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knew he was going to be murdered, and prayed that it might come to light by one means or another. I took no notice of it, because I thought him a crazy man. I slept a little, and about two or three o'clock, my wife waked me. She said, "Don't you hear the noise that is made by the gentleman; I believe they are killing him." I then heard him kick, and cry out, "Here are twenty guineas! Take them! Don't murder me! Must I die! Must I die! O my life!" and gave several keeks with his throat, and then he was still. I got up in my bed upon my knees; I saw a light glimmering in at the crack, and saw that same man Mahony, with a candle in his hand. The gentleman was lying on one side. Charles White was there, and he put out his hand to get the gentleman upright. I heard Mahony cry out, and swear, 'Let us take his watch!" But White said he could not get at it. I could not see his pockets. White laid hold of him, and went to tumbling him up to get out his money and watch. I saw him lay hold of the chain. White gave Mahony the watch, who put it in his pocket, and White put his hand into one of the gentleman's pockets, and cursed that there was nothing but silver, but he put his hand into the other pocket, and there he found gold.


Mr. Recorder.-In what posture did Sir John lie at that time?

Jones. He lay in a very uneasy manner, with one leg up, and when they moved him, he remained so; which gave me a suspicion that he was dead. I saw a person's hand on the throat of this gentleman, and heard the person say, "'Tis done, and well done."

Mr. Recorder.-Was that a third person's hand, or the hand of Mahony or White?

Jones. I can not say whether it was a third person's hand or not. I saw but two persons in the cabin. I did not see the person, for it was done in a moment. I can't swear I saw more

than two persons in the cabin.

Mr. Recorder.Did you take notice of the hand that was laid on Sir John's throat?

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 color?

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 color of it.

Mr. Recorder.-Was Sir John on the floor, or on the bed? Jones. On the bed, but there was no sheets. It was a flockbed, 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 mean time, 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 afterward 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, 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 any thing 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 any thing 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 endeavored 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 to do it then. 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, while 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 a 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.






ALL the world, that is to say, the reading world, whether male or female, has yielded to the magic of one Fisherman's bookThe 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 practiced 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—I 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 gray 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, while 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 collection 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 kept so faithfully and so loyally, handed down from father to son, and spoken in low-whispered words as a solemn confidence to be religiously held sacred a duty to the ruined and the dead! Thirty or forty years more had passed, yet I myself heard the country people speaking with tender pity of that cherished lord.

Or the Wansbeck, more familiar still! How plainly do I see that wild, daring stream?-now almost girdling, as a moat, the massive ruins of Mitford Castle,*-in the time of the Conqueror, it is to be presumed, the common ancestral home of our race and name, so widely scattered since; now brawling through the deep glen behind the old tower of Little-Harle ;-now almost invisible, creeping under the single arch that spans the richly-fringed burn by the pretty rectory of Hartburn ;-now reflecting the autumn woods of Bothal, and the gray walls of the Lady's Chapel !

Proteus of streams! Here a foaming torrent between rocks no wider than a deer may leap at a bound!—there a spreading lakelet, too shallow for a bridge, crossed by huge stepping-stones,

* An old kinsman, my father's uncle, who lived almost within sight of the Castle Mound, used to derive the name Mid-ford, from the situation of the keep between two fords of the Wansbeck. So convinced was he of the truth of his theory, that, contrary to the practice of all the rest of the family, he pertinaciously adopted that mode of orthography in writing his patronymic.

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