The Sun. — 1828-10-13 (London, England)

DUBLIN.  • Yesterday the Magistrate of Ilenry.street Policeoffice 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 exception of her eyes, was very young and very pretty, and took care to display a neat foot and uncle—difficult 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•attentions 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 misdeeds recounted by his young and ill-used wife. When called upon to answer, he delivered the following oration, which was evidently prepared for  le occasion :  My Lord, and Gentlemen of the Jury--.-Whenever you marry, take care that your wife has no mother,—all my misfortunes, my distress, and my ruination, and desperation, come of my having a motherin-law. Oh ! it's she that is the real mother-inlaw; 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-inlaw 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 Conscience, and you will he made to-give me a separate maintenance, and then I can live in peace and quietne--s with your mother-in-law.  TuomsoNr.—The Seasons " have lately been tranOated into Italian prose, by PATAIZO MUSCHI, and published at Florence, Courant.