being damaged, we must remain a few b'OUrs. M, Buffiere, my brother- in- law, was waiting for us : he gave me two rough kisses of welc > me. A second cousin, seventeen years old, also came to inscribe his relationship on my two cheeks, and I was then left to myself, while they went to stare at my carriage. I was ill) fatigued. I wanted to throw myself on a bed \ a fetid effluvia drove me from the alcove where I had been to seek for a little repose. I then placed a chair in the centre of the room to get as far as possible irom that dirty circumference of plaster, furniture, and curtains, and Clementine went to order me a cup of tea. I was served after an hour's waiting; they had no teapot, but a vast jug with a paper cover Had been ingeniously substituted for it, and a few leaves of Swiss woundwort, swimming in the luke- warm ocean of the Water- jug, usurped the name of the odoriferous plant of China, unknown to the Limousins. I opened my window; the rain had ceased, but tbe fog still concealed the face of Nature and of the sky. All at once the church bells swung lively, joyous, animated ; every house was opened to let pass the good souls of the town faithful to the call. It was the festival of the virgin of our lady of August, my holy patroness, the day of my birth. I wrapped myself up in my mantilla, and I wished to go and bear my melan fcholy to the foot of the altar. " That can't be," said M. Lafarge, whom I had sent for to ac- quaint him with my project; " you would be stared at by every- body, the mark for them to shoot their jokes, their witticisms at." " What matter ? I am above those petty considerations." < J I tell you that you can'tjgo there. I won't have you seen by my relations. They are envious of my marriage; curiosity must make them come, too, and they must not see you only in your finest clothes." " That's flattering for my poor person ; but, however, since such is your will, I won't go to mass." " Don't sulk, my dear, it's because I love you that I want you to dazzle them with your jewels, your shawls, & c." I remained alone till Clementine came sorrowfully up to me, and taking my hand, said— " 1 wish you. many happy returns of the day.'' I had not power to answer the good girl; but hiding my face in my hand's, burst into tears. How much bitterness there was in the so sweet — so joyous recollections that festival of the Virgin awakenod in me. It was near eleven o'clock before the coach was in a state for us to leave Werche. I was in haste to quit that town and to drive away my dark thoughts by the sight of my pretty little chateau, to find at last a family which, in its kindness, and friendship, would forget to be envious. Not one sun- ray had smiled through the clouds since the morn- ing storm. The trees were still bent with the rain, and the rough and ploughed up roads which reduced the pace of the horses, to a walk, also threatened us with continual and inevitable dangers. After three hours of this slow and troublesome progress, we de- scended a steep hill into a hollow way, and I was shown some smoky roofs rising through the fog, which they told me belonged to the buildings of the forge, and at the end of a little avenue of pop- lars the carriage stopped. I jumped out of the briska into the arms of two women. I pass- ed up a long, dark, cold, damp road. I ascended some narrow rough stone steps, all tlippery with the rain that fell through a dilapidated toof, and at length entered a large room that was called the saloon, and let myself fall upon a chair, looking round me with a vacant stare. My mother- in- law had taken one of my hands and considered me with a look of curiosity. Madame Buffiere, a little ruddy and fresh- colourcd woman, in perpetual motion, and vulgar in her manners, overwhelmed me with caresses and questions, and wanted to make me shake off my bitter stupefaction, which she took for timidity. M. Lafarge came to join us, tried to seat himself on my knees ; and as I pushed him back with a posi'ive refusal, lie said aloud, laugh- ing, " that I knew how to cuddle him up when we were by our- • selves." " Mamma," he added, " you could not believe how she loves me, this little poodle. Come, my pet lamb, own you love me devilishly." At, the same time, to suit the action to the word, he put his arm round my waist, pinched my nose, and embraced me. Mv pride was awakened at these words and gestures. I felt myself start with indignation on listening to the little friendly epithets he bestowed upon me, to his vulgar comparisons. Being unable any longer to endure this torture, I feigned excessive fatigue, letters to write, and was shown to my chamber, where 1 locked myself in with Clementine. My chamber, as large as the saloon, was entirely unfurnished. Two beds, one table, four chairs, were wandering in that solitude. I had asked for an ink- stand; they brought me a broken preserve pot, where a piece of cotton was swimming in grey water, an old pen and sky- blue paper. Clementine wanted to undress me:. it would have been impossible for me to remain on my bed. I maide her lie down near me} for it seemed to me that even while asleep that kind creature would be my safeguard, and I attempted to write, but was urtable to express an idea. I was under the weight of a terrible deception. I shrunk from the thought of so quickly com- municating such a load of grief to my relations: my affection re- fused to give them the half of my anguish, my pride so soon to be- gin the part of a victim. Then a hundred leagues separated us. It would require very long days to bring them down to me. What would become of me during tko § e long days ? What am I to do ? — my God I what afti'I to do ? The grey tint of the sky which became more sombre on the ap- proach of night, added to the indignation I experienced on feeling myself deceived, to the greater and more intimate fear of the noc- turnal Mte- h- tete I dreaded so much, that I could no longer avoid. I have never bore malice : but, when wounded in the heart, I am powerless to subdue my indignation. At that moment I should have fainted if M. Lafarge had kissed my hand, in his arms I ehould have died. All at once my determination was formed. I resolved to leave the house, to go to the World's end, above all, not to pass the night within those sombre Walls. That firm resolution somewhat allayed the agitation of my mind: but I must think of the means of putting it inljo execution, and my imagination came to . my aid. I resolved to obtain from M. Lafarge myself an order for my departure, to wound his vanity, his jealousy, his honour,— to render a reconcilia- tion impossible,— to tell him I did not love him, — that I loved an- other,— andthat, betraying- my- recent oaths, I had teen his rival at Orleans and Uzerche, — to tell him, in short, that all my thoughts as a wife had been adulterous. Never should I have dared to say that terrifying word,— never should I have had the courage person- ally to tell those humiliating lies ; but the paper did not blush* and with all the bitterness of my heart I confided to it the care of my deliverance. Alter writing several pagesy i, wished to read my letter over again. Was frightened at its energy, but convinced I was saved. M. Lafarge, after perdsing it, might kill me ; hut it was impossible for them to wish to detain me, or for them to pardon me. I was sent for, and. hUrriedly put my letter in the folds of my sash. I was calm, because my will was firm; and I had the immoveable courage of the warrior who has burnt his ships to have nothing but victory or death to hope for. All the inhabitants of the Glandier were assembled in the dining- room. The dinner was Ion/ j— the evening still longer. I felt pain on receiving the marks of Madame Lafarge's affection, — the eager attentions of Madame Buffiere. I tried to be amiable— I wished to show myself sensible of their kind welcome; and, in those last moments ef being together, I was ashamed and troubled at so quickly returning them all the pain that had been given me for three days past. Every moment I felt myself turn pale and faint; every time that the monotonous ticking of a clock told me the dreaded hour was drawing nigh, I, with a shudder, pressed my letter to my bosom-, 1 listened to the light rustling of the paper, and fancied 1 heard it whisper to my heart,—" I asa watching, fear nothing." Ten o clock struck, when M. Lafarge int- rrupted a conversation upon business, which already for some hours had occupied all his attention, addressed more particularly to his brother- in- law, but in which all the members. of the family took part. The conversation was carried on in the dialect of the country, and I did not attempt to understand that foreign idiom; but I could not help feeling a deep sentiment of melancholy on listening to a tongue which was not that of my country. " Come, let us go to bed, my dear," said M. Lafarge tome, dragging me along by the waist. " ' I beg of you to permit me to remain a few minutes alone in my chamber,'' I replied. " Affectation again; but I'll let you have your way for the last time." I entered my chamber, called Clementine, and giving her my letter, begged of her to deliver it immediately to M. Lafarge. On her return I bolted the door, and threw myself sobbing into her arms. That kind girl was horribly frightened, put a thousand questions to me* and I Could with difficulty explain to her my de- spair, the letter 1 had wrote, and my resolution to leave the house that very evening. Clementine was thunderstruck on hearing me ; then she supplicated to have patience for a few days longer, to send for my relations, and not expose myself to be killed by my husband in a moment of anger. A loud knocking was heard at the door, which I refused to open. I was weeping kneeling by my bedside; but more energetic appeals restored me to myself; I told Clementine to leave me to open the door, and I retired to the recess of an open window. M. Lafarge entered in a frightful state: he addressed me with the most outrageous reproaches, told me I should not go, that he had need of a wife,— that he was not rich enough to buy a mistress, — that being his by law, I should remain so. He wanted to ap- proach and seize hold of me, when I coolly declared to him that if he touched me, I would throw myself out of the window; that I fully acknowledged his power to kill me, but not of sullying me. On seeing me so pale — so desperately energetic, he drew back and called his mother and sister, who were in the next room. They surrounded me in tears, asked me to pardon their poor Charles, for the sake of their honour, of their existence, which I was going to destroy. M. Lafarge also came and threw himself at my knees ; and my courage, so firm in bearing injuries, melted into tears at these accents of grief and prayer. I replied that I could easily pardon, forget the odious falsehood I had been made the victim of,— that I, without regret, abandoned all my fortune, — that I should know how to keep the name I had accepted pure and honourable, — but that I should never have the courage to remain with them,— that I wanted to leave them, and if they detained me, I should know how to die. My sister- in- law threw her arms round me, and overwhelmed me with caresses and questions. I told her part of the bath scene at Orleans, of everything I had to complain of. I let her guess how much I dreaded the first evening of the arrival, also how much I was afraid. She took her brother into a corner of the room and spoke earnestly to him, Madame Lafarge came in her turn to try to calm me: she promised to love me,— assured me she was proud of me,— that she ^ would have the most affectionate — the most maternal care of her daughter Marie's happiness. She supplicated me to absolve her son, who, madly enamoured, had deceived me that he might not have the despair of losing me. She tried other means: told me that the country which appeared so frightfully gloomy under the rain- torrents of the storm, was rich, animated in fine weather. She told me I should be the absolute mistress of all around me,— that I should make any changes, according to my taste and habits, in my new residence. M. Lafarge returned to me with his sister: he was also more calm. He took my hand, and weeping kissed it. I abandoned it to him ; and after some minutes silence, I asked him as a favour to forget the pain I had given him, to accept my fortune, but, above all, to let me go. He explained to me that I could not dispose of my marriage portion without the participation of my family; en- treated me to wait two or three days, and promised no more to at- tempt detaining me, if he did not succeed in obtaining his pardon, in proving to me his love, and in rendering me happy, I could not resist so many prayers and tears, and 1 consented to remain a few days in the character of sister. M. Lafarge assured me my wishes should be orders for him, that it made him too happy to see me so kind ; and Madame Buffiere said to me, laughing,— " Don't be alarmed, my little sister, if he is not steady, we'll guard you, Do you wish me to sleep in your room ?" I thanked Madame Buffiere for her offer, and had Clementine's bed put by the side of mine. This violent and painful scene had so completely shaken me, that I was quite ill. I remained for an hour insensible, and suffered from painful nervous spasms till the morn- ing. They would not leave me, fearing I had taken poison ; but at length, when it was day, seeing I was only dying with fatigue, they left me to myself, and I slept quite heavy till the bright rays oi an August sun came1 to open my eyes very late in the morning. I was told on awaking that M. Lafarge was too unwell to leave his room. I sent Clementine to enquire after him, then dressed myself, and I was sent for to breakfast, where I found the persons I had seen the evening before augmented by a friend of the family, an old advocate with wh te hair, whose manners were polite, at- tentive, whose words were slow, select, and sonorous. Sad and thoughtful, I took but little notice of his advances; but, after a short walk, during which his conversation was amiable, varied, de- sirous of pleasing me, I forgot myself a little, and replied to him with animation, I found a deal of good sense in M. de Chanveron, somewhat veiled under forms sufficiently pompous and lawyer- like to be judged ridiculous. Did he speak of music, it was with the austere gravity made us> c of at funereal sermons: in short, he said good day with eloquence, and asked for a glass of water with resistless persuasion. After his departure, I was presented to M. Pontier, physician at Uzcrche, and uncle to M. Lafarge; He was a man forty years of age, of a noble and intelligent countenance, and whose ardent and impassioned look seemed exiled and ill at ease under the curtain of white hair that surrounded it. As soon as he had shook hands with me, before we had exchanged words, I had comprehended he was a friend. He took me to visit the ruins, related particularly to' me their origin, their histoiy, their legends, gave me an affecting picture of the love that awaited me in my new family, and spoke to me a great deal of the happiness I perhaps should not find, but which I was destined to shed radiant around me. I na'ively interrogated M. Pontier on the heart and character ot his nephew: he replied to me with the utmost frankness thatM. Lafarge was'uncultivated, savage, rude as his mountains ; that all his studies had been directed with a view to utility and industry; that he had no intellectual qualities, but a great deal of good sense, and that it would be very easy to break him of his positive and material habits. M. Pontier also assured me that M. Lafarge loved me above all, and that to gain my affection, nothing would be im- possible to him. Some of my mental sufferings having involunta- rily escaped my lips, M. Pontier taught me to he resigned to them, He thowed me my. life to come, surrounded by its duties with its activity, its poesy sad, but not devoid of charms; in short, on re- turning to the house, I had promised him my friendship, and I felt myself stronger in relying upon the protection and tenderness he had sworu to me, and that 1 had acccpted. M. Pontier, after feeling his patient's pulse, prescribed my presence for him as a composing potion," and led me to him. M. Lafage showed himself so grateful for my visit, that I was rewarded for having made it. He asked me if I had been out of the house, if I had been as far as the forge. I told him I had admired the ruins, some fine views, but that I had'waited to go to the foundry till he was cured, that he might give me the thousand explanations my ignorance would render indispensable. On undressing me, Clementine told me that M. Lafarge had called her into his room to tell her he could no longer live without me, that he wished to keep me by binding me to him with kindness and regard, and that he . iddressed himself to her to be acquainted with my tastes and habits. After a long conversation, he had charged her to tell me I was the mistress to alter the house to my fancy, that 1 might even have another built, if the, present one seemed too ugly, and that the workmen were only waiting for my orders to obey them exclusively. [ To be continued in our next.) DEEDS OF GUILT! OR, THE DESOLATE HOUSE ON THE WASTE. BY TUB AOTIIOR OF " ALICE BLAND," " RAVENSL1E," " TTIE FORTUNES OF K8SEX," ETC. ETC. ( Continued from our last.) " It was at the close of evening, and my father and I wece about to say our prayers before retiring to rest, when a loud knocking at our cottrge- door alarmed us. 1 anwe, irresolute whether or no to open it; but my father bade me unclose it, when three ruffians instantly rushed in, each wi< h a pistol in his hand. Terror overcame me, and I fell lainling on the floor. When I was somewhat recovered, oh. Heaven ! what did I behold ?— My poor father's bleeding body at my feet! Why did not my heart strings burst wilh ihe agony of that awful mo- ment! What followed 1 know not, for 1 a; one dead, till the vok e of Lord St. Vallery ia the forest rouse i." Sylvia's voice fell to a whisper, and for some moments she spoke not, but, turning her streaming eyea to Lady Euphrasia Deloraine, she murmured forth— " And now, dearest madam, tell me— has any light been thrown on the bloody and mysterious affair during my illness ?— Is tlaere any chance of my poor father's murderer being brought lo justice ?" " Alas! no, my lore," replied Lady Euphrasia ; " vain have been, as yet, all offers of reward for the apprehen- sion of the ruffians ; not a single ray of hope has yet beamed upon us, though my nephew and your kind friend Mr. Rivers, with his son Edward, have made every exer- tion in their power." " Ah 1 Mr. Rivers and Edward," exclaimed our hero- ine, as a faint smile played around her mouth, " how did they discover where I wasp" " Through my friend Sir Maurice Leeland," said Lord St, Vallery, " who happened to mention to Mr. Rivers my adventure in the forest, my meeting you, & c." " Ah 1 dear Mr. Rivers, and Edward, and Marian, and Susanetta Mordaunt," exclaimed Sylvia, " I am sure they will be delighted to hear that their poor Sylvia is safe." " Indeed they must be," said Letitia, wiping the tears of sympathy from her soft eyes, " if they love you as you deserve to be loved." " Iam sure," added St. Vallery, " had you been the daughter of Mr. Rivers, Miss Grey, he could not have been mor. e thankful than he was to hear of where and how you were." " Oh, how grateful— how deeply grateful," exclaimed Sylvia, clasping her pale hands together, and raising them towards Heaven, " ought I to be towards my God, for all the blessings he has yet left to me !" For some moments she remained in silent prayer, and then, addressing Lady Euphrasia Deloraine, she said— " My loved and respected friend, I. have one request to make, which I hope you will accede to." " And what is that, Sylvia ?" " My desire is, dearest lady, that you will permit some one to conduct me to the cottage which was so lately my happy home, that I may learn whether " Her tears choked her utterance, but St. Vallery, guess- ing what she was about to add, said— " The last sad duties were performed by Mr. Rivers, dear Miss Grey; and I myself attended at the mournful ceremony." Sylvia seized the young earl's hand, and pressed it to her lips in silent gratitude. " Sylvia," said Lady Euphrasia, " the day after to- morrow, if you are well enough, Ernest shall accompany you to the cottage. You, will, I know, excuse my pre- sence, as I do not like to leave my daughter for so long a period as a day." " Nay, dearest mamma," added Letitia Deloraine, " do not remain at home on my account, I beseech you. Pray accompany dear Sylvia ; you will be such a comfort to her." " No, deal? Miss Deloraine," said Sylvia, " I will not on any account take Lady Euphrasia from you. Lord St. Vallery will be my protector." Ernest's fine eyes beamed brilliantly as these words fell on his ear, aud he addressed our heroine in reply, saying— " I shall be too happy to be your fellow- traveller, Miss Grey ; but before we go, my aunt must insist on it that you return hither with me, for it would not be safe to leave you at the cottage at L •, unprotected." " But the Rivers'," said Sylvia. " Nay, nay, my love," exclaimed Lady Euphrasia, " you must promise to return to Stainsgrove with Ernest, or I cannot trustjyou at L ." " Ah, dearest, kindest friend 1" cried Sylvia, " how watchful you are over my safety ! How do I merit this unbounded benevolence ?" fixing her eyes on the spot where her father's bleeding corpse had lain; " no, not all, Marian." And then a kind of stupor came over her, from which she was aroused by a loud cry, and an old woman rushed into the cottage, and, clinging around the neck of our heroine, groaned forth in her native language—• " Oh, raria vital Oh, giorus infelice 1 , Ah, miserial" " Calm yourself, calm yourself, my good Lisa 1" ex- postulated Mr. Rivers. " Remember our poor Sylvia's feelings." But vain were all attempts to quiet her; the poor old creature still wept on hysterically, calling on the name of her murdered master, and imploring pardon for her neg- lect on the fatal night. " How was it," asked Mr. Rivers of his son, " that Lisa heard of her young mistress's arrival? 1 was in hopes we could have spared the dear girl this trial." " Most likely she heard from Thompson," replied Ed- ward, " who was in the room when I came to inform you of it." " Most likely," said Mr. Rivers. Sylvia now rising, took the arm of poor Lisa, and si- lently proceeded up- stairs towards her late parent's bed- chamber. No one attempted to follow her, for they rightly judged it would be better to let her grief be un- seen save by the faithful nurse. Sylvia threw herself on her knees beside the bed where her dead parent had nightly lain down to enjoy that rest which visits only the pillow of the righteous, and poured forth her soul ia fervent prayer to the great disposer of all things. On rising from her knees, she felt more com- posed than she could have hoped to be, and proceeded to unlock the drawers where her father used to keep his few valuables, where she found a parcel of notes to the amount of eight hundred pounds, in a small sitken bag; also a small packet of letters and papers, and a splendid dia- mond ring set round with sapphires, having on the back of the gold setting the initials " H. G." Having secured these, she once more cast her tearful eyes around the room, and, taking the arm of Lisa, shuddered as she murmured— " Oh, my poor father 1" " And now, my dear girl," said Mr. Rivers, as our he- roine re- entered the neat apartment where all her friends were awaiting her re- appearance, " come with me to the parsonage and take some refreshment. My lord St. Val- lery will also honour me ?" " I shall be most happy," replied Ernest j " and I think Miss Grey requires a little rest and refreshment ere we return to Stainsgrove Park." Sylvia smiled a sweet smile of thanks on St. Vallery as she took the arm of Mr. Rivers, and, followed by the rest of the party, left the cottage and proceeded to the parsonage, the carriage coming after them. " After you have taken some lunch, my love," said Mr. Rivers, " you will have another trial." " Yes,'' replied Sylvia, " my poor father's grave." The clergyman nodded assent. As the three crossed the lawn, thus linked together itf; the bond of friendship, they looked to those who stood awaiting them beneath the clematis- covered porch, tbe loveliest beings on earth. " Yes," thought St. Vallery, " Sylvia is indeed unri- valled in beauty, in grace, and fascination. Oh, that I mag one day call her mine 1" Of course the pretty brunette, Susahetta, appeared the. personification of everything desirable in woman, to tho eyes of Charles Rivers; while the dove- like eyes, lighfe brown hair, and pale cheek of the elegant, gentle Marian, were all in all to her doating father, for she was the image; of his dead wife. We will not here dilate on the painful parting that took place between the orphan and the friends of her childhood, nor how old Lisa would not be pacified till St. Vallery took upon himself to give her permission to ac- company her young mistress to Stainsgrove Park. Sylvia continued gazing on the parsonage, and waving her hand to its dear inhabitants, until the carriage, turn- ing into the forest, hid them from her view, and then no longer able to stifle her feelings, she sunk back and in- dulged her tears. " Ah, mia poverina signora I" cried Lisa, kissing Syl- via's hand, " it is not right for that you should let fall de tear- drop in dis way." " Nay, dear Miss Grey," said Lord St. Vallery, " do not thus distress yourself; you are not strong enough to bear it." " Oh, my lord 1" sobbed Sylvia, " do not deem me in- sensible to your kindness, but pray allow me for a few minutes to weep unnoticed. Seek not to stay my tears, dear Lisa ; they give ease to a heart almost bursting with mingled feelings." - The journey was silent and melancholy, and XSappy was St. Vallery when the carriage entered Stainesgypve Park. " Oh, belisissima 1 grandisissima I madre di Dio !'* exclaimed Lisa, lifting up her hands with delight as she beheld the splendid avenue of oaks, and the beautiful house in the distance; " dis do put me in mind of de beautiful palazzos in my own country. And is dis vere mia Signora Sylvia do live?" When they got out of the carriage, St. Vallery begged Grace Fawcett to recommend poor Lisa to the house- keeper's eare, while he and Sylvia made their way to Letitia Deloraine's apartment, where Lady Euphrasia was anxiously awaiting their return. [ To be continued in our next.) CHAPTER III. THE COTTAGE. THE day after the morrow arrived, and our heroine was awakened by Letitia Deloraine's maid, Grace Fawcett, who, having assisted her at her toilet, informed her that it was Lady Euphrasia's wish that she ( Grace) should accompany her and Lord St. Vallery to L A ' OUTF. ANSWER.— Colonel Greene, of the Boston Post, ia a very apt scholar, as everybody knows. Can he tell us where the fire goes when it goe. out - Vermont Spirit of the Age. It goes to lucifer matches, we reckon, because we can always liml it on the end of one.— Boston Post. When Sylvia entered the breakfast- room, the young earl was more than ever struck with the extreme loveli- ness of her face and form. Sylvia Grey was then not quite sixteen; her figure was the perfection of symmetry, being about the middle height; hei complexion was fair and transparent, and appeared dazzlingly so when contrasted with her dark Italian eyes and raven hair, that flowed oarelessly around her fairy form. As soon as breakfast was over, Sylvia, attended by St. Vallery and Grace Fawcett, stepped into Lady Euphra- sies carriage ; and alter a three hours' journey, our he- roine beheld once more her own humble and once happy dwelling. She pointed it out to the earl, but could not utter a word. The carriage soon stopped at the garden- gate, and as St. Vallery handed Sylvia from it, two young ladies and a youth were passing. " It is Sylvia— Sylvia Grey I" exclaimed one of the girls; " run, Edward, and tell papa she is here." " Marian — Susanetta 1" exclaimed out weeping hero- ine, as she clasped them alternately in her arms. " Oh, Sylvia 1" they exclaimed together, " thank Heaven, we meet once more !" " My father— oh, my poor — poor father!" sobbed Sylvia, as she leant weeping on the shoulder of Marian Rivers. " Nay, nay, dearest," said Susanetta Mordaunt, " do not weep thus. See how nicely we have kept your gar- den, and— and " But the gentle girl's self- control failed her, and the three friends wept together. St. Vallery stood by, not a little moved at the affecting meeting; but Mr. Rivers and his sou Edward now ap- proached. God help thee, my poor girl 1" said the good cler- gyman, as he clasped Sylvia Grey in his arms. For some moments none spoke, but at length Edward, taking the hand of our heroine, kindly said— " Here, Sylvia, here is the key of your cottage, which has been closed ever since the awful morning when " " 1 kuow— I know what you mean," cried Sylvia, in- terrupting him in a voice of agony; and then calming herself, she continued—" But where— where is poor old Lisa ?" " She is at the parsonage," replied Mr. Rivers : " she knew nothing of your disappearance and the other awful occurrence till the^ following morning, when her grief was indeed quite frantic. She cursed her deafness and drowsy age, as being the cause of her not hearing what was going on, and flying to your assistance." " Poor, poor old Lisa !" said Sylvia, as she opened the cottage door with an almost bursting heart, and threw herself into the first chair. " See, dearest, see," cried Marian Rivers, trying to divert her thoughts, " all is as you left it." - » " Not all— I trust not all," exclaimed Sylvia, wildly, CHAPTER IV. THE GRAVE OF THE MURDERED. AFTER lunch, Marian Rivers, without saying any- thing, took our heroine's hand, and together, in Bilence, they left the house, and, crossing the garden, opened a side wicket which led into the church- yard. How brightly shone the sun I— how sweetly carolled the robin, as he sate perched on a tomb- stone, that marked where lay an infant, who had flown to his Father's bosom ere a twelve- month had passed o'er his baby brow. And then how fragrantly smelt the mignionette and gilly- flowers which grew around several of the soft green mounds which co- vered those who were once, perhaps, the joy of a family, but now a mass of corruption 1 The golden leaves of au- tumn were beginning to fall from their boughs among the lowly graves ; and as Sylvia stood silent amid the dead, she thought within herself—" Aye, withered leaves are indeed fit ornaments for the beds of those who sleep the church- yard sleep. Life is but a summer's dream, and man, with all his strength and beauty, must one day fade and fall, even as a leaf from the bough 1" On passed the two fair girls, like angels watching o'er the slumbers of the dead, till they came to a newly- made grave surrounded with evergreens and China roses, which were sending forth their last sweet perfume op the au- tumn air. Marian, twining one arm around the neck of Sylvia, pointed with the other hand to the stone opposite, in which was inscribed these words:— " SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF RICHARD GREY; WHO BIED WHILE ATTEMPTING TO RESCUE HIS ONLT CHILD FROM THE HANDS OF RUFFIANS, August 4th, A. D. 1700. May the sod rest lightly o'er his head, And angels guard this lowly bed." Sylvia wept upon her friend's bosom for some moments undisturbed, and then, falling on her knees beside the grave of her murdered father, prayed fervently, but yet calmly. " Marian," she said, as she rose from her devotional position, " who placed this stone here to the memory of my beloved parent?" " Lord St. Vallery,'' replied Miss Rivers. " Oh, may God bless and protect him!" exclaimed Sylvia, raising his eyes to Heaven, " for all his uncalled- for benevolence I And these shrubs, Marian— were not these placed here by your dear hand ?" " Susanetta Mordaunt, Edward, and I together planted them, Sylvia, as a tribute to the memory of the dead, and s mark of our love to his orphan child." Marian Rivers extended her arms, and Sylvia was soon clasped in them. Slowly, and with many a tearful glance at her father's grave, di; J our heroine, leaning on her gentle friend's arm, leave the village church- yard, which looked so calm and peaceful in the golden sunshine, that she wished al- most that she, too, were sharing the narrow bed with her parent, beneath the grassy mound. When they again entered the parsonoge garden, they were joined by Susannetta Mordaunt, the orphan niece of the late Mrs. Rivers, who had, for the last seven years, lived beneath the roof of her inestimable uncle. " Susanetta," said our heroine, sweetly, " I have a re- quest to make." " What is it, dear Sylvia ?— But it is granted ere it is asked." It is this, Susey— that you, when you are the wife of Edward Rivers ( which you will be in a month, Marian tells me), will take up your abode in the cottage which my father bought." " But are you not coming back yourself?" anxiously interrupted Marian; " shall we not once more have you among as ?" " Why, dear Marian," replied Sylvia, " my kind friends Lady Euphrasia Deloraine, Lord St. Vallery, and your father, all think it better that I should for some time con- tinue at Stainesgrove Park; for they say it would not be safe for me to remain in L , where sueh violence has been committed on my poor father, and attempted against me." " Well," said Marian, sadly, " perhaps they are right in that." " But will you not be able to come to my— my— my wedding, Sylvia ?" asked Miss Mordaunt, blushing. " Yes, that I will, Susanetta," replied Sylvia, " if you will grant the request I have already made about the cot- tage." " Oh, how can I thank you sufficiently, my dear, kind friend ?" cried Susanetta, clasping Sylvia's hand. " Nay, do not thank me," said our heroine, softly smiling, " I am not so disinterested iu my offer as you think me. But I could not bear the idea of indifferent persons taking possession of that dwelling where my poor father passed so many tranquil hours, and " Her voice faltered— she could say no more ; and Ma- rian Rivers and - her cousin fondly. twined their arms TO ANNA, MINSTREL OP THE HEATH- Of all the bold assuming race. Who . Ing with less of aoul and face,—• Whom want of bread, or want of shame Impel, to lie for tood or fame. How few, ala. I outlive to- day,— How few are aeen while e' « n they stay! " A. cloud, of fi list tbe wretche. rise, And almost blind the public eye. : Like mist, dissolving in the sky, As light they live, a. early die. Here one exclaim., " thl. fellow', clever," But ere we look, he', lo. t for evert Gone, fleeting a. the summer wind, And left no deeper trace behind. But thou whose single touch can warm The wlnt'ry soul, and sweetly chaira A bosom blighted a. my own,— Sure thou art not for NOW alone : Secure in fame, thy polish'd rhyme. Shall live, at least, while live the " TIMES.'" Dear, thrilling Min. trel! could my tongue Catch inspiration from thy . org, And heat with thine to Nature true, Oh ! I would be a minstrel too. What, though thy heath, forlorn and wild, Unahelter'd leaves its favour'd child, As o'er it. waste the bleak wind, play, Or summer darts resistless day? I, rapt in ectasy. would lie, And mingle In thy minstrelsy,— The world, and all it. pomp resign, For one bewitching thrill ot thine. But when thy meioily should cease,— As some lone minstrel hush'd iu peace. Hang, tuneless on the de. ert tree,— Thyself . nould. t ever hang on me, Fress'd to my lips, thi. patient breast Should bear and soothe thy silent rest. Oh, wert thou poor ! that 1 may lend Relief, and be at least thy friend ! Oh, didst ihou wounds of anguish feel! Or any wounds which I could heal! Thou shouldst the depth of kfndness prove, And I, perhaps, the depth of love. But here I pause, lest niggard fate Have made thee more a thing to hate Than charm nor g. v'n the faintest trace Of loveliness in form or lace: A creature whom to see or feel. Were half repulsive to my will; Whom Nature blush'd at a. . he made, And almost trembled for her trade j Yet though she fali'd to paint thee pretty, Resolv'd on something— made thee witty, And gave In soul such melting graces, A. far outshine the loveliest laces. Another Impulse strikes my brain; ftlethink. I hear thee sigh, " ' tis vain To plead, or burn, or die for one Whose days of loveliness are done. I once was fair, but oh 1 the blast Of years has sear'd me, and ' tis past i Pale are these lips, that once were flush'd With youth, their voice will soon be hush'd. Ala. 1 these nerveless limbs are old,— These locks are thin— this heart i. cold j O youth ! thy pray'r. in mercy cease, And let my few last years be peace; Forbear, and know it cannot be,— Dly daughter', old enough for thee !'* Hast thou a daughter, on whose brow The raven locks are resting now While thine in wild disorder shake, White as the chill storm 8 purest flake? And shine* ht- r eye as thine hath shone,— By all unequall d but thy own ? Oh I grant that all- loduigent Nature Has bless'd you both with form and f< Grant that alike the graces shine On both,— but is her VOICE like thl In brief to end thi. 1 And Bet my purpose full I Say what thou art,— if If aught adorns the lu constancy if hx lu heart, a tig! Or should t' To sp Grant Those The , May h CHARLES T In the reign of Ch pay, resorted to a lodging- h money taken fr( m him by stealth. In the morning, covered his loss, he vowed revenge against the lii should meet with possessed of caili, and, accordingly, overtakl gentleman to whom he related his mishap, he insisted on havi his loss made good. The gentleman, tor some time, expostulate' with him on the atrocity of such conduct, but to no purpose | the tar was resolute, and the gentleman dreading worse consequence., delivered his purse, but lo in after had the sailor taken up, < amined, and coo milted to Newgate, from whence Jack . ent a i' mate, with the lollowing strange epistle to the king:—- " KING CHARLES.— One of your subjects, the other nlght, r me of forty pounds, for which 1 robbed another of the . am who ha. i!. humanly sent Hie to Newgate, and he swear. I shall be" hanged ; therefore, for your own sake, save my life, or - you'll lose one of your best seamen in your navy. " JACK SKIFTON.'* HI. Majesty on the receipt of thfs very laconic letter, wrote this answer, equally laconic, and characteristic of the humourous tem- perament of that me. iy monarch :— 11 JACK SKIPTON,— For thi. time, I'll save thee frcm the gal- low. [ but, if hereafter, thou art guilty of the like, by G— d I'll have thee hanged, though the best seaman In my . navy. Thine,— CHARLES REX," Steplien's- green, Dublin. around her, whispering sweet sisterly words of comfort jecSp"° t" vse Authors, so^ that each had thi fete"^ rescrved for the object A REGULAR PUZZLER.— How many young ladies will it take to reach from London to Brighton ?— Fif y- two; because a Miss is as good as a mile. QUITE ENOUGH.— NEWS FROM FNGLAND.—" Queen Victoria has got a boy baby I Quite news enough to be brought over in one ship 1'' — American paper. CURIOUS COINCIBENCE.— The courtiers deliberated how to get rid of Richelieu altogether. The Mareschal de Marillac proposed to assassinate him ; the Duke de Guise would have him exiled, and the Mareschal de Bossompiere wished to confine him for life. It is a curious fact, that each of these propositions fell back upon their and tenderness. ( of their hatred. TETE PENNY SUNDAY TIMES AND PEOPLES' POLICE GAZETTE. m6m ^ Fragments tor tie Curious, RANDOM THOUGHTS,— TRUTH, love thine op « n brow, fnir beauteous " Truth," Thou chief, best ornament of age, or youth j I love to contemplate thy radiant eye Beaming with thine own Heav'n. born energy. And when with gon'roui feelings thou'rt combin'd, How rich!— how captivating is the mind Where thou dost dwell!— whether in age or youth, I love, I honour, worship thee, fair Truth, ANNA, MIHSTKIL or THB HEATS, A gentleman having engaged to fight a main of cocks, directed Ins let tier in the country, who was an Irishman, to pick out two of the best, and bring them to town. Paddy, having made his selec tea,. put the two cock, together in a bag, and brought them with lum in the mail- coach. When they arrived, it was found that upon their journey they had almost torn each other in pieces t on which Paddy was severely taken to task for his stupidity in putting both cock. int. one bag. " Indeed," said the honest Hibernian, " I thought there w « s no risk of their falling out, aa they were going to fight ou the suae side. HARVEST SONG. When burnt'. rich season o'erspread. the wide plain With Cere', crop, shining and fair, And light hearts beat high as they merrily ply The sickle to crop the ear— O, then with what joy don the reaper pursue His toil,.. the bright o:' o of day 8h5? M, tl!" y° ung morning behmfc on ttift glittering dew, Still hanging like gems from the » pray. " 1,4.. tnJe* , ul* 7 noor. tlde ' oppresses with heat, Tis true, big drc, p, stand on the brow i But reaper, ne'er. <; uall while there '. good nut- brewn ale, A green swari}, and shady oak. bough. And when ev' ulng sheds Its dim shadows around, ti ' P^ 0, homewards the harvesters wend, •. nil* nine the way with some pastoral lay, A* neatii their ripe burthens ( hey bend. And Wbare is inch genuine happiness found , As r. tlgna o'er tlie husbandman s cot? Oh I then Is the time, when the ear a la Its prime, I envy the cottager', lot. Hi. spring with It's primrose and violet blue, The summer's luxuriant tree, And flow'r- bedeck'd hills are enchanting to view, But harvest, bright harvest for me I Tunbridge Wells. 6. LfcsaiNOTo*. a fella^- coAntrytnan of his, and hiring '"" had seen at London, concluded with saying that he , S Lan*' Bnd " aw one of Ihe musicians playing on ! tI.. btlore' w" "" ked by his friend what n' v ' le ilZt ~ * *" ' M J'"' " '",< i 1 " cll"" ood " » » » THE TWO mmi A DRAMATIC TALE* ( Founded on the Popular Piece of that name, as Performed at the London Theatres J SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF LOVE. Spirit of all spirits, I rule above, Mortals' talisman, the Spirit of Love ; When Eve was forru'd from Adam's side* It was then on earth I did abide. Mortals to me fti all submission kneel, Old and young my magic influence feel; In iVeTy httiTt 1 find & home, fcn every clime I'm known to roam. Sometimes I rob the soul of rest- Sometimes I dwell in the savage breast— Sometimes the innocent I falsely assail— Sometimes for me how ye lovers bewail— Sometimes I mingle in wanton jest With jealousy, hate, revenge, and the rest. Spirits of fancy, or spirits of air, Tell me what spirit with me can compare 1 Mine js the thraldom, and mine is the power- Mine is the temple, and mine is the bower, Where numberless votaries bend to my shrine*— Where honour and virtue with bCAuty cfcirtblna. My petent spell's by all imbtie'd,— The tyrant's heart's hy me subdued ; E'en bachelors themselves will often confess The powerful charm of the soul I possess. I'm known to thfc monarch, I'm known to the slave, I mjaiown to the heathen, I'm known to the knave ; ! m known to tho minstrel when he tunes his lays, I m known to the poet When he breathes to my praise $ v il l ^ che aip' to the beasta of the tiehi— ir. l V breathing to my power must yield. Without, me ye mortals would revel in strife, * or X the stcret mystic spring of life. i\ K. WHEELWRIGHT. An old gentleman desired his Wag of a servant boy, to tn'ake the fhutters well; wns retorted t. o with:-"! vould, sir, it 1 could j but they have been made a many yrj » fs ot; o.*' STRAY THOUGHTS, How many times have f, whan young, flay'd near n\ v natal spot; Where ditties s\ veet I've often sung, Of kind contentment's lot; Of spdtls, of games I used to play, With children of my sJze I Ah 1 well do I this constant day, T1} QS£ happy moments prise. Ihl^ ressior. s sure they've made, His true, Which ne'er will be etas'd ; Ofttiotaeuts which I sw eetest kuew— Of times ftot soon defae'd. When butterflies I often caught, • To please my boyish Blind ; When nests of birds I eagtr sought, And sports of cruel kind. When fishing T Mould often go, And think of torments ill { When sundry thoughts 1 tistd to know, Instead of wisdom's skill. So lay it gently in your mind, My humble reader, pray ; These were but tricks of schoolboy kind, At truant times of day. And truly now I dwell upon Those. happy scenes of yore, And oft rehearse thfcm in my song, Of days past evermore. Th* W—• coach stopping at a place called Oedburn, on Its wai to Wolverhampton, was surrounded by several boyi with article* tor sale. In the midst ol tbe tumult, an old gentleman put out his head to euquire tbe name of the phce; one of the boys think ing he wanted to know the price of his strawberries, excla med :- " Fourpence a pottle, air," DREAMS. y " Sweet is the dream, divinely sweet, When absent souls in fancy meet." I dreamt that at e'en a white mist arose, Where the hedge- row brambles twist; " fought that my love was a sweet wild rose, I the silv'ry mist! veetly I beaded her pale red charms ? a diamond speck ! t up my wat'ry arms, * her beautiful neck ! heavenly birth ; e bright, *"^ vn again in the earth. I; wild bee, her lip, ski ; she rirtlfe s ; sun's bright gleam did bask. Again— I was where the pale moon did line The forest with silver bright, And I thought my love was a wild woodbine, And I— a zephyr light: " Welcome," said I, " where the bramble weaves Around us a guard of thorns ;" .. And sweetly I tangled myself in her leaves, And blew her rcd- streak'd horns ; To thp music of which we led c* A gay dance about, Till old night came out To rock us to sleep in his dusky bed. A country gentleman, walking in his garden, saw his gardener asleep under an arbour. " What," says he, " asleep instead of at work! You idle dog! you are not worthy that the sun should ahine on you." 4 I am truly sensible of my unworthiness," an- • wered the man, " and therefore I laid myself down to sleep in the shade.' * MY NATIVE ITALY. Oh, have you heard, o'er yonder hill, Borne on the morning's balmy breeze, The matin bell so softly steal, Ahd die away amid the trees ? Oh, Italy, thy name to me Recalls full many a cherish'd scene ; My every wish reverts to thee, To find, alas! ' tis but a dream. Land of my childhood's sunny clime, Where nought but brightness decks the sky, To thee, in magic fairy time, On wings of love and hope I'd fly. But wandering far from native land, Those scenes have now but memory's charms J But soon I'll hail my native strand, And lly to friends endearing arms, tnomm* FRANCESCO FOSCAJU, the venerable Doge of Venice, reigned over his country during thirty- four years, the whole of which period was marked by almost continual warfare. He had, however, by continua Icourage, firmness, and sagacity, won four rich provinces, and increased the glory of the Venetian territory not less than her dominion. Ardent, enterprising, and ambitious, it Was not Without much opposition that he obtained the Dogeship, and he soon dis- covered that the throne which he had covetted with so much ear- nestness was far from being a seat of repose^ Accordingly, at the peace of Ferara, which in 1433 succeeded a calamitous war, foreseeing the approach Of fresh and still greater troubles, and wearied by the factions, he tendered his abdication to the Council of Ten, and was refused. Nine years afterwards a si- milar offer was made by him, which was again rejected by the Council, who accompanied their negative with the exaction of an oath that he would retain his burdensome dignity for life. But Foscari had long learnt that life on such conditions was the heaviest of curses. Three out of his four sons were already dead; to Jacope, the survivor, he looked for a continuation of his name, and the support of his declining age; and froih that youth's mar- nafe vith Marina » a princess of the illustrious house of Contarini, and the popular joy with which his nuptials were celebrated, the Do^ e drew favourable auspices for future happiness. Four yfears had scarcely elapsed from the conclusion ef that well- omened marriage, when a series of calamities began, from which death alone was to relieve either the son or his yet more wretched father. Jacopo Foscari was denounced by the Council of Ten as having received presents from foreign potentates, which offence, according to the law, was one of the most hfeinbiis Which a noble could commit. Under the eyes Of his own father, who was com pelled to preside at the examination of the prisoner, confession or. the rack Was fextotted, find from the lips of that father he received the sentence which banished him for life to Napoli di Romania. While Jacopo rested jn comparative tranquillity within the bounds to which he was restricted, an assassination took place in tile streets of Venice. The chief of the Tfeh frds mt& dered on his return from a sitting of that coMcll, at his own door, by unknown hands. The magnitude Of the offence, and the violation of the high dignity of the Ten demanded a victim, and the coadjutors of the slain magis- trate caught with eager grasp at the slightest clue which suspicion could afford. Jacopo was at once boldly accuscd of having insti- the murder, for who, it was argued, could be more likely to arm the hand of an assassin against a chief of the Ten, than one whom the Ten had visited with( punishment ? On this unjust and unsupported surmise, the young Foscari was recalled froin banish- ment, placed on the rack in his father's presence, and not absolved even after he resolutely persisted in denial unto the end. Jacopo was now excluded from all communication with his family, tern from the wife of his affections, and debarred from the society of his children. Preyed upon by this heavy load of afflictions, after six years' unavailing suit for a remission of punishment, he ad- dressed a letter to ths Duke of Milan, implonsg his good^ offlces with the Senate. That letter was conveyed to the Council of Ten, and the result was another examination for the heavy crime of soli- citing for. eign intercession with hia native governments For a third time the elder Fesca'ri listened to the accusation of his son, and for the first time he heard him openly aVoW tile charge of his accusers. His sentence of exile was renewed, and he was sent back to the dreary dungeon in which he had passed so much of his life. Some years previous to this, one of the chiefs of the Ten, named Loredano, had a feud with the family of Foscari. His uncle, Pietro, after gaining high distinction in active service, as Admiral of Ve- nice, on his return to the capital, headed the political faction which opposed the Doge. In an evil moment of impatience the elder Foscari once publicly declared at the senate that so long as Pietro Loredano lived, he should never feel himself to be really Doge. Not long aftcrwftrds the admiral died suddenly at a miUtairy banquet, and the evil- omened words of Foscari were at once conhectfjd With his decease, it was also remarked that his brother, Marco Lore- dano, died in a somewhat similar manner while engaged in insti- tuting a legal process against one of the Doge's family. The foul tumours partially eXcitcd by these untoward eircumstanees, for they appear in truth to be nothing more, met with little accepta- tion, and were rejected and forgotten, except by a single person, James Loredano, the son of one, and the nephew of the other de- ceased noble, gave full credit to the accusation that his father and uncle had ditd by poison, and he bound himself by a solemn vow to the most deadly and unrelenting pursuk of revenge. This rotf' ne fulfilled to the uttermost: it was at his instigation that Jacopo Fos' cari had been so heavily persecuted* and he resolved to involve the father in the same ruih. But to returh to" the Doge. Immediately after the last sentence of banishihertt h& d been passed upon his ton, he retired to his own chamber, there to give way to that grief which he could not exhibit before the Council of Ten. While, however, he was pon- dering over the troubles that had fallen so heavily upon him in hi* old age, he was interrupted by the keart- broken Marina. Jacopo s wife, who came to entreat that some means might be taken tor a remission of the sentence. " Pardon mc, father," she exclaiinGd, as * lie approached, " for 1 hav'e ventui- ed on yoUr privacy to speak of Jacopo. 1 had obtained permission from the Ten to visit him in prison, but that ppj mission, has been since revoked.'' " By whom ?" asked the Doge. " The Council who had granted it," replied Marina. " On reach- ing the Bridge of Sigh « , I was stopped hy the sentine', who refused to let me pass. A messenger was tent back to ihe Council, but as the court was no longer sifting, and no permission had been given in writing, I was thrust back, with the assurance that until that high tribunal re- assembled, the dungeon's walls must still divide us,'' " True," answered tbe Doge ; " the form has been omitted, and till the court meets again, I fear that you must abide the conse- quence.'' " Till it meets !" exclaimed Marina; " and when it does they will torture him again; and he and I mtist purchase, by renewal of the rack, the interview we seek." " My child, be calm," cried the old man, endeavouring to assuage the bitterness of her grief. " Call me not child," exclaimed Marina abruptly. " You soon will have no children— you deserve none: you, who can talk thus calmly of a son in circumstances which would call forth tears of blood even from Spartans!" " Marina,'' exclaimcd the Doge, " you behold me bowed down with grief. I cannot weep— I would I could; but if each^ white hair on this head wete a young life, this ducal cap the diadem of earth, this ducal ring a talisman, I'd give them aU for him.'' " Yet with lets than these your son might be saved 1" " Alas ! you know not Venice," replied the old man : " they who aim at Jacopo, aim so less at his father; nor would the sire's de- struction save the son. He must return to exile." " And cannot I go with him ?" asked the sorrowing wife. " Alas! I fear not," replied Foscari. " Would that he had never been born. 1 better bore the deaths of the two sons that Heaven took from me that. Jardpo's disgrace." " But he is innocent," cried Marina, " and even were he not so, is our own blood and kin to shrink from us in perilous moments?'' " I shrank not from him," replied the Doge; " but I have other duties ttian a father'sthe state demands the sacrifice." An attendant at this moment came to announce that James Lo- redano was without to crave an audience. The Doge at first refused to meet him Whom he knew to be. the chief enemy of his race, but, summoning resolution, he commanded that lie should be sent in Loredano was not long in obeying the summons, and approaching Foscari haughtily, he announced that he was the bearer ot a mes- sage from the Council. What!" exclaimed the Doge, " have they then met again, and without apprising me of their intention ?" " Thr y wished to spare your feelings,'' replied Loredano. " Be- sides, you know well that they have power to act at discretion either with or without the presence of the Doge. " You need not school me, signor," answered Foscari, " for I sat in that Council when you were a young patrician.'' " True, in my father's time," exclaimed Loredano. " I have heard him and the admiral, his brother, say as much.( Your high- ness may remember, then,— they botli die. t suddenly." " Better die so than live lingeringly in pain," observed the Doge. " No doubt," answered Loredano: " yet most men like to live their time out." " And did not they?" asked the old man. " The grave, knows best," replied Loredano:—" but they both died, as I have said, suddenly." " Is that so strange," exclaimed Foscari, " that you repeat the word emphatically ?" . " Of that you should be the best judge, answered the other. " But a truce to this. I am the bearer of a message from, the council, who hare decreed that your son shall return to banish- "^" rhank Heaven 1" cried Marina fervently; and then, addressing herself to Loredano, she inquired whether she would be permitted to share his banishment. On this subject, however, nothing had yet been decided by the council, and having delivered his instruc- tions, the proud noble withdrew, to exult in the suffering which he had been chiefly instrumental in hurling upon those he hated. Marina then departed to take her last leave of the iraprisened Jacopo, but not until she had obtained from the Doge that he also would visit his son ere he left the Venetian shores for ever. As she entered the dungeon, Marina threw herself distractedly into her husband's arms, and in hurried accents declared that they should never again tear her from him. " Hnwl" sxrlaimed Jacopo, " would st_ thou then share home. Perhaps I could have borne this, but I am not certain, for he who loves not his country, loves nothing." " Obey her, then," answered Marina, " for ' tis she that puts thee forth," " Aye, there it is/' exclaimed Jacopo; " that thought is like a curse upen my soul. The mark is set upon me,— and I go alone 1'' " Nay, t Wili go with thee," cried Marina. " And our children ?' * " ' Ahey, I fear, will not be suffered to go with us," replied Ma- rina, mournfully* " And canst thou leave them V4 " Av/' she replied, " witk matiy a pang, ' tis true; but I can leave them, children as they are, to teach you to be less a child.'' " Ah, Marina 1" exclaimed jacopo, " you never yet were far from Venice : never Saw her beautiful towers in the receding distance, while everV furroW df the vessel's track sfeemed ploughing deep into your heart; yoti hevftir saw day go down upon ydur native spires so calmly with its gold and crimson glory, and after dreaming a, ^ ioturVif- d irioinn • V » ounit tKnira oti'oVp QTlfl Tftlinn thpm llftt.. disturbed vision of them and theirs, awake, and found them not.'' r departure,'' exclaimed Marina: " it Nay, let us think of our is decreed that you leave Venice to- night " That's sudden," cried Jacopo: " shall I not then once more behold my father?'' " You Will," shetepl'ed. " The Doge will be here anon." Jocopo was about to reply to this gratifying intelligence, when footsteps were heard descending the stairs, and shortly afterwards Loredano stood before the prisoner, who said ironically " Most welcome, noble signor. I deemed not that this poor place could have drawn such presence hither.'' " ' Tis not the first time I have visi Loredano. " Ah! well, I recognise the sound, 1' cried Foscarij " I heard it once— but once before, and that is five- and- thiyty years ago I— even then I was not young, Alas I sirs, ' tis now the knell of my poor boy!" As Foscari spoke, some attendants entered, bearing in the delid body of Jacopo. This sight was more than the poor old Doge could bear; his heart was broken, and he was sinking to the earth, when one of the deputies, hastening forward, supported him in his arms, and was about to conduct him to a chair, when Foscari, with an effort, broke from him, and erecting himself firmly, exclaimed:— " No,— a sovereign shouM die standing!— My boy I my poor boy, I follow thee!" And so saying, he sank down and expired ere any assistance could be rendered him. By a subsequent decree of the council, however, the trappings of supreme power, of which the Doge had divested himself while living, were restored to him when dead; and he was interred with ducal magnificence in the church of the Minorites, the new Doge attending as a mourner. I thought of O'Connell'. ely » ! nm on earth, " Oreen i. le of the • « , lov'd land of hi. birth j" And faith sure, I think It will plainly be seen, Irish apples are the fruit— no the root which you mean s. For it's a curious kitchen where a Pot is not found, / » nd Toe faith's a part which comes next to the grouna.. Top K a P'sytbtog which Is oft used by hoys. And the next sure enough will d « troy all our Joys; For truly the bane and' th. curse of mankind Those who Tope to their cost will assuredly flna. Tea Is a beverage refreshing I own, Though topers I know will Its virtue, disown. % My task Is nigh done, but I've one answer more, Lovers oft give a sly Tap at the door, And now sure I think it will clearly be seen, A POTATO ® ' » the much valued root which you mean. J. NTTMS, © Ijcatm. visited such places,'' answered • Nor would it be the last, were all men's merits well rewarded," returned Marina s " but perhaps you came to insult, or to remain a spy upoii us ?'' • - l " Neither, noble lady/ 1 answered Lofed& no ? " t am sent hither to your husband to announce the council's decree.'' " That I have already done,*' answered the wife; " not so gently, doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe. If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence. The dungeon's gloom « deep without you, and full of reptiles not less loathsome, though tiflsfprl' ® , . TO LET a Small Convenient' House* consisting of Five Rooms and a garden, situate No; l*. Thomas- Street, Hackney Road. Rent, ^ 18.; Fiatwres, £ 7> i dun- How!" exclaimed SC" Aye, theVack, the grave,— all with thee 1" cried Marina; and then, as she beheld his pale countenance, si e inquired if he was ill. " No," replied Jacopo; " ' tis the joy of seeing thee again that has sent the blood back to my heart. Oh, how welcome to me thcu art: I felt dull and cheerless but now, and even as thou didst enter this gloomy cell, I was busy writing." " What didst thou write ?" asked Marina. " My name," answered Jacopo, leading her to the wall on which he had inscribed it> " look, love, tis there; and recorded next to it is the name of him who preceded me here, if dungeon dates say true.'' " And what of him?" asked Marina. " These walls are silent of men's ends, replied Jacopo. What of him ? thou askest. What of me ? may soon be asked.'' " Nay, thy liie is safe," cried his suffering wife. " And my liberty?" ... , " Is not granted," she replied. " You must return to exile. " Then is my last hope gone !'' exclaimed Jacopo. " 1 could en- dure my dungeon, for twas Venice; I could support the torture,— there was something in my native air that buoyed my spirits up; but exile from my native lano is worse than death. " My husband," cried Marina, " I have sued to accompany thee This love of thine for an ungrateful and tyrannic soil is passion, not patriotism, for me, so that I could see thee happy, I would not cavil about climes or regions." • < Nor I," answered Jacopo, " could I have gone forth like the patriots of old, to seek another region with their flocks and herds. Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion. or, like our fathers, driven by AttUa from Italy to barren isles, I would have given some tears to my late country, and many thoughts, but afterwards would have addressed myself, with those about me, to create a new their sting is honester^ " Foscari, yoti khoW your seiiteneS, tlieft?' 9 exclaimed Loredano. " I do," answered Jacopo; " it is eternal banishment: but tell me,— dioes my wife accompany me?'' " Aye, if she so wills it.'' " For that receive my thanks," cried Jacopo: " and now, signor, I would crave your absence froia our gloomy cell. ' " Nay," exclaimed Marina, '' see you not that he pomes fto glut his hate with a last look upon our miseries ?" " Peace, Marina!" cried the prisoner; " this is madness." " It m# y be so," she teplied j " and wl) o hath made us mad ?' " Go on," muttered LoredP. no* indifferently; " it chafes me not." " That's false:" cried Marina. " You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph of cold looks upon manifold griefs*— You came to be sued in vain,— to mark our tears, and hoard our groans,— to gaze upon the wreck which you have made: in short to trample on the fallen. We are wretched, signor, as your plots could make us, and how feel yeu?' J " As a rock," responded Loredano. " By thunder biasteu/' cried Marina. " They feel not, but are no less shivered by the bolt.'' The eldbr Fbscari Was noW led Into the dungebn, and falling upon the neck of his son, he gr& ve wfty to the grief which he haa so long suppressed. Jacopo, too, felt agonised by a thousand thoughts that rushed through his brain, and pressing the old man to his heart, he exclaimed :— " Embrace me, father 1— I loved you ever, but never more than, at this moment. Look to my children— to your last child's chil- dren ; let them be all to you which he was once, though I would hate been glad could they have gone with me." " They are the state's," exclaimed Loredano. " Indeed 1 I thought they had been mine," returned the mother. " They are, in all the maternal things," replied the other, " That is, ifi all things painful," said Marina. " If they are sick, they will be left for me to tend them j should they die, to me to bury and to mourn; but if they live, they'll make you soldiers, senators, slaves, exiles,— what you will. Or, if they are females with portions, brides and bribes lor nobles,— such is the state's* care lor its sons and daughters." " " l'is vain to talk further," exclaimed Loredano ; " the hour for your departure approaches, and the wind is fair." " Alas 1" cried Jacopo, " I little thought so lingeringly to leave my dungeon; but when I feel that every step I take, even from this cell, is one away from Venice, I look back on its bare black walls with regret." " Boy, no tears," Cried the Doge, ds he heard the faltering ac- cents of his tongue. " Let them flow on," said Marina. " He wept not on the rack to shame him, and they cannot shame him now. They will relieve his heart, and he will be the better for it. I could weep too, but would not gratify yon wretch so far." As Marina spoke, they retired from the dungeon, but it soon be- came evident that Jacapo was rapidly sinking beneath the accumu- lation of griefs with which he had been assailed. On reaching Che open air, his limbs became weak and nerveless.: he could no longer support himself, and falling into the arms of an attendant, he was borne to the chamber of the Doge. Here he rapidly became worse ; a ai; kiy paleness overspread his countenance, and it was with diffi culty that he could pronounce a few words of cheering consolation to his wife. All his efforts were, however, made in vain; it was but too apparent that he was struggling with his last enemy— Death,— and in a few minutes afterwards he sank lifeless on the floor. The blow was as severe as it was unexpected to Marina, and the Doge, when he thus beheld his last child dead before him, gave way to those feelings of anguish, which, under othrr circumstances, he'had contrived to suppress. B « t in the midst ot his grief a message was brought that a deputation from the senate desired an audience, when, torgetting his own sorrows for awhile, he hastened to tl. e council chamber, there to receive the men who had plunged him into his present miseries. Here he had not waited long before the deputation was introduced, when, addressing himself to the chief, he inquired their pleasure. " in the first place," replied the'Chief ef the Ten, " the council condoles with your highness on your present grief. " " No more, no more of that," exclaimed Foscari, struggling with his own feelings ; " proceed, sir, with your business." " The Ten," continued the senator, " with a selected junta, hav- ing deliberated on the state of the republic, and the overwhelming cares which at this moment oppress you, have judged it fitting, with all reverence, to solicit from you the ducal ring which you have worn » o long and honourably. And to prove that they are not ungrateful, nor cold to your years and services, they add an appanage of two thousand ducats, to make retirement not less splendid than becomes a sovereign's retreat." " Have you done ?" asked the Doge calmly. " 1 have spoken," replied the Chief: " twenty- four hours are given for you to deliberate." " Twenty- four hours will alter nothing which I have to say," re- turned Foscari. " When I twice before expressed my wish to ab- dicate, it was refused,— and not alone refused, but ye exacted an oath from me that I would never renew my entreaty. I have sworn to die in the full exercise of the functions which my country called upon me to perform, and I will not break my oath. Providence prolongs my days to prove and chasten me ; but ye have no right to reproach my length of days, since every hour has been my coun- try's. I am ready to lay down my lite for her, but for my dignity — I hold it of the whole republic. When the general will is mani- fest, you shall all be answered." '' This reply will not avail y ou," said the Chief of the Ten ; '' but if such is your answer, we will retire." So saying, they left the chamber, when the Doge, also quitting the apartment, proceeded to the one in which lay the dead body of his son. In the meantime the Senate again met to consult, when taking more decisive measures for the accompliskment of their ob- ject, they once more despatched the deputation to the aged sove- reign. On arriving at the palace, he was not in the Council Cham- ber, but on a message being sent he quickly met them, and in quired what new insults they had prepared for him. " We come once more to urge our last request," answered the Chief. And I to answer," returned the Doge. What?" My only answer," replied Foscari; " that which you have al- ready heard." " Hear 3/ oMthen the last decree of the Senate," exclaimed the other. " You are no longer Doge. You are released from your imperial oath as sovereign. Your ducal robes must be put off; but for your services the state allots the appanage already mentioned, l'hree days are allowed you to remove from hense, under the pe- nalty of confiscation." " That last clause," replied the Doge with calm dignity, " I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury." " Your answer, Frar. cis Foscari," exclaimed Loredano. " If I could have foreseen that my old age was prejudicial to the state," returned the Doge, " the chief of the republic never would have shown himself so far ungrateful as to place his own high dignity before his country; but this life having been so many years not useless to that country, I would fain have comscrated my last moments to her. But the decree being rendered, I obey." " If," said the Chief of the Council, " you would have the three days named extended, we willingly will extend them to eight, in token of our esteem." " Not eight hours, signor," exclaimed the Doge; " nor eight minutes. Th re is the ducal ring,— and there the diadem." Then addressing himself to his attendants, he bade them prepare for instant departure. At this moment he was joined by Marina, and then, turning towards the deputation, he exclaimed :— " Adieu, signors! and may the next Doge be better than the present." " The present Doge is Paschal Malipiero, returned Loredano. " Not till I have passed the threshold of these doors," exclaimed the old man. " Saint Mark's bell," answered his deadly foe, " is soon about to toll of his inauguration." " Earth and Heaven!" exclaimed the Doge; " ye will reverbe- rate this peal, and I must live to hear it 1— Well, well, I will re- tire ere this last insult is offered to me." " My lord," said the Chief of the Ten, " if you are indeed going so suddenly, at least retire by the private staircase, which conducts you towards the lauding- place of the canal." " No," cried Foscari, " I will descend the stairs by which I mounted to aoverignty— the Giant Stairs, on whose broad eminence I was invested Doge. My services have called me up these steps, — the malice of my foes drives me down them. There, five- and- thirty years ago, was 1 installed, and traversed these same halls, from which I never thought to be taken, except a corse — a corse, it might be, fightiutc far them — but not pushed hence by fellow citizens. But come, my son and I will go together— he to his grave, and I to pray for mine." " Nay, with permission," exclaimed the chief, " we will ac company you to jour private palace." " You shall not stir," cried Foscari. " I entered hero as so- vereign— I go out as citizen by the same portals. Pomp is tor princes,— I am none." At this moment a bell sounded heavily, and, starting, the old man inquired what it meant. " It is the bell of St. Mark's," replied the Chief of the Council, " which tolls for the election of your • successor." « _ Nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice." —• SKAKSPERE. DRURY TIANE.-— We DO n6t think that Macready has acted at all judiciotisty fey reviving thai very indifferent tragedy, The Gamester, which, with the exception of its moral, has nothing whatever to' recommend it. It is a dull, prosy affair, and the audience seem by no means to admire it. There are plenty of the sterling worlss of our first- rate dramatic Authors which the lessee would surely do better to revive than such heavy, unattractive affairs as this, which, like George Barnwell, palls upon the taste, the theatre continues to be well attefid& h CotENT GARDEN.^— Since our last, Miss Adelaide Kemble has appeared in Mercadahte's tragic opera of Elena Uberti, and with tlie ESost triumphant success. The opera has never before been perfo'riftid in this coun- try, and, upon the whole, has been very well r& ceived. Miss Kemble supported her character admirably, a$ d sang and played with feeling and tenderness. The scene 1 is laid in the city of Feltre, in the latter half of the thir- teenth c& tftiry* when the two great orders of the Guelphs and the GhibeiliMs wsre disputing their rights and power. Elena Uberti has a f& th6r,. whose life is in dan- ger from the latter faction. $ he is < j£ foted! ly loVed by two Ghibelline noblemen, and she gives fccf io One of them, 011 condition that he will save her parent's life. This he promises, but is unable to do in the end, f& r which he is afterwards decapitated. There are some very excellent scenes of rage and jealousy between Elena and her other loVef, and with these a large portion of the piece is taken up; On the knowledge of her lover's nup- tials and her father's execution, she gives way to the most poignant grief, and e » ies s£ Victim to despair and misery. Miss Kemble's highly- finished execution of many difficult passages is loudly and rapturously ap|>! atfdea. Mr. Stretton appears in this opera, and we neter heard him sing so well and with such feeling before. He also considerably applauded. Elena Uberti we do not think the best opera that could have been chosen for Mins Kemble, but she makes the character her own, and will give it an interest which otherwise it would never possess. The scenery and dresses are in good taste and brilliant HAYMARKET.— Mr. Stuart, who has already made a most favourable impression upon the audience at this theatre, in the characters of Iago and the Stranger, has since appeared to great advantage in the character of Lord Townley, in The Provoked Husband.- but we re- gret that the debut of Miss Julia Bennet, as Lady Town- ley, was a failure. In characters of less pretensions, we have 110 doubt she would succeed. The World of Dreams continues to be attractive. ADELPHI.— Mr. Yates has produced, at a great ex- pense and with much splendour, the new piece now per- forming at Paris, called The Queen of Cyprus. The scenic effects are splendid in the extreme, and it has made a most triumphant hit. We shall give a more particular notice of it in our next. QUEEN'S.— The Black Huntsman continues to be well received, and appears likely to remain a favourite for Some time to come. The farce of Nobody's at Home, and Somebody's Abroad, is very laughable. SADLER'S WELLs.-^- The rcew domestic drama called Charlotte Handwell; or, Crime and Sorrow, nightly meets with much applause, of which it is well deserving. It is a well written and highly interesting drama, and the different actors and actresses engaged in it all play with much spirit and effect. The pantomime still excites roars of laughter and applause. , CITY.— An original drama of great merit, and contain- ing some most effective incidents, and exceedingly well written, called A Milliner's Apprentice; or, the Soldier's Widow, is now performing here nightly to crowded houses, and is most enthusiastically received on each re presentation. The characters are sketched with con- siderable skill, and ably sustained by the performers to whom they are allotted. It will in all probability long continue to be a favourite ; all due effect being given to it, as regards scenery, dresses, & c., and embracing, as it does, the whole strength of the company. PAVILION.— A new romantic drama, called The Rob- ber's Oatfi; or, Jealousy, Revenge and Murder, is play- ing here nightly with great success, and well deserves the loud acclamations of applause with which it is greeted. The pantomime is unabated in attraction. VICTORIA.— Geraldine has met with the most unpre- cedented success at this most favourite theatre, and long and triumphant its career, we prognosticate, will be. The house has been crowded to suffocation since its pro- duction. The pantomime also continues greatly to tend to the amusement of the audience. aOLLOWAY'S OINTMENT and FILLS, patronized by the greatest Medical Men of the ag, The following are a few of the distinguished Names % n, v* used the Ointment in the Public Establishments to which i » ' » attached:— Sir B. C. Brociie, Bt., r. a. s. Serjeant- Surgeon to her Majesty1. Sir 11. Dobson, Bt., r. n. s... Principal Surg., Greenwich Rosp. John Elliotson, Esq., M. n... Late Principal Phy. North L. H. Herbert Mayo, Esq., r. a. s.. Senior Surg, to Middlesex Hospital.- Benj. Travets, Esq., F. K. S.. . Senior Surg, to St. Thomas's Hosp « A. White, Esq., r. lf. 9 Senior Surg, to Westminster Hosp. J. Andrews, Esq., F.*. s,.... Senior Surg, to the London Hosp. T Callaway, Esq., r. R. S.... Surgeon to Guy's Hospital. B Partridge, Esq., M. a. c. s.. Snrgeon to Charing Cross Hospital,• J Brigm, Esq., M. K. C. S. .. Senior Surgeon to the Lock Hosp. J' Malyn Esq., M. K. C. S Sdrgeffn to the Western Dispensary W C Dendy, Esq., M. a. C. s. Surgeon t » the Infirm, for Children. A M Wagner, Esq., Si. a. c. s. Surg, to the Di. p, Chancery- lane. Edward rfinns, Esq., M. D.. . Many years Prin, Phy. Jamaica. N Bright, Esq., M. D Author of Treatise on Dropsy, Ike. 3 * Howship, Esq., M. R. C. S . Surgeon to Chasing Cross, Hosp. B A. Stafford, Esq.. M. B. C. S, Surg, to St. Marylebo ® « Infirmary, J. C. Taunton, Esq.. M. R. c. s. Surgeon to the City Dispensary. J. King, Esq., M. R. C. S Surg, to Fres Hosy^ GrevilIe-. treet J. Bull, jSsiL M. R. C. S. Surg, to Seaman. Floating Hosp. , John Bishop,. fisq., M. K. C. s. Surg, to the Northern Dispensary. G. PilcnSi, Esq., M. n. e. s. .. Sur?. to the Surrey Dispensary. A. C. HutchinJWi, Eiq. M. » . c. s Surg. Boyal Metropolian Hosp. In all diseases of the Shin, Bad Legs, Old Wounds, and Ulcer., Bad Breasts, Sore Nipple., Stonev aad Ulcerated Cancers, Tumours,. Swelling, Gout, Rheumatism, and Lumbago, likewise in cues of: Piles, the Pills ( in all the above cases') ou^ ht to be used with the Ointment, as by this means cures will b< djfwted with a much: greater certainty, and in half the time that > t Would require by- using the Ointment alone. Burns Scalds, Chilblains, Chapped Hands ani3 tips, slso Bun- ions and Soft Corns, will be immediately cured by tbe tuc of the Ointment. THE ! ® ! U. S are not only the finest remedy known wheir'artd with the Ointment, but as a general Medicine there is nothmgr equal 10 them. In nervous affections they will be found of the irrstttestiservice. These pills are, without exception, the finest pu- rifier of the Blood evef discovered, and OUGHT TO BE Usll> 1! Y ALL FEMALES. _ , _ , t „ Sold by the Proprietor, 214. Strand, near Temple Bar, and brail respectable Vendors of Patent Medicines throughout the kingdom, ill Pots and Boxes, at ls. 14-, C* i., 4 » .. 0d., lis., 22s. and 33s. each. There is a very considerable faving m taking the larger sizes. I \ LIFE PI I LS. PI LL&- ANSWEB TO II. S.' » CHARADE IN NO. 92. Your whnle ol" eleven letters it Is true does coiis'st, And your tirst ' twould be awkward to give it a twist; ' Tis indeed a material part of our ( mm*, For I clearly perceive it's the neck that you mean. Your next Is a troublesome Insect it's true, It you're plagued with his company you'll little rest know, For lie'il drink e'en your blood till he's ready to burst— Of all plagues sure the Bug's about one ofthe woist. Next Burke of your bard, I perceive, Is the name, Whose works are enroll d In the annals of lame— A l eak is the plant, and next will appear A Mug, which is useful for holding your beer. Ben's tbe mau'i name, and the truth if I tell, I should not at all like to be put in a Cell. By your next, too, 1 thi& k It w. ll clearly be seen That a R'ig ts the species of carpet you mean ; Then the part of the body I tind is a Leg, Eel ls the fish, and tbe next is an Egg. Again I find out your recluse ls a Nun, And the small cake for certain you mean is a Bun. The name of the place, too, I thii k I've found out, Wbich youve so transposed and shitted about; Mecklenburg is the province In Geinuny you mean, The birth- place ol Albert, the spouse ol our queen. J. HUMB. ANSWER TO D. W. P.' s FIRST CHARADE N6. 90. I took my departure, but not from Cheapside, To find out the towns thro which you did ride ; ' 1 he first place was Bamett, I am well aware, For Barr's found in music, and N* t is a snare. Stratford's the next place thro' which you did ride, For Strafford's the man who for treason was tried; The next place was Barking. I think you will grant, For tlie toy is a ring, and a- k is the plant. In the tinker's expression Newark I vitW, For tbe reverse of worn out is certAioly new; I have read in tbe Scriptures, and you also may find, The Ark coatained the whole race of inunklnd. I transpose the water, one letter erase. I have not the lerst do* bt but Ware Is the place. A crjer is useful, the foreign title a Don, Croydon it will name when united in one; I thought of the Quaker, with hi* haws and his hums, And his curious mode of twirling his thumbs. Tbe coucluslon 1 ca ne to I am willing to state, Make use of the Kye to go under the Gate, United an answer will quickly relate. The next place was Woolwich, thro' which you did ride • Some distance from London down by the sea side. You then made your way to that city of fame, V h re the ladies are pretty,— London's the name. Now this ans. I'll close lest my iuk should be spent too, I tnink 1 have named most of the places you went thro'. Birmingham. A. W. FISHER. ANSWKR TO W. SINNOT'S CRI^ ADK IN NO. 92. By Jove! now I think your charade I've discovered, But in truth I rou » t own it has rather me bother'd; But I thought about Dubliu, the place whence It came, And it gave me the cue to the root whlch- you mean. TO THE PUBLIC. NO sooner is a Me^ kine well established ir » Public Favour, than a host of imitators arise, who, tor th « sake of gain, not only wrong t? ve proprietors of She Genuine Medicine, but inflict a serious Injury on the unwary purchaser ol their counterfeit trash. These observations apply with tacrecfed effect to the medicine which is now well known as PARE* ® LIFB PILLS. This famous remedy has- heen established by uw- doubted proofs of its efficacy, and by a mof evidence and tes- timonials which 110 other medicine ever yei failed forth. Theffc facts have had the effect of producing a very lar^ e sale— more tfe- a* 15,000 boxes per week. When this large sale tOO^ 3ra « w- ledge of some unprincipled persons, they, for the i.^ 8 Rain themselves, and reckless of the Injury it may do ouNw ® » are M* tempting to foist on the incautious various imitations, tfw^ portei by statements which exhibit the most unblushing effron?**?' 1m order that purchasers may be able to detect these frauds, must be taken to look at the Government Stamp pasted ro.- TO'K each box. and be sure it has the words PARR'S LIFE PILL ® -, in WHITE letters, on a RED ground, engraved therein, and for met part of the stamp} also, that the name of Mr. Edwards, 67, 8t- Paul s, London, is printed, as wholesale agent, on the direction** wrapped round each box. fcr- Ask for Parr s Life Pills, and inquire for the little book,* containing the Life of Old Parr, 32 pag « s, with engravings} al* v the numerous testimonials, which may be had, gratis, on ftppU « - cation of all agents and respectable venders throughout the* United Kingdom. As a proof ef their efficacy, the proprietors reftr to the follow^ log Extraordinary Cure of Confirmed Asthma, selected frorw hundreds of a similar nature. Mrs. Joseph Simpson has been severely afflicted, for the last thirty years, with a violent cough and difficulty of breathing The affliction has been so severe that she could not fulfil her istual1 domestic obligations. She took cold when only fifteen yea's © Id,, and the cough never left her till she took Parr's Life Pills. 8b* had tried almust every kind of medicine, and had taken laudanum- In large quantities, but nothing atforded relief. She heard of Parr s Pills about last Christmas, and ot soon ar she bad taken about half a box, she found keratif completely cured, and was never afflicted in the slightest manr? » r during th* sevttre weather that followed, and is new bttttr in he^^ h. thaa « Iu « has ever been In her life. This cure does Indeed appear miraculous; but for the latfsfae- tiou of the most incredulous, she has kindly consented to answer any inquiries, either by personal applicatic- n, or by letter, dressed to Mrs. Joseph Simpson, Church- hill Close, Old Lenton* near Nottirgham. The medicine is sold, wholesale, by appointment of the propriew tors. by Edwards, 67, St. Paul's, London, In boxes, at Is. Udi^, 2a. 9d., and lis. each. JUST PUBLISHED, the 12th EDITION, Price 4s., and sent Free to any part of the Kingdom, on receipt of % Post Office order, for 5s. THE SILENT FRIEND, AMedical Work on the Infirmities of the Gene- rative System in both sexes; being an enquiry into the con. coaled came that destroys physical energy, and the atofity of manhood, ere vigour has established her empise j with observation, on the baneful effects of Solitary indulgence, and Infection ; and on the loss of the Reproductive Powers; with means of restoratioo- The consequences of neglected gonorrhoea, gleet, stricture, secon- dary symptoms, and the influence of mercury on the skin are pointed out and illustrated by engravings ; followed by observa- tions on marriage, with directions for the removal of disqualifica- tions. By R. and L. Perry and Co., Consulting Surgeons, Bir- mingham and Leeds. Published by tlie Authors, and sold b » Strange, 21, Paternoster- row; Wilson, 18. Bishopsgate- street- Purkess, Compton- street, Soho j Jackson, and Co., 139, New Bond- street, London; and by J. Guesi, Steelhouse- lane, Birming- ham; Joseph Buckton, Bookseller, 50, Brigeate, Leeds; and by all Booksellers in Town and Country. The CORDIAL BALM OF SYRIACUM is exclusively directed to the cure ol nervous and! sexual debility, obstinate gleets, syphilis, irregularity, weakness impotency, barrenness, & c. Sold in bottles at 1 is., or four times tbe quantity in one bottle for 33s. Sold hy all Medicine Venders in Town and Country. Observe the signature of It. and L. Perry on the stamp on the outside of each wrapper. The Five Pound case, may be Iiad as usual. PERRY'S P. UR1FYING SPECIFIC PILLS, price 2s, gd., 4s. ( id., and lis. per box ; are the most effectual euro for every stage ef the venereal disease in both sexes; including secondary symptoms, disorders of the urinary passages, and all ex- ternal diseases of the skin, without hindrance from iueintss. Alessrs. Perry expect, when consulted by letter, the usual fe. of 41. Partients are requested to be minute in the detail of their cases. Medicines can be forwarded to any part of the world, pro- tected from observation. Messrs. Perry may be consulted as usual, at 4, Great Charles- street, four doors from Easy Row, ' Birming- ham, and 44, Albion - street, Leeds, punctually from 11 in the Morning, until 8 in the Evening, and on Sundays from 11 till 1. Only one personal visit is required from a country patient to ensM, Messrs. Perry to give such advice as will effect a permanent cure after all other means have failed. N. B. Country Medicine Venders can be supplied by most of the Wholesale Patent Medicine Houses in London, with the above Medicines. London :- Huh Strand. :— Pnuted and Published bv E. LLOYD, JS1, Street, Shortditch; and al 8, Holywell Street,