The unfortunate Mary, it appeared, married Mr. Sullivan about seven years ago; at which time he was as polite a young Irishman as ever handled a potato on this side Channel;--he had every thing snug and comfortable about him, and his purse and his person taken together were quite _ondeniable_. She, herself, was a young woman genteelly brought up--abounding in friends, and acquaintance, and silk gowns; with three good bonnets always in use, and black velvet shoes to correspond; welcome wherever she went, whether to dinner, tea, or supper, and made much of by everybody. St. Giles's bells rang merrily at their wedding; a fine fat leg of mutton and capers, plenty of pickled salmon, three ample dishes of salt fish and potatoes, with pies, pudding, and porter of the best, were set forth for the bridal supper; all the most considerablest families in Dyott-street and Church-lane were invited, and everything promised a world of happiness--and, for five whole years, they were happy. She loved--as Lord Byron would say, "She lov'd and was belov'd; she ador'd and she was worshipped;" but Mr. Sullivan was too much like the hero of his Lordship's tale--his affections could not "hold the bent;" and the sixth year had scarcely commenced when poor Mary discovered that she had "outlived his liking." From that time to the present he had treated her continually with the greatest cruelty; and, at last, when by this means he had reduced her from a comely young person to a mere handful of a poor creature, he beat her, and turned her out of doors! This was Mrs. Sullivan's story; and she told it with such pathos, that all who heard it pitied her--except her husband. It was now Mr. Sullivan's turn to speak. Whilst his wife was speaking, he had stood with his back towards her, his arms folded across his breast to keep down his choler, biting his lips, and staring at the blank wall; but, the moment she ceased, he abruptly turned round and, curiously enough, asked the magistrate whether _Misthress_ Sullivan had done _spaking_? "She has," replied his worship; "but suppose you ask her whether she has anything more to say." "I sholl, Sir!" exclaimed the angry Mr. Sullivan.--"Misthress Sullivan, had you any more of it to say?" Mrs. Sullivan raised her eyes to the ceiling, clasped her hands together, and was silent. "Very well, then," continued he--"will I get lave to spake, your honour?"