"So-so;" returned the doctor. "I am afraid you have got yourself into a scrape there, Mr. Giles."

"I hope you don't mean to say sir," said Mr. Giles, trembling," that he's going to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I wouldn't cut a boy off, no, not even Brittles here, not for all the plate in the country, sir.'

"That's not the point," said the doctor, mysteriously. are you a Protestant?”

"Mr. Giles,

"Yes, sir, I hope so;" faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale. "And what are you, boy?" said the doctor, turning sharply upon Brittles.

"Lord bless me, sir!" replied Brittles, starting violently; "I'm the same as Mr. Giles, sir."

"Then tell me this," said the doctor fiercely, " both of you-both of you are you going to take upon yourselves to swear that that boy up stairs is the boy that was put through the little window last night! Out with it! Come we are prepared for you."

The doctor, who was universally considered one of the best tempered creatures on earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger, that Giles and Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, stared at each other in a state of stupefaction.

"Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you," said the doctor, shaking his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the bridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy's utSomething may come of this before long." The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner.

most acuteness.

66

"It's a simple question of identity, you will observe," said the doctor. "That's what it is, sir," replied the constable, coughing with great violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way.

"Here's a house broken into," said the doctor," and a couple of men catch one moment's glimpse of a boy in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy

comes to that very same house next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, those men lay violent hands upon him-by doing which, they place his life in great danger-and swear he is the thief. Now the question is, whether those men are justified by the fact, and if not what situation do they place themselves in ?"

The constable nodded profoundly, and said that if that wasn't law, he should be glad to know what was.

"I ask you again," thundered the doctor, “are you on your solemn oaths able to identify that boy?"

Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles, Mr. Giles looked doubtfully

at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leant forward to listen; and the doctor glanced keenly round, when a ring was heard at the gate and at the same moment the sound of wheels.

"It's the runners!" cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved. "The what!" exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn.

"The Bow-street officers, sir," replied Brittles, taking up a candle, "me and Mr. Giles sent for 'em this morning."

"What!" cried the doctor.

"Yes," replied Brittles, "I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder they weren't here before, sir."

"You did, did you. Then confound and damn your――slow coaches down here; that's all," said the doctor, walking away.

ON WITNESSING MR. MACREADY'S PERFORMANCE OF CLAUDE MELNOTTE IN" THE LADY OF LYONS."

HUSH the thick breath,—and still the throbbing heart!
Stir not to break the deep, yet thrilling trance;

And call not this the actor's hireling part,

Vision of poesy and young romance!

The bright creations of the poet's thought,

In truth and life, with thee Macready dwell;
By rich and kindred genius, only taught
To cast o'er us the soul-enthralling spell.

I cannot speak-the over-gushing heart
Bursts into numbers;-dull perchance and cold.
Would I could boast the subtle polished art

And glowing words to paint perfection's mould.
Actor and bard-your mingled triumph take-
Stern manhood, even, wipes the tear away-
For yours the chords of sympathy to wake,
And old and young, the enchanter's will obey!

March 13th, 1838.

C. T.

VOL. I.

A MODERN ECLOGUE.

Non tu in triviis, indocte, solebas
Stridenti miserum stipulâ disperdere carmen?
VIRG. Ecl. 3.

ON a stout bench, that faced "The Pig and Friar,"
Sat Jemmy Doubletouch and Pat Maguire:
Long tubes of clay, with dark Virginian weed,
Crown'd the rude board to serve their present need;
While, placed by Tapps, the host, between each man
Best double-stout o'erflow'd the polish'd can.
And who were Pat and Jemmy some will cry:
Arcades ambo," is our sage reply,—
"Cantare pares," and if not too weary,
Or else too drunk, " parati respondere."
In fact, they both were chaunters-up and down-
Highways and byways-country and in town—
Traversed the land while loud their ditties rung,
And oft composed the sonnets which they sung;
And now by chance had met beneath the shade
That Thomas Tapps' wide-spreading beech-tree made.
What glees were troll'd, how many clouds were blown,
What cans were fill'd and emptied, is not known,

(Save by the host,) until, as time flew past,
Though friends at first, they had a tiff at last,
And on this point in anger took their stand-
Who in his craft was deemed the better hand.

"I'll bet," quoth Doubletouch, "four quarts of stout
To one of punch, (but stiff,) I'll serve you out.
But, hark! my daisy, nothing old won't do ;

So mind your stops, and strike up summat new.'

"Agreed!" says Paddy: "Done!" cries Jem, "that's flat! But for a judge ?-here's Tapps-now go it, Pat !"

Pat.

Och! whisky's the life and the sowl of a man,
So I'll sing its praise first, and as long as I can :
If the says were made of it-good luck to the sight!
It's myself 'ud be swimmin' from mornin' till night.

Jemmy.

Oh! ale is the stuff that will make a dog jolly,
Wot cures them is sick and is got melancholy:

It runs through our gammut than quicksilver quicker,—
I'm bless'd if it ain't the most primest of licker!

Pat.

St. Patrick's the boy that could turn topsy-turvy
Great Britain and Scotland-so says Father Murphy;
He bothers the world with his devil-may-care, O!

St. Patrick for iver, the comical haro!

Jemmy.

And where is the chap for St. George that won't cheer

Nor swig in his honor a gallon of beer?

St. Georgy's the one as a body may brag on;
Hurrah for the feller as wallop'd the dragon!

Pat.

I'll sing next of pratees, the boast of ould Erin

What dainty, compared wid 'em, 's worth a red herrin'?

23

You may walk from Coleraine to that place they call Hayti, Bad luck to the thing you will find like a praty.

Jemmy.

Let the Mounseer go boast of his soup made of herbs,-
Of his garlic the Don, vich some stomachs disturbs;
I knows vot is vot, and I'm wastly mistaken

If they're equal to cabbage, when biled with good bacon.

Pat.

Was there iver a boy on the 'arth or the air

Who's not danced a jig at great Donnybrook Fair?
The blissed remimbrance e'en now makes me frisky,-
Such crackin' of heads, and such lashin's of whisky!

Jemmy.

Vot a sight as is Bartle'my !-not any part in
Of England collected sich vonders for sartin'.
Here's the man as will swallow a sword, if he's let:
Vot a hungry old cove, and uncommon sharp-set!

Pat.

In love I'm all over wid Katty O'Flannaghan,

For a glance of whose eye often back have I ran again!
Aisy death to me then, but she bates human natur,
The swate little, nate little, iligant cratur!

Jemmy.

Oh dear Molly Muggins, vot love is between us!
You're a regular, no-mistake, out-and-out Wenus!
Sich beauty to pieces would lather the world,
When your hair 's out of paper and dapperly curled.

Pat.

Och, musha! then sure it 's myself that must pity

The spalpeen that never saw dear Dublin city.

They may talk of their Consthantinople-shoot aisy !— Whooo! we could bate them with Ballinacrasy.

Jemmy.

Faix! Lunnon 's a town vot is desperate fine,

And from all other cities will take out the shine.

There's the great Leaden Hall, and an Acre vot's long, And the Parliament House where they chaffs it so strong.

Pat.

By this and by that, but a wager I'd howld,
No plant 's like the Shamrogue, so purty and bowld,
Which stuck in our hats on our Saint's day is seen,-
But we stape it, your sowl! all the night in potteen.

Jemmy.

Your Sawney may chatter and boast of his Thistle,
Taffy talk of his Leek-but I care not a whistle.-
Odd rat it! what feller in country or town

As would not give a cheer for the Rose-and the Crown?

"Hold, hold, my masters!" Tapps exclaim'd," have done! I thinks as how both bets are fairly won;

For both have chaunted prime and come it strong.
Jemmy, the punch is your'n for that 'ere song;
To you I judges, Pat, four quarts of stout,
And, if you please, will help to drink it out;
So now to work :-but ere you goes away,
Gemmen, I hopes you won't forget to pay."

TRISTAM MERRYTHOUGHT.

A LOVE STORY IN THREE CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I.

-Whence springs this deep despair?

From such a cause which fills mine eyes with tears,
And stops my tongue, while heart is drown'd in cares.
Henry the Sixth. Third Part, Act iii. Sc. 3.

I HAD not seen Russell for many years-nearly a dozen. We were contemporaries in college, but many events kept us asunder. I spent a considerable time on the Continent; and when I returned, it so chanced that my visits to London were short and far between. I heard of him occasionally, but with no minute particulars as to his career. It was merely known to me that he had been called to the bar, and that the expected succession to a tolerably handsome inheritance, by the death of an uncle some few years earlier than it had been calculated upon, made him at first indifferent to his profession, and shortly estranged him from it altogether in every thing but name. In fact, I knew scarcely anything about him, and for some four or five years had hardly heard his name mentioned.

Business with which it is needless to trouble any one but those immediately concerned, rendered it necessary that I should pass through London, last month, on my way to America. I had only four or five days to remain in town, and these were busily occupied. On the day before my departure, however, it so happened that all I had to do was got over at an early hour, and I lounged somewhat easily through the streets, diverting myself with their various wonders, when I was saluted by a friendly slap on the shoulder. Turning round, I recognised my old friend Russell. He was not much altered during the twelve years I had not seen hin,—much less, in fact, than men usually alter, and his manner and style of address were as good-humored and good-na

tured as ever.

After the usual wonderments, and mutual applauses of our marvellous good looks, we fell into such conversation as might be expected between old acquaintances meeting after a long period of absence. Jack This was dead, Tom T'other was married; Will Smith had got on in the world, Joe Brown had been unlucky. Bright-eyed Miss A. was now sober eyed Mrs. B. with half a dozen daughters, one to come out this season; brighter-eyed lady C. the reigning belle of our early circle, was still unmarried. Then there was that shocking story of Mrs. D. and the sad fate of poor Sir Richard E. and so on until we got through the alphabet of our old friends chatting in this manner, as we sauntered along, not caring where. The evening began to set in, and Russell asked me if I was engaged to dine. I answered in the negative, and he therefore made it a point that I should dine with him.

"Must I dress?" said I; "for, as I start for Liverpool in the morning, my luggage is all packed up; so if there be the least ceremony, I must decline."

"Not the least-you may come precisely as you stand, and we are not very far distant from our destination.”

I accompanied him, and a few minutes brought us to his house. It