"State it quick," continued the magistrate.

"Your worship will please to remember, that these two crusty old fellows had a regular four hours' dispute under my window, until I began to think that they never, never intended to separate; so I went up stairs and emptied a pail of clean water upon their heads. Well, your worship, instead of laying on each other with their sticks, as they mostly do, they both set on and broke my window."

"False evidence, your worship!" exclaimed old Freeman; "the water was dirty, and smelled as if he'd been swilling his filthy shop floor in it, it stank as bad as his shop."

"My shop's sweet, you calumniating old villain," replied the chandler, shaking his fist in the other's face.

"Well, well, don't fight here," said the magistrate; "if you want to fight, get out-there's more room outside and settle your dispute amongst yourselves. What damage have they done?" continued the Justice.

"Broken twelve panes of glass," replied the chandler, "at three shillings a pane,-thirty-six shillings, your worship."

"It's false," shouted old Hardcastle, stamping his stick on the floor; "five of them were cracked, and one was stuffed full of old rags, and another had a piece of bacon reared against it, as dry and hard as a board, to keep the wind out."

"Quite time they were replaced with new ones then," continued the magistrate. "But what have you two quarrelsome old fellows to say for yourselves? Did I not last time decide that he who had the right hand of the wall should not give it up?"

"But your worship must decide which is to have the wall," said Stevenson, "when both their backs are against it."

66

Humph, hey? Is there any case to decide by in Blackstone?" inquired the magistrate of the clerk.

"None, your worship," was the reply.

"Then you must pay the damages," said the Justice; "and for the other matter, fight it out as usual."

"But our clothes, your worship," growled the aggressors, both together; "wet through," continued one; "dreadful

rheumatism," added the other," severe cold."

" and

"Get into another room," continued the Justice; if you can't decide it any other way, fight the cold out of your bones. Thunder and patience! if you come before me again on this matter, I'll commit you all for a month to the House of Correction."

'My windows!" exclaimed the chandler.

But the magistrate immediately took up a volume of Burns' Justice, and would have given him the law in a lump, had he not put his best leg foremost.

quick! — quick!" proceeded the can't be detained

Justice; "ordered my dinner at three,

much longer to hear your nonsense."

66

Sally Penny against her husband, for giving her a black eye," vociferated the constable.

"Can't be hindered with that woman's chat,—she would tell a tale as long as to-day and to-morrow," proceeded the old magistrate, growing more crusty as the hour for dinner drew near,- "I dare say she deserved it. What have you got to say, John Penny? I suppose you were both drunk, as usual?"

"The truth is, your worship," said John, "she's never satisfied; she was drunk last night, and very drunk indeed the night before; she was the same this morning,—and she's drunk now. She wants to be an angel, and I can't afford it. I'm willing for her to be drunk once a day, your

worship, and that's as much as I can do ;-as for her black eye, she tumbled down and trod on it-that's all."

"Break both their necks down stairs, constable;

or

here, give them this shilling - they mean to kill themselves with drinking, and the sooner it's done the better. What case next?"

"Armstrong and Kirk against Martin, the second-hand clothes-seller," shouted Tipstaff," and Martin against Armstrong."

Quick,-state case,-be brief!" said the Justice, looking again at the clock; then muttering to himself, "Armstrong against Martin, and Martin against Armstrong.What the devil now?"

“Please your worship——” said Kirk.

"But it doth not please me!" exclaimed the old Justice; 66 quick, sirrah! state your case, we 'll save the 'pleases' and worships' for after-dinner compliments."

66

Then, your worship, I bought a second-hand black coat of Abraham Martin a fortnight ago, which he said was as good as new, and it did look as black and bright as you would wish to see a coat. Well, your worship, I put on my clean white trousers, and went out, Sunday before last

99

"The old tale," said the Justice, interrupting him. "Martin, you're a long while selling off those soldiers' old jackets :- - did I not tell you to ticket them, so that your customers might know what they were buying?"

"I did," replied Martin; "but your worship sees, when they get mixed among the other goods, it's difficult to tell them again, without a good deal of rubbing."

So would matters go on; and every one who had won a cause, when they got outside gave the signal to the boys, who huzzaed and threw up their crownless hats, and made

the little market-place to ring again. Nor would they disperse until they had watched the old magistrate out of the Bull's Head Inn, where he mostly dined; and often, when he had taken an extra glass, he would throw a few halfpence amongst them, and leave them fighting and scrambling with each other, while he rode off like a good oldfashioned Justice of the Peace.

188

RURAL POETRY.

BROWN'S "BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS," AND 66 SHEPHERD'S

PIPE."

To my truly beloved Friend, Mr. Brown, on his Pastorals.

But I have seen thy work, and I know thee:
And, if thou list thyself, what thou canst be,
For though but early in these paths thou tread,
I find thee write most worthy to be read.

BEN JONSON.

OUR object in the present chapter is to bring before our readers a few beautiful passages from the works of a sterling old English poet, whose writings are too little known; one who, in his day, was a favourite of Rare Ben Jonson, and had complimentary poems addressed to him by Michael Drayton, Selden, Brooke, Herbert, Withers, and many other celebrated writers of that period. Beautiful, however, as his poems are, and excelling, in our humble opinion, nearly all that come under the denomination of Pastoral Poetry in the English language, you look in vain for his name in the Essays of Pope, Warton, and Johnson, in which they profess to treat upon this subject. They make no mention of either William Browne or his "Britannia's Pastorals ;" and sorry are we to add, that among all the Miscellaneous Collections of Poetry, but few extracts (and those of an inferior description) from his works are to be found. Many of the compilers of English