Star. — London, England, 1826-05-22 00:00:00

uncles, for more asaa two hours, without the least Sign of impatience. ... On reaching the inn, I introduced myself to her, nut by telling her my name, nor indeed, any otherwise than by saying that the carriage would be ready in a moment. I then talked of her journey, of the rain, of a curious clock which we could see from the inn windows, and, indeed, of any thing that might prevent her asking questions for which I should have no answers. She was not in the least alarmed, but answered me cheerfully and aptly upon every subject. In ten minutes the carriage was ready. She held my arm whilst I stood in the hall talking to a waiter, joined me in wishing the landlady good day, and entered the car riage amidst a crowd of idle gazers, whom my hurried arrival had collected round the inn. She had very often been at Manchester, and knew perfectly that the horses' heads were turned in an opposite direction to the road to Shrigley. When I entered the carriage, the wooden blinds were. raised. I lowered them, fearing that such an appearance of concealment might excite curiosity ; and, after asking her if she had forgotten nothing, ordered the boys to drive on. The first thing I said to her in the carriage was, f , Do you know why you har been sent for from school ?"- 4. Yes." she said, 4 , AM - •ttlby told me, though she was desired not to tell me, tnat my mother is ill." I immediately assured her that this was not the case ; that I had reasons for deceiving Miss Daulby ; that Mrs. Turner was, I believed, quite well; and that the should have a full explanation by and by, She seemed gratified tb learn that her mother was not ill, and neither expressed, nor sheaved, the least anxiety to know more. I then exerted every power of my mind to amuse and please her. My great object was to draw her out ;to see what sort of a mind she had ; to learn what had been her eduation, and what were her opinions, man ners, and habits. I soon discovered (what our subsequent close intimacy has fully confirmed) that she has a vivid imagination, and a judgment beyond her years. Why, then, it may be asked, were not her suspicions excited? Because, I answer, her imagination enabled me to discover at once the subjects- that interested her, and by turning that discovery to account, to make myself an object of inte rest to her : and she felt no alarm in my company, because her judgment enabled her to see and feel the great pains that I took to treat her with the delicate and respectful, yertender kindness, that her extraordinary situation demanded. It must be difficult for any one to imagine what ac tually occurred; but I assert, that if she had been a fool. (as the newspapers have industriously represented her), she would probably have hesitated to continue the journey with me. As it was, not even a shadow of alarm, or even of suspicion, ever crossed her mind. . A stale of high excitement caused my spirits to over. flow. She was almost equally elated. We talked and laughed incessantly. Never in my life did I say so. much in the same time. All subjects came under dis cussion—the gravest and the most ridiculous—the most important and the most trifling. Her quickness, ima-* giaation, and good sense, astonished and delighted me. lustead of having to bring my conversation down to the-capacity of an ordinary school girl, I found that I mild talk on at random, and that sheunderstood every word I said. She, too, was gratified to discover that I enjoyed her display 4 a natural wit and keen sense of thexidiculous, with wh ch she is gifted. Marriages, it is said, are made in Heaven. Ours was made by the first two hours of our conversation. . It may be asked-if f had found her ugly, ignorant, and vulgar, as she had once been described to me, what should I have done ? My mind was quite made up.- 1 should have taken her back to Liverpool, desired the schoolmistress to send for Mr. Turner, and should have left with her, for him, a partial account of my freak— urging him to conceal it for his child's sake. I had not mentioned marriage to her. As my motives for taking her back would never have been suspected, so my am. rives for taking her away Would never have been disco vered. I intended to have refused all explanation upon the subject, beyond admitting an act of seeming folly, and in part describing what would have been considered an unfathomable mystery. I trusted to Mr. Turner's good sense to keep the secret. At all events, that 1111; my intention. If she had felt alarmed, and had objected to travelling with me, I should have made for Buxton, and should have seat her home with the landlady of ? the Buxton Hotel. In this case, as my object in taking her away would have been suspected, I should neither have ap peared nor have Written ; and I had, by many precau tions, taken care to conceal the real actor in what would have been called ag an unsuccessful attempt to run away with Miss Turner." But instead of having to fulfil either of these intentions, every thing conspired to con firm my main reulution. No one can imagine the pains I took to know my future wile—and finding her, as I did, all that is de lightful, how I strove to interest her, and to make her pleased with me. That I succeeded there can be no doubt; for when, having made up my mind to propose marriage to her, I asked her whether she knew where she was going? she answered, “ No; but I suppose you do ? and Ido not wish to be told. I rather enjoy the uncertainty." I informed her that she was ring into Yorkshire, and that she would probably meet her lather at Huddersfield. ei Very well," she replied ; and she then reverted to the conversation which had been broken off by my question. This occurred after we had left Manchester about three hours. As we proceeded we still talked incessantly, and often alluded to the strangeness of our situation. I gradually assumed towards her a manner which I can not readily describe. It was not studied :it was per fectly natural. I behaved to her as I would to a beloved sister, whom I had joined, after separation from child• hood, and whom my whole soul was bent upon pleasing, with careful reserve, and yet with the most affectionate frankness—with intimacy without familiarity, and with the greatest, the most marked and thoughtful kindness, but with no more tenderness than any man of feeling , would display to a helpless woman, accidentally placed .- wider his sole protection. She was, I suppose, pleased by tide Osialler dowdy. bee. I , what means I cannot tell farther ; bat that she was pleased I 1:' soon ample proof. As we approached Huddersfield, I mentioned...the pouibility of our not meeting her father there, and of her having to travel on with me till the following day. INow, her love for her father is unbounded, and forms, perhaps, the must marked trait of her character. Yet, as she has since often assured me, she was agreeably disappointed at hearing that she might not see him so soon, and that she might continue to travel with me till the next day. Few will'believe this ; but it is strictly true; and I know so well her love of truth, and sense of jus. 1 rice, that Lam sure she will confirm my assertion. I am sot such a coxcomb as to say that she was in love with me; but, as I was always delifested with her, who had - taken no pains to please, she might well be pleased with me, who had spared none to captivate. I cannot explain this secret of her heart.; but Istate the fact, ac cording to my belief and her assurance. On reaching Huddersfield, my supposition of her regret at the thought of our separation was confirmed' by her high spirits whilst we were at the inn there— after I had told her that we had no chance of seeing her father till the next day. We staid an hour, I be lieve, at the inn, where we ate, drank, talked, laughed, and almost played, as if we had been on a party of pleasure. It was then dark. She expected to travel alone with me all night; and she knew neither to what place she was going, nor with what object so strange a journey had been undertaken. But she did continue the journey, n. , t merely without a sign of hesitation, but with every mark of delight at our incessant conversation, and the hurry and excitement of the whole adventure. At Hali fax, my servant, on whom fright and fatigue had brought a fit of the gout, remained behind. Openly, and so that she must have heard me, but in French (which I did not then know she perfectly understands). I gave him orders to return to London. He asked me whether he should engage " family rooms" for me in the Brunswick Hotel? I said " Yes: but do not tell anybody that I am married, and go to bed and stay in bed, ill or well, till you see me three days hence." This, I suspect, did par tially open her eyes to my ultimate object; for soon afterwards, as I' was talking to my brother, in French, about her, and the time when we might reach Scotland, she desired us not to 14 tell secrets" in French, unless we wi •hed her to understand them. Be this as it may, we continued to travel through the' night, occupied as before with incessant conversation. Her spirits never flagged for a moment. Everything, almost, was converted into an excuse for laughing. The all but dangerous rapidity with which' the Yu, kshire postboys drove through the darkness; the significant requests of more than one landlady on the road, that we would honour them with our company on our return ; my struggles, after two sleepless nights, with an almost 'overpowering drowsiness; various petty accidents; and the probability, ascertained during the night, that the carriage would break into pieces before daylight, all furnished us with reasons, or rather excuses, for being so merry, that any one who could have seen and heard us, must have been satisfied of the perfect goodwill of both parties to lose no time in reaching Gretna-green. _ _ I, of course, continued to direct my whole atterition to improving her partiality for me, not merely by sharing and encouraging her joyous good humour, but also by entering into all her feelings, and by bestowing upon her such personal attentions and caresses as, without being indelicate, or calculated to alarm her modesty, were an, unequivocal declaration of my wishes and intentions. And I undoubtedly succeeded; .1., before we reached Kendal, she treated me with all the affectionate confi dence and gratifying intimacy that a cherished fi iend and admitted lover could have expected from her. At Kendal, after breakfast, I was about to undeceive her, to explain the stratagem I had used, to order to know her, and make myself known to her, and to attempt, by a common course of sup plication and argument, to persuade her to marry me. The Devil rem:nded me that, besides the means of persuasion furnished by our already established inti macy, I had a very powerful argument to use. She half passed one whole night with me! and I could haw urged that, for her own sake, she would do well to become my wife without delay. True it was, that I bad treated her with the utmost delicacy, and her conscience would have been clear though she had not married me. But, then, there was an ill-natured world, which, know ing how much I had done, would never give me credit for any degree of forbearance, and would laugh at any saving declaration of mine, as the mere result of fear or repentance. The argument wax, indeed, at least to a gentlewoman, tremendously powerful ; but I felt an invincible repegnance to using it. A romantic fit (for which no stranger will give me either blame or credit) tame upon me ; and under its influence, I dreaded to appear a brute in the eyes of this sweet gill, who was already so well inclined to like me, and whom, had I used that ungenerous argument, I should have married by a means which promised to insure for me her dislike, instead of the terwer love that I then felt certain of in spiting her with. Still what other chance had I of obtaining her free, 1 and full, and openly expressed approval of an imme diate marriage? Even though, as I half suspected, she should not in heart object to becoming mine, she must, for the sake of her pride, have made objections which I could not have answered; and it therefore behoved me to furnish her with some excuse for yield ing to my wishes. There was no time to lose. Whe ther or not I should use the ungenerous argument, I had passed one night with her. I had gone too far to recede, if it were pos-ible to advance by any means short of constraint. The ungenerous argument recurred to me continually ; but I always repelled it, and sought tiil my head ached for some other means of inducing and excusing her approval of an immediate marriage, with out destroying her good opinion of me. At last the device struck me, which I ultimately used with suc cess; and I declare that that pretexrwas employed, not as the surest and easiest means of petsuading bar, but as the only one which would enable me to marry her witho ut, in tie very act of marriage, risking the loss of her good opinion. She entered at once, and I may say eagerly,iato what she thought a scheme for securing her father's fortune. There was no holding back, no hesitation. "Yes,'' she said, " with pleasure, for papa's sake." She evidently exulted at the idea of being useful to her parents; and expressed so beautifully her admirable feelings towards them, that I was very near clasping her in nay arms and betraying all. Here, la order to skew that I am not the ruthless ravisher. and that she is net the consummate feel, that we have been described, I must proceed with considerable As soon as she had expressed not only her consent, but her wish to marry me, I said to her, " Ellen, you have one other important consideration. If you tea any repugnance towards me; if you do not feel that you should be able to love me, and to be very happy in living with me entirely henceforth, tell me so without hesitation. There is no absolute necessity for our mar riage. I beg of you to reflect most carefully upon this point, and to examine your feelings towards me, You have seen very little of me, but still we are become as intimate as if we had known each other' for years. I hope, and do not doubt, to treat you always, for your own sake, with more than the tenderness which your , peculiar situation has hitherto obtained from me. But' think; and do not decide rashly. If you dislike of object to marry me, say so, and 1 will take you back to Shtigley, when your father's affairs must be arranged in some other way." this speech, which was dictated by a vain wish to satisfy myself that I had a large share in her decision. she listened to with the deepest attention. I would not 'allow her to answer immediately. A long pause (which she will Perfecdy recollect) ensued. At last s he said, "1i you are always as you are now, I hop• to be very happy With you." But," asked I. what do you be • lifwe r We bandied these words—hope and believe, till we both laughed. I could not, expect her to make an impressive declaration of attachment. I told her I was satisfied, as her answer left every thing to depend upon me. I thanked her, kissed her, and encircled her in my arms ; and f rom that moment I treated !Ter as my future wife ; talking to her of the years of enjoy ment I promised myself in her society; of my anxious desire to obtain her tenderest love, and to consult her welfare and happiness by every means in my power; of my tender and affectionate feelings towards her, and of the thousand things that a man would say to his affianced bride just Isafore their marriage. In all this I was perfectly sincere. Her admirable conduct had in a few hours (hours which circumstances had . spun out to weeks), made me love her more than I should probably have done after a common acquaintance of years. Her courage and presence of mind; her good sense and judgment; her wit and acquirements; her most gentle and affectionate, yet mo3t happy and cheerful temper; her helpless situation ; her evid-nt partiality' for me; the very wrong that but for such par tiality I should have been inflicting upon her; all con spired to fill me with the strongest emotions of tender ness towards her. I swore to myself and to her to render her the happiest of women, and to make her, as a devoted husband, more than ample reparation. This tenderness from me, and the caresses to which it gave rise, soon restored our cheerfulness. As we passed the mountains of Westmoreland, we projected a summer visit to the Lakes. Ne , r Carlisle, and on the border, it was impossible to think and speak f and thing but Waverly and Walter Scott, and the last how of our journey to Gretna WAS occupied in !ening stories of the hair-breadth escapes of runaway couples, and in all but lioiverous mirth at the anticipated surprise of her Cheshire friends and acquaintances, when they should hear of her , marriage. When near Gretna, I found that she was well acquainted with the marriage service; having, as she told-me, " often read it, little thinking then that eke should want it so soon." I, therefore, in order to granty another romantic whim, took care that the ceremony should be more for-, mill and solemn than is either necessary or usual at Gretna. She performed het part in it with the utmost cheerfulness:-giving steadily, and with. evident signs of feeling, right answers to the solemn questions of the marriage service; and, whin I first called her my wife, she embraced me with as much tenderness as WI had been the long' eherished object of her choice. The die was Now irrevocably cut ; bat I bad still three import. ant ajects is view—to keep my enkagement at Calais •us inform Mr. Turner, as sum poodble, that his daughter was legally, and to 'pear as bum* as possible, not ineligibly married ; and if poi- ' Bible, to conceal frown-my wife that I had, in any degree, sinned against her father % • I therefore proceeded at went Dover, and sent my brother into Cheshire, withinstructiona to conceal nothing front Mr. Throw; but to uige hint to avoid a ptibile scandal, and above all MOEN to join ate, for his ebild's sake, in maintaining her good opinion of me. Unfortunately; when my brother reached Shrigley, Mr. Tam O' was In London; and be was persuaded to trusi an explanation to a third person, who knew nothing but she bare fact of the marriage. 1 1 On our journey to . galais, and during our stay there, my wife's confidenceist me was without limit ; her high spirits miller increased than dimioiAel; and our mutual attachment seemed,asiewas, sincere and . unbounded. At Dover.shepade the acquaintance of some friends of mine, who crossed the Chivatiel .with . nic and who will bear witness to • our mutual affection. Calais, though . a wretched place, was full of novelty and amusement to her. Ther e , we passed nearly a week, like any other, newly married couple, and as if neither she nor I bad any reason for anxiety.. lodeed,.although occasionally, I could not but he anxious to learn in what manner Mr. Tuiner had received my brother's communications, I was so fully occupied in teaching, dressing, caressing, and amusing, the. high spirited and affectionate girl, whose happiness, whatever might be the conduct of her family, I now considered the first object of my exilt ence, that I was indifferent to almost everything but the actual enjoyment of the moment, of which no one can imagine the intoxicating nature, who has not, by rare good fortune, been the first object of a young heart's legitimate tenderness. And the revolution in her si tuation was so complete, converting her in one day from • scolded or neglected and always restrained school , girl; into the earthly idol of a passionate and romantic husband—that it is not fair to wonder at her having, under its hippy influence, preferred the vaudeville even ofa Calais theatre, to the die-aviay songs of a Liverpool concert, the hasty productions of a tenth rate ntarchand a modes to the little coal scuttle bonnet and scanty peliise of a Macclesfield dress maker, and my poor company to that.of her governess. • bn.the ISth of March, the Dover packet brought a friend for whomi war welting, and my wife's uncles. All the newspaper accounts of our meeting are mere inventions. They went to the Hotel Meurice, where, I was 'told, they had asked for me. I proceeded there, but not finding them, returned to the Hotel Quillacch and was then informed that Mr. Robert Turner and Mr. Critchley, together with a lawyer, and several Bow street officers, were coming to arrest me on a charge of abduction, and that Mrs. Turner was dangerously ill. My carriage and passports were ready, and I could have escaped to the world's end with my wife; but I really wished to meet her uncles; and even, if I had not so wished, the accounts of Mrs. Turner's situation would have fixed me *to the spot. I sent to Messrs. Turner and Critchley, to say that I awaited them. When they appeated, I begged for a short conversation with them before they should see their niece. My object in desiring to see them first was, to tell them the whole truth, and to entreat that, for her sake, they would not, as she was now my wife, give her a bad opinion-of me. They turned a deaf ear to all that I could say upon that subject, seemed con vinced that the marriage was null and void, and urged me, in consideration of Mrs. Turner's most dangerous illness, and Mr. Turner's abject distress, to put no ob stacle to the return of their daughter to England I could not hesitate for an instant; I led her to them, and left her with them some time... On. my return, I fo nd her as much convinced as they were that we *ere not married. I then, seeing their misery, hastened to afford them all the comfort in my power, by taking them into their niece's bed-room, and assuring them that that was the first time I had ever entered it. Mr. R. Turner asked me if I had any objection to write what 1 had stated? 44 Not the 'lightest," I replied, " if you think that it will be a comfort to Mr. and Mrs. Turner ;" and I im mediately wrote a strong declaration to the effect of what I had just assured them. Mr. R. Turner and Mr. Critchley will bear witness that I did not do this under the influence of fear, or to obtain credit or favour for mysell ; but that, seeing their conviction that no rriar riage had taken place, and induced by their repeated assertions to.entertain myself a doubt upon the ttl. jest, I did it voluntarily and calmly, merely to give the whole family some consolotiim in' their distress. There was then some &stilt( ry conversation about arresting me. Phis I knew 'was nut of- the question, but I uffered, if the lawyer would undertake that I should be bailed, to proceed immediately tit London. He would not give me an assurance to that •eff tt. I therefore declined returning to England intmediaiely ; but I assured Messrs. Turaer and Critchtey that I would certainly appear there very soon, and meet man: fully, though submissively, the worst consequences of what I had done. On the same day I addressed a letter to Mr. Turner, in which I eased) , sought to remove from his daughter to myself all the blame that might attach to our marriage; and repeated, even in stronger terms, my previous declaration, under the same impulse that had induced me to Make it to his brothers. The following extract from that letter will thew the spirit in which it was written : " I am assured. Sir, by your brothers, that my marriage is null end void. If this be the case, I shall feel the deepest regret, apt on my own account, I hope, but because reparation will thereby be put out of my power. If your daughter be not, and should never be my wife, I have indeed done you an irreparable injury. In that case I should desire to give you some pencil of abject repentance, if any sacrifice on my part could only tend towards removing the evils of which I shall have been the au:hor ; but I fear I shall be unable to do you any good by suffering myself. Nevertheless shall place myself at your disposition. Evert facility shall beaf forded by me for the pursuit of your vengeance. I go to Paris only to fulfil an indi.pen.able engagement, and shall hasten to return to suffer cheerfully whatever punisloneut it may be your pleaeuri,to indict upon me. " If I have not mistaken the spirit of your brother's measures, nothing but the Act of Parliament can decide whether or not your daughter be my wife. For her sake, I certainly trust that she is; but if she be not, andif you decide that she never shall-be, then have only to desire that every shadow of doubt may be removed from the question ; and in effecting this, I shall not only be ready, bat most anxious, to afford any assistance that it may happily be billy power to ffer. " I trust, Sir, that you will not misinterpret the spirit in which this hasty letter is written. Ido not seek any favour from you ; lam ant influenced by any feeling of alarm. I am prepared for; and anxious to meet the consequences of what I have done; and I have no hope of being able to persuade you to think favourably of me. I have tried to write, in the first place, with a view to your comfort, what undoubtedly would give me comfort in such a case • and secoinily, under a conviction that I am your son, with the manly frankness which, I trust, is habitual to me ; so that, at least, if at present you know nothing but ill of me, you may learn that I am anything but a meeting coward, who would hesitate to repair a grievous wrong by every means in his . power.* MC: Turner answered this letter by obtaining a war. rant against me fur a capital felony. I no sooner heard of it, than I hastened to England, where I have always been anxious to surrender myself, and gave bail for my • future appearance. Hitherto my offers to that effect have obtained no answer from Mr. Turner's agents. I am impelled to make this statement (from which I have purposely excluded numerous corroborative de tails), not with a view of my own justification, for that, I know, is impossible, but in orJer to remove from my self some of the most injurious, and from my, wife the mortifying imputations which have been cast upop It may be well to pursue me .vindictively,.but it is cruel to make her suffer for my sins. I will therefore trust, that this repeated acknowledgment of the injury I have done to Mr. Turner, and the proof which it fur . dishes,. that I have no wish to defend myself, may gheck, forihe future, the well meant, though misguided zeal, . withwhich his agents have laboured,and are still striving to make his daughter a public laughing stock, and the object of everlasting curiosity and comment. • The above statement has been submitted to Mr. TuMfg. 41111•1ber with the following letter • " iha—ln compliance with the implied pledge contacts' 4d, Teeter which I letely addressed to the :Editor. of the. Uourter,. l have the bonier to lock* for your conSideration; ',poet of tbocircamstancea attendant on my marriage—which . agpote t ,, e i! is my intention to circulate amongst my private friend% .; r „ . Tithe public 'statements respecting your daughtei a me ad ant, for the most part; appeared, originally in a Newspaper :which is supposed to be under the cootroul df your Agent,. Ishould have treated them with complete indifference, and notbing weuld.have induced me to aid its making your daughter. an °Meet nflptibliedie. mission ; but as many of the ridiculous and mortifying paragaaphs concerning us both have been inserted - with the stamp of your au thority, though 1 feel certain, without your knowledge, lam im pelled to rectify the inisrepresentatioCs which titer- =stain, by describing, in their true colours, amongst my friends at least, your s daughter amiable character an d admirable conduct. " And although it has been impossible for me to do this without acknowledging, in their fullest extent, my heavy sins toward, you, •I have no objection to your making such acknowledgment public, 'in *Hits details, if you should agree with me in thinking that the false imputations cast upon your daughter may thereby be removed. " To ybu, Sir, I am anxious to repeat that I have no wish to escape from the punishment which it may be your plealere to in. filet upon me. " But I must, at the same time, beg you to believe that, in thus submitting myself to your vengeance, 1 have tie selfish hope in being able to modeeate year anger. My sole reasons for this step are, the recollection of my engagement to place myself at your dis position, and an anxious desire to facilitate, by every means in my power, whatever course of proceeding may be thought most con ducive to your daughter's advantage. 0 I have the honour to be, Sir, &c. " EDWARD G. VIA.KIIVIIILD.! " London, May 6, 11126. • The important case between the King's Printers in Scotland and the Bible Society, respecting the right of printing Bibles, has been decided against the latter, by the Scotch Court of Session. • CORN EXCHANGE, MARK-LANE, MAT 59. The supply of English Corn was moderate • there was a good quantity of Irish Oats, and a fair arrival of F lour. This morning there is a moderate fresh supply of all sorts of Grain. The Wheat trade is very heavy, and a reduction may be notes' of ls. to its. per quarter from the prices of last Mouday.. Batley, except for grind ing, is without demand, and prices are nearly Dentinal : what sales were made were at the rates of last Monday. Beans and Peas re- • main at last quotations. Oats have a very dull sale,. and. hardly support our last quotations. The Flour trade is in a very languid state, though the top price remains at 555. per sack. . . Wheat, Red, new, 48s. 575. Rye, •oldi 361. 401. -- old, 00s. 00s. Beans, Small, new, 38s. 421 White, new, 545. 645. --- old, 00s. 00$. - old 00s. Ms. tick, new, 335. 375. Barley, 225. 30s. -- old, 00s. 00a Malting, 311. 338. I Oats, Feed, new, 19s. SU Peas, Grey, 1825, 385. 40s. -- old, 00s. Ns. -- Old, 00s. 00s. Poland, new, 221. 265. Maple, 1825, 41s. 425. - old, 00s. 00$. old, 00s. 00s. Potatoe, new, 235. hu. White, new, 40s. 425. -- old, 00s. 004. ..---- old, 00s. 00s. -• Scotch, 295. 30s. Boilers,lB2s, 435. 445. Flour, per Sark, 465. 555. old, 00a. 00s. Seconds 40s. 451. ARRIVALS LAST WiRIC. Peas, qrs. Irish Oats Foreign Oats Foreign Barley Wheat, British, qrs. 4,623 Barley 385 Malt 7,564 Oats 9,437 1 ;2 6,493 6,941 --- 4,-- 639 I English Floor, sacks 7,659 SMITHFIELD MARKET, May N. We have a full market today, and the hei r t of the weather causes both Mutton and Beef to be very dull : the former Meet is full gd. to 4d. per stone cheaper,. the supply of this b!ing extremLly large ; the best young Oxen are quoted 4s. Bd. per stone, and perhaps for a few fine ones Id. to 2d. per stone more may have been given. The best young Sheep are 4s. 6d. to 4s. ild. per do. with dull sale. Veal is firm at ss. to Ss. 10d. per stone, according to quality ; and in Lamb there is no material variation, ss. to 6s. per stone bring the price this day. Pork commands little attention, es. to 5.. 21. per stone being the ptice.—Beasts, 2,126 ; Sheep, 40,830; Pi g s, 140; Calves, 189. Beef per stone, 4s. to 4s. Bd. Mutton, 46 . to es. 10d. Vtal, Su to 5s 10d. Lamb, 51. to 6s. Pork, es. to Ss. £d. — Fl a y. p er load, Al ss. to ,C 4 10$. Clover, ,E 3 3s. to f 5 4s. 6d. Straw, t us. to .e 2.