Jones.-I did.

Mr. Recorder.-Did it appear to you like the hand of a common sailor?

Jones.-No; it seemed white.

Mr. Vernon.-You have seen two hands held up at the bar to-day. I would ask you to which of them it was most like in colour?

Jones.-I have often seen Mahony's and White's hands, and I thought the hand was whiter than either of theirs; and I think it was neither of their hands by the colour of it.

Mr. Recorder.-Was Sir John on the floor, or on the bed?

It

Jones.-On the bed, but there was no sheets. was a flock-bed, and nobody had lain there for a great while.

Mr. Vernon.-How long did the cries and noise that you heard continue?

Jones.-Not a great while. He cried like a person going out of the world, very low. At my hearing it, I would have got out in the meantime, but my wife desired me not to go, for she was afraid there was somebody at the door would have killed me.

Mr. Vernon.-What more do you know of this matter? or of Mahony and White being afterwards put on shore ?

Jones. I heard some talking that the yawl was to go to the shore about four of the clock in the morning, and some of us were called up, and I importuned my wife to let me go out. I called and asked, "Who is sentinel?" Duncan Buchanan answered and said, "It is I." "Oh!" says I, "is it you?" I then thought myself safe. I jumped out in my shirt, went

to him; says I, "There have been a devilish noise in the cabin, Duncan, do you know anything of the matter? They have certainly killed the gentleman. What shall us do?" I went to the cabin-door, where the doctor's mate lodged, asked him if he "had heard anything to-night?" "I heard a great noise," said he." I believe," said I, "they have killed that gentleman." He said, he "believed so, too." I drawed aside the scuttle that looked into the purser's cabin from the steward's room, and cried, "Sir, if you are alive, speak." He did not speak. I took a long stick, and endeavoured to move him, but found he was dead. I told the doctor's mate, that I thought he was the proper person to relate the matter to the officer, but he did not care to do it then. "If you will not, I will," said I. I went up to the Lieutenant, and desired him to come out of his cabin to me. "What is the matter?" said he. I told him, “I believed there had been murder committed in the cockpit, upon the gentleman who was brought on board last night." "Oh! don't say so," said the Lieutenant. In that interim, whilst we were talking about it, Mr. Marsh, the midshipman, came and said that there was an order to carry White and Mahony on shore. I then swore they should not go on shore, for there was murder committed. The Lieutenant said, "Pray, be easy; it can't be so. I don't believe the Captain would do any such thing." That gentleman there, Mr. Marsh, went to ask the Captain if Mahony and White must be put on shore? And Mr. Marsh returned again, and said the Captain said they should. I then said, "It is certainly true that the gentleman is murdered between them." I did

not see Mahony and White that morning, because they were put on shore. I told the Lieutenant, that if he would not take care of the matter, I would write up to the Admiralty, and to the Mayor of Bristol. The Lieutenant asked the Captain to drink

glass of wine. The Captain would not come out of his cabin. Then the Lieutenant went in first. I followed him. Then I seized him, and several others came to my assistance.

The cooper's good wife, Margaret Jones, corroborated her husband's evidence in every point with equal clearness and directness. Witness after witness followed with terrible repetition, and a distinctness, a power of simple, honest truth that nothing could shake. The very watch and money for which they had wrangled over the dead body were brought home to the subordinate ruffians, and the whole three were found guilty, condemned and executed as near as possible to the scene of the crime.

This remarkable murder took place rather more than a hundred years ago. The two brothers were uncles of Samuel Foote, the celebrated mimic and comedian, and admirable farce writer, whose baptismal name was probably derived from that disgrace to the British Navy, Captain Samuel Goodere.

VI.

FISHING SONGS.

RECOLLECTIONS

OF

NORTHUMBERLAND.

MR. DOUBLEDAY-MISS CORBETT.

ALL the world, that is to say, the reading world, whether male or female, has yielded to the magic of one Fisherman's book-"The English Angler," of Isaac Walton; and such is the charm of the subject, that the modern works which, so far as the science of angling is concerned, may be said to have superseded the instructions of the old master, the works of Sir Humphry Davy, of Mr. Hofland, of Mr. Henry Phillips, all men eminent for other triumphs than those of the fishing-rod, have, in their several ways, inherited much of the fascination that belongs to the venerable father of the piscatory art.

Even the dissertations on salmon-fishing, as practised in the wilder parts of Ireland and in Norway, which, when measured with the humble sport of angling for trout in a southern stream, may be likened to the difference between a grand lion hunt in Africa and the simple pheasant shooting of a Norfolk squire -even the history of landing a salmon partakes of the Waltonian charm. We take up the book, and we forget to lay it down again; the greatest compliment that reader can pay to author.

The poetical brothers of the angle, however-L mean such as have actually written in verse-are not only fewer in number, but have generally belonged to the northern portion of our island. I am not sure that the pleasure with which I read "The Fisher's Welcome," may not partly be referred to that cause. At least, I do not like Mr. Doubleday's genial song the less for the reminiscences of canny Northumberland with which every stanza teems.

Years, many and changeful, have gone by since I trod those northern braes; they at whose side I stood lie under the green sod; yet still, as I read of the Tyne or of the Wansbeck, the bright rivers sparkle before me, as if I had walked beside them but yesterday. I still seem to stand with my dear father under the grey walls of that grand old abbey church at Hexham, gazing upon the broad river as it sweeps in a majestic semicircle before us, amid, perhaps, the very fairest scenery of that fair valley of the Tyne, so renowned for varied beauty, whilst he points to the haunts of his boyhood, especially the distant woods of Dilstone Hall, the forfeited estate of Lord Derwentwater. I still seem to listen, as he tells how, in the desolate orchard, he had often gathered fruit almost returned to the wildness of the forest; and how, among the simple peasantry, the recollection of the unhappy Earl, so beloved and so lamented, had lingered for half a century; and tales were yet told how, after his execution, his mangled remains were brought secretly by night to be interred in the vault of his ancestors, halting mysteriously in private houses by day, and resuming their melancholy journey during the dark hours; the secret known to so many, and yet