The Sun.
London, England, 1828-10-13 00:00:00

DUBLIN.

•
Yesterday the Magistrate of Ilenry.street Police-
office was visited by a fair .youtig woman, who called
herself Mrs. Conway. She came with a complaint
against her " lord and master," Mr. Conway. Mr.
Conway was old, and Mrs. Conway, with the ex-
ception of her eyes, was very young and very pretty,
and took care to display a neat foot and uncle—dif-
ficult things, it is said, to he found amongst our lush
beautie4. But Mra. Conway
.having put forward
one of her little feet, and tinning the pupil of one
eye as if she'were' looking out in the street,' and the
other as 'if admiring the aforisaid foot, she made a
long and melancholy complaint of how she had the

misfortune to marry that Conway—how.old.and in-
, capable he was of paying her those delicate little•at-
tentions which all young women expected from
every man of common gallantry—holy he acted like
a brute by beating het, and giving her two black
eves in the course of every three months—how he
had first killed her, and. afterwards " murdered her
entirely," &c.
PouL• Mr. Conway patiently listened to his mis-
deeds recounted by his young and ill-used wife.
When called upon to answer, he delivered the fol-
lowing oration, which was evidently prepared for

le occasion :

My Lord, and Gentlemen of the Jury--.-When-
ever you marry, take care that your wife has no mo-
ther,—all my misfortunes, my distress, and my ruina-
tion, and desperation, come of my having a mother-
in-law. Oh ! it's she that is the real mother-in-
law; for L that am her son-in-law, she has in law ;
and even her own daughter is now a daughter in
law. Oh; the villainous vile old mother-in-law.—
Oh ! she has a tongue like a serpent, a nose like a
.hatchet, an eye like a gimlet, and, a hand like a
hammer. Oh ! Mrs. Conway, Mrs. Conway, it's
you that would be the decent, nice, comfortable,
well-behaved little woman, but for your mother—
that's my mother-in-law. Please your Honour, my
house-is not my own, once Mrs. Conway's mother
enters it—my bed is not my own, for my mother-in •
law sleeps in it—my breakfast is not my own, nor
my dinner; nor my supper, for my mother-in-law
eats them—and my wife is not my own, because
she is the daughter of my mother-in-law. Now,
instead of beating Mrs. Conway, I never do such a
thing—l only leather her mother. It was to her,
and not Mrs. Conway, I gave the two black eyes,
as you would see, if she was here to the fore ; and
-why shouldn't I heat her, when she put up my sweet
little wife to take away my things ? My mother-in-
law robbed me.

Mrs. Conway—No, please your Worship, it was I.
Mr. Conway—My mother-in-law pawned my
clothes.

Mrs. Conway—No, it was I.
Mr. Conway—My mother-in-law got drunk with
the money.
Mrs. Conway--No, it was I.
Mr. Conway—My mother-in-law came in and
broke all the things.
Mrs. Conway—No, it was I.
Mr. Conway—And it was my mother-in-law that
came and tore my cravat and scratched all my
face, before I laid a hand on her.

Mrs. Conway—Oh, oh ! indeed, your Worship,
it was I did that.
The Magistrate—Then, according to your own
confession, I must dismiss this complaint.
Mr. Conway--Very well, your Worship, and I
am now ready to forget and forgive all, and take
her home to me again, if she will have done with
her mother.

Mrs. Conway—Have done with my mother !
never, Mr. Conway; oh ! she is the kindest, best,
and darlingest creature that ever lived, and not to be
matched from the lower end of Townsend-street to
the upper end of Constitution-hill, in making a drop
of burnt whiskey. Indeed, your worship, he is
always beating
me, and I don't know for why
a sweet smile),
except, indeed, that he is a bit 3ealous
of me. (with

Mr. Conway--No, indeed, I am not ; I am willing
to take her home at this very minute, if she will
have done with my mother-in-law,
No, then, I will never go home to you again, Mr.
Conway, said the lady,
office; I will. as she walked out of the
summon you to the Court of Con-
science, and you will he made to-give me a separate
maintenance, and then I can live in peace and quiet-
ne--s with your mother-in-law.

TuomsoNr.—The Seasons " have lately
been tranOated into Italian prose, by PATAIZO MUSCHI,
and published at Florence,
Courant.