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Rh And your tale too improbable, even for fiction.

Improbable! It’s a real fact.

What, a robber in our grounds at noon-day? Very likely indeed!

I don’t ay it was likely—I only ay it is true.

No, no, Mr. Verdun, we find no fault with your poetry; but don’t attempt to impoe it upon us for truth.

Poets are allowed to peak falehood, and we forgive yours.

I won’t be forgiven, for I peak truth—And here the robber comes, in cutody, to prove my words. [Goes off, repeating] “I’ll write his dying peech myfelf.”

Look! as I live, o he does—They come nearer, he’s a young man, and has omething intereting in his figure. An honet countenance, with grief and orrow in his face. No, he is no robber—I pity him! Oh! look how the keepers drag him unmercifully into the tower—Now they lock it—Oh! how that poor, unfortunate man mut feel!

Hardly wore than I do.

A thouand congratulations, my dear papa. .