Tim. It's truth that you spake, your Onor; and I went to see him.

Commissioner. And did he shoot the pig without ammunition?

Tim. It's he that did. (Loud laughter in court). Crier. Order! order! among them are people as is laughing!

Commissioner. Go on, Mr. O'Reilly, if you

please.

Tim. Where was I? You put me out, and I forget what I was saying.

Mr. Fagan, the defendant, here dryly said, "Liars ought to have good mimmories."

Tim. (running towards Fagan), "Who do you call a liar, you spalpeen? I'd be after breaking your countenance for a farthing."

Commissioner. Not here, Mr. O'Reilly, if you'll be so obliging. Go on, if you please-you were just shooting the pig without powder or shot.

Tim. So I was, your Onor.-(Aside, and turning with a scowl togards Fagan, "Your soul to the gallows, I wish I had you in the street.")

Commissioner. Proceed-proceed-good Mr. O'Reilly.

Tim. Yes, your Onor-where did you say I

was?

Commissioner. You were going to tell us how the defendant's father killed old grumpy. (Laughter).

Tim. Bad luck to that thief-he's quite bewildered me.

Commissioner. Now, do go on, Mr. O'Reilly; you went out, you say, with Mr. Fagan-and the gun.

Tim. I did, your Onor, and our dog Scabbyand we goes to Fagan's haggard, where the poor owld sowl was; and so Mr. Fagan goes up to her, as she was lying on her back, and he says to her, "God be good unto me;" and with the butt end of the gun he gave her a blow on the head, that stunned her, your Onor; and after that he borrys my knife, and, be the same token here it is(he produced an old pocket-knife)—and cuts her throat; and so devil a word more she spoke.

Commissioner. My good fellow, what has this to do with the defendant?

Tim. Wait, and I'll tell you. Where was I? Well, so after he shot the sow

Commissioner. He didn't shoot her-but knocked her brains out, and then cut her throat.

Tim. Well, that's the same thing, sure. Commissioner. It may be in Ireland, but not in this country. But come to the point.

Tim. I'm a coming as fast as a horse'd trot. Well, your Onor, owld Fagan took the gun home, and never returned it from that day to this. Myself came over to this country to seek my fortune; and last Martlemas I heard as my father was gone to Heaven, your Onor-the Lord be marciful to him!

Mr. Fagan again interfered, in his dry way"Be my conscience, if he is gone to Heaven, he's the last of the O'Reillys that'll travel that road."

Tim. What's that you say, you ?

Commissioner. Never mind what he says, but finish your evidence.

Tim. Devil a word more I've to say, barrin one

day, when I went into Larry's room, there-what should I see but the same owld gun as my father lent to his father; and which was never returned, and which is my property, bekase it was my father's before me; and it's for the value of that same gun I brought him before your Worship.

Commissioner. Is that all you have got to say, Mr. O'Reilly?

Tim. It is, your Worship; and what more would you have a body say?

Commissioner. Not a word-you have said quite enough.-Now (turning to Mr. Larry Fagan) what have you to say upon this subject? Larry. Not much, your Onor.

Commissioner. The less the better. How do you account for the possession of this gun? Larry. Asy enough, your Worship.

Commissioner. Come let us hear-have you got the gun in court?

Larry. To be sure I have, and a witness toothat's better than the gun.

Commissioner. Produce both.

Larry. Mick, come in with the fowling-piece! —and Mick, a carrotty-headed bricklayer's labourer, worked his way through the crowd to the presence of the Commissioner, with an old rusty musket in his hand.

Commissioner, (turning to O'Reilly). Is that your gun?

Tim. May be it ain't.

Commissioner. Is it, I ask you?

Tim. Why, to be sure it is.

Commissioner. Well now, Mr. Fagan, call your

witness.

Larry. I needn't call him, your Onor; for there he is, (pointing to Mick).

Commissioner. Well, Mick-what's your name beside Mick?

Mick. Flannigan, your Onor.

Commissioner. Well, Mr. Flannigan, what do

you know of this gun?

Mick. A good dale, your Onor.

Commissioner. To whom does it belong? Mick. To Larry Fagan, and his father before him to be sure, your Onor.

Commissioner. How do you know that?
Mick. Asy enough, your Onor.

Commissioner. When did you see it first?
Mick. Och, a long time ago.

Commissioner. Where?

Mick. At ould Mr. Fagan's, at Scullabogue, to be sure.

Commissioner. Can you remember how long

ago?

Mick. That I can't; but I know it was quite a young thing when I first saw it.

Commissioner. Quite new, I suppose you mean, Mr. Flannigan?

Mick. Faith I don't, your Reverence; I mane quite young, for it was not the bigness of my hand when I first clapped my two good-looking eyes on it.

Commissioner. You don't mean to say it grew to its present size from something of a smaller description?

Mick. Don't I? Indeed but I do, your Onor; for if it was the last word I had to say, I remember it when it was nothing but a pocket pistol!

A loud roar of laughter here put the business of the court to a stand-still, and the Commissioners themselves could no longer preserve their gravity. Mick looked astonished, for he did not seem advised of his having said any thing particularly humorous; but he was still more astonished when he was ordered out of court for his bare-faced impudence, and saw the gun safely delivered into the hands of Mr. O'Reilly, who kissed it with as much fervour as if he had just recovered a long-lost relative.

Mr. Fagan also looked amazed at the failure of his ingenious defence, and went away, swearing he would employ lawyer Phillips to bring the matter before the House of Lords.