e be proved guilty;
but here am I, who, because von carrion of a shailor, who owesh me five
hundred pounts, takes an oath that _I_ owe him ten thousand--here am
I, on that schoundrel's single oath, clapped up in a prishon. Is this
a man's being innoshent till he is proved guilty, Sare?"

"Sir," said the lawyer primly, "you are thinking of criminal cases;
but if a man be unfortunate enough to get into debt, that is quite a
different thing:--we are harder to poverty than we are to crime!"

"But, mine Gott! is that justice?"

"Justice! pooh! it's the law of arrest," said the lawyer, turning on
his heel.

Our merchant was liberated; no one appeared to prove the debt. He flew
to a magistrate; he told his case; he implored justice against Captain
Jones.

"Captain Jones!" said the magistrate, taking snuff; "Captain Gregory
Jones, you mean!"

"Ay, mine goot Sare--yesh!"

"He set sail for Calcutta yesterday. He commands the Royal Sally.
He must evidently have sworn this debt against you for the purpose of
getting rid of your claim, and silencing your mouth till you could
catch him no longer. He's a clever fellow is Gregory Jones!"

"De teufel! but, Sure, ish dere no remedy for de poor merchant?"

"Remedy! oh, yes--indictment for perjury."

"But vat use is dat? You say he be gone--ten thousand miles off--to
Calcutta!"

"That's certainly against your indictment!"

"And cannot I get my monish?"

"Not as I see."

"And _I_ have been arreshted instead of him!"

"You have."

"Sare, I have only von vord to say--_is_ dat justice?"

"That I can't say, Mynheer Meyer, but it is certainly the law of
arrest," answered the magistrate; and he bowed the merchant out of
the room.

_New Monthly Magazine_.

* * * * *

SONGS FOUND IN A GRECIAN URN.

THE FIRST-BORN.

Beautiful, O woman! the sun on flower and tree,
And beautiful the balmy wind that dreameth on the sea;
And softly soundeth in thine ear, the song of peasants reaping,
The dove's low chant among the leaves, its twilight vigil keeping.

And beautiful the hushing of the linnet in her nest,
With her young beneath her wings, and the sunset on her breast:
While hid among the flowers, where the dreamy bee is flitting,
Singing unto its own glad heart, the poet child is sitting.

It stirreth up the soul, upon the golden waves to see,
The galley lifting up her crowned head triumphantly--
Io! Io! now she lau