“Poscrip.--There’s a Poor woman here, the lord Pity her, callid Finigen. I forget her own name, but she has a Brother that lives under magor Blake, and her unkel was parish priest of Carintubber, a Man grately respected. I often heerd my father spake about him--as he cured the Failin’ siknis with a charm, and plaid butifully on the Fiddel. Well, she’s in quod, the crater, for just Nothing at all. She had words with a vagabone that lives in the back Attick, and he insinevated, in the Presens of the hole lodgers, that she wasn’t aney better than she ought to be. ‘Misses Finigen,’ says he, ‘might I fatague ye for a sqint at ye’r Marrige lines, if ye happen to have sich an article in ye’r pocket,’ which ye know was as much as sayin’, the Divil a certifikit she had at all. The crature couldn’t but resint it, and she took the fire out of the vagabone’s left eye wid a brass Candelstik she had in her fist--and that’s all she’s loked up for. Maybe your honir would Include her in the Bail--the lord sees it would be Charatey.” “N. B.--I forgot to Say the Blakgards offered to make it up for ten shillins, half in drink, and half in money--but it’s such an Impisi-shin, that nather mark or Me would listin to it.” “P. S.--For the sake of the blessed Mother cum soon, or they’ll have the Roof off the Watchouse, and then We’ll be Trunsportid for life. The more I see of this Unsivilized Country, the Better plased I am that we’re lavin it. “No more at Presint from “Yours to Command, J. McGrale.” “Plase answir by Return of post--I mane by the boy wid the red hair that carries this. Remembir Mr. O’Toole and me to Mister hartlay and his Daughtir, onley we don’t know her name. Also to mister domnik, the Black gentleman, whose as Civil and well manerd as a Christian, for all that he’s so dusky in the skin. “J. M.” “In Heaven’s name,” I exclaimed, when I finished the ratcatcher’s epistle, “what is to be done with these scoundrels?” “Perhaps the better course to be pursued would be to leave them where they are, allow their excellent friends to pull down the watch-house, and then the Government will provide for them in New Holland. But I suppose we must interfere for once in their behalf.” The landlord of the hotel was summoned, and requested to effect the deliverance of the prisoners, a task that was easily performed. The door again was shut, and Mr. Clifford resumed his melancholy narrative. CHAPTER XXV. MY UNCLE’S STORY. “The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices. I depart Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad my eye.” Byron.