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up at the bar to-day. I would ask you to which of them it was inost 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 ?
Jones.—On the bed, but there was no sheets. It 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
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.
166 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 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
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.
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,