the beggar himself would not bow to his greatness. And yet how often are we puffed up with these false attributes! Well, in losing the monarch, I have found the man. But hark

somebody sure is near. majesty protect me?

let manhood do it.

What were it best to do? Will my

No. Throw majesty aside, then, and

Enter the Miller.

Miller. I believe I hear the rogue. Who's there?

King. No rogue, I assure you.

Miller. Little better, friend, I believe. Who fired that gun? King. Not I, indeed.

Miller. You lie, I believe.

King. (Aside.) Lie, lie! How strange it seems to me to be talked to in this style! (Aloud.) Upon my word, I don't,

sir.

Miller. Come, come, sirrah, confess.

of the king's deers, haven't you?

You have shot one

King. No, indeed; I owe the king more respect. I heard a gun go off, to be sure, and was afraid some robbers might have been near.

Miller. I am not bound to believe this, friend. Pray, who are you? What's your name ?

King. Name!

Miller. Name !—ay, name. You have a name, haven't you? Where do you come from? What is your business here? King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest

man.

Miller. May be so; but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer; so, if you can give no better account of yourself, I shall make bold to take you along with me, if you please.

King. With you! What authority have you to—

Miller. The king's authority, if I must give you an account Sir, I am John Cockle, the miller of Mansfield, one of hie majesty's keepers in the forest of Sherwood, and I will let no suspicious fellow pass this way, unless he can give a better account of himself than you have done, I promise you

King. Very well, sir. I am very glad to hear the king has so good an officer; and since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favor to hear it.

Miller. You don't deserve it, I believe; but let's hear what you can say for yourself.

King. I have the honor to belong to the king as well as you, and perhaps should be as unwilling to see any wrong done him. I came down with him to hunt in this forest, and the chase leading us to-day a great way from home, I am benighted in this wood, and have lost my way.

Miller. This does not sound well. If you have been a hunting, pray where is your horse?

King. I have tired my horse so that he lay down under me and I was obliged to leave him.

• Miller. If I thought I might believe this, now

King. I am not used to lie, honest man.

Miller. What! do you live at court, and not lie? That's a likely story, indeed!

King. Be that as it will, I speak truth now, I assure you and to convince you of it, if you will attend me to Nottingham, or give me a night's lodging in your house, here is something to pay you for your trouble-(offering money)—and if that is not sufficient, I will satisfy you in the morning to your utmost desire.

Miller. Ay, now I am convinced you are a courtier: here** is a little bribe for to-day, and a large promise for to morrow, both in a breath. Here, take it again-John Cockle is no courtier. He can do what he ought without a bribe.

King. Thou art a very extraordinary man, I must own, and I should be glad, methinks, to be further acquainted with thee.

Miller. Prithee, don't thee and thou me at this rate. I suppose I am as good a man as yourself, at least.

King Sir, I beg pardon.

Miller. Nay, I am not angry, friend; only I don't love to be too familiar with you until I am satisfied as to your honesty.

King. You are right. But what am I to do?

Miller. You may do what you please. You are twelve miles from Nottingham, and all the way through this thick wood; but if you are resolved upon going thither to-night, I will put you in the road, and direct you the best I can; or if you will accept of such poor entertainment as a miller can give, you shall be welcome to stay all night, and in the morn ing I will go with you myself.

King. And cannot you go with me to-night?

Miller. I would not go with you to-night, if you were the king himself.

King. Then I must go with you, I think.

(Enter a courtier, in haste.)

Courtier. Ah! is your majesty safe? forest over to find you.

We have hunted the

Miller. How are you the king? (Kneels.) Your majesty will pardon the ill-usage you have received. (The King draws his sword.) His majesty surely will not kill a servant for doing his duty too faithfully.

King. No, my good fellow. So far from having anything to pardon, I am much your debtor. I cannot but think so good and honest a man will make a worthy and honorable knight. Rise, Sir John Cockle, and receive this sword as a badge of knighthood, and a pledge of my protection; and to support your nobility, and in some measure requite you for the pleasure you have done us, a thousand crowns a year shall be your revenue.

LOVE AND MURDER.-ANON.

IN Manchester a maiden dwelt,

Her name was Phoebe Brown;

Her cheeks were red, her hair was black,

And she was considered by good judges to be by

all odds the best-looking girl in town.

Her age was nearly seventeen;

Her eyes were sparkling bright;

A very lovely girl she was,

And for about a year and a half there had been a

young man paying his attention to her, by the name of Reu

ben Wright.

90

Now Reuben was a nice young man

As any in the town;

And Phoebe loved him very dear;

But, on account of his being obliged to work for

a living, he never could make himself agreeable to old Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

Her parents were resolved

Another she should wed,

A rich old miser in the place;

And old Brown frequently declared, that rather

than have his daughter marry Reuben Wright, he'd sooner knock him on the head.

But Phoebe's heart was brave and strong,

She feared not her parents' frowns;

And as for Reuben Wright so bold,

I've heard him say more than fifty times that,

(with the exception of Phœbe,) he didn't care a cent for the whole race of Browns.

So Phoebe Brown and Reuben Wright
Determined they would marry;

Three weeks ago last Tuesday night

They started for old Parson Webster's, determined to be united in the holy bonds of matrimony, though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the Old Harry.

But Captain Brown was wide awake;

He loaded up his gun,

And then pursued the loving pair,

And overtook 'em when they'd got about half way to the parson's and then Reuben and Phoebe started off upon the run.

Old Brown took a deadly aim

Toward young Reuben's head;
But, oh it was a burning shame;

He made a mistake, and shot his only daughter, and had the unspeakable anguish of seeing her drop right down stone dead.

Then anguish filled young Reuben's heart,

And vengeance crazed his brain;

He drew an awful jack-knife out,

And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or

sixty times, so that it's very doubtful about his ever coming

to again.

The briny drops from Reuben's eyes

In torrents pouréd down;

He yielded up the ghost, and died;

And in this melancholy and heart-rending manner

terminates the history of Reuben and Phoebe, and likewise old Captain Brown.