href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@11387@[email protected]#footnote2" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">²—

George Nevil, brother to the great Earl of Warwick, at his instalment into his archbishopric of York, in the year 1470, made a feast for the nobility, gentry, and clergy, wherein he spent:

300 quartrs of wheat 300 ton of ale 104 ton of wine 1 pipe of spic'd w. 80 fat oxen 6 wild bulls 300 pigs 1004 wethers 300 hogs 300 calves 3000 geese 3000 capons 100 peacocks 200 cranes 200 kids 2000 chickens 4000 pidgeons 4000 rabitts 204 bitterns 4000 ducks 400 hernsies 200 pheasants 500 partridges 4000 woodcocks 400 plovers 100 carlews 100 quails 1000 eggets 200 rees 4000 bucks and does, and roebucks 155 hot venison pasties 1000 dishes of jellies 4000 cold venison past 2000 hot custards 4000 ditto cold 400 tarts 300 pikes 300 breams 8 seals 4 porpusses

At this feast the Earl of Warwick was steward; the Earl of Bedford treasurer; the Lord Hastings comptroller, with many noble officers servitors.

1000 cooks. 62 kitchiners. 515 scullions.

THE SERGEANT'S WIFE.

A drama, named as above, has been played with eminent success during the present season at the English Opera House. The plot is founded on the following horrible occurrence, which actually took place in Ireland in the year 1813, and which we extract from the columns of an Irish paper of the same date. The narrative is powerfully worked up in The Nowlans, in the second series of the O'Hara Tales, and Mr. Banim is the author both of the novel and the drama:—

"The speech of George Smith, William Smith, and James Smith, who were lately executed at Longford for the murder of James Reilly, a pedlar, near Lanes-borough, has been published. It gives the following description of the inhuman crime for which they suffered:

"The discovery of this murder, as decreed by the Almighty, was made by Margaret Armstrong, the wife of Sergeant Armstrong, of the 27th regiment of foot, on the recruiting service in Athlone. She was going to her husband, when she was overtaken by this dealing man. He asked her how far she was going—she answered to Athlone, to her husband, and said as it was getting late, and being scarce of money, she would make good her way that night. He then replied, 'my poor woman, let not that hurry you, I am going to Athlone myself, and there is a lodging at the next cross at which I mean to stop, be advised, and go no farther to-night, and I will pay your expenses.' When they came to the house, he asked for a bed for himself and another for the woman, and called for supper; when that was over, he paid the bill, and taking out his pocket-book, he counted 150l. which he gave in charge to George Smith, and retired to bed; the woman likewise went to her's, the family sat up till twelve; after which, when the man was fast asleep and all was silent, we, (the three Smiths) went into the room where the man lay; we dragged him out of bed, and cut his throat from ear to ear; we saved his blood in a pewter dish, and put the body into a flaxseed barrel, among feathers, in which we covered it up. Take care, and do the same with the woman, said our mother. We accordingly went to her bedside, and saw her hands extended out of the bed; we held a candle to her eyes, but she did not stir during the whole time, as God was on her side; for had we supposed that she had seen the murder committed by us, she would have shared the same fate with the deceased man. Next morning when she arose, she asked was the man up? We made answer, that he was gone two hours before, left sixpence for her, and took her bundle with him. 'No matter,' said she, 'for I will see him in Athlone.' When she went away, I (George Smith) dressed myself in my sister's clothes, and having crossed the fields, met her, I asked her how far she was going? She said to Athlone: I then asked her where she lodged? She told me at one Smith's, a very decent house, where she met very good entertainment. 'That house bears a bad name,' said I. 'I have not that to say of them,' said she, 'for they gave me good usage.' It was not long until we saw a sergeant and two recruits coming up the road; upon which she cried out, 'here is my husband coming to meet me; he knew I was coming to him.' I immediately turned off the road, and made back to the house. When she met her husband, she fainted; and on recovering, she told him of the murder, and how she escaped with her life. The husband went immediately and got guards, and had us taken prisoners; the house was searched, and the mangled body found in the barrel." The three monsters were, it is mentioned, ordered for execution from the dock.

ANECDOTES AND RECOLLECTIONS.

THE BAR—THE MASTER OF THE ROLLS.

It must be admitted (talking of the late Vice) that he really was enough to annoy any sober staid master, by his frolics and gambols since he has been made a judge. I remember him a quiet good sort of man enough: with a bed-room and kitchen in the area of No. 11, New-square; and his dining-room above, serving also for consultations: and his going, now and then, only to have a game of whist and glass of negus at Serle's;—but, now, he is a perfect Monsieur Tonson to all continental travellers. Never can you take up the police-book at the hotels, on the road to Italy, without Sir John Leach staring you in the face. The other day at the Cloche at Dijon (I will never go there again, and beg Sir John to do me the favour to withdraw his patronage also,—the Parc is worth twenty of it), yawning over my bottle of Cote d'Or, I inquired of the waiter who of my "land's language" had lately been there. "Vy, Sare, ve have de Milor Leash." "Lord Leash?"—"Oui, Monsieur;—mais, Fanchette, apportez le livre ici pour Monsieur—le voila."—"Ah, ha! Sir John Leach; I see."—"Ah qu'il est bon enfant! qu'il est gai!" exclaimed the garcon. "Ah! qu'il est aimable!" sighed Fanchette—Enter De Molin the banker's little bureau at Lausanne—(by the way, it is the favourite chamber of Gibbon the historian, and if you pay the house a visit from motives of curiosity respecting its former occupant, you will be happy to be allowed to remain and converse with the actual owner, for a more honourable, liberal, and better-informed man, does not exist)—there, I say, in the glass over the mantlepiece, will you see the card of Sir John Leach. Milan—Florence—the same. At Torlogna's the same. Then at Naples: go to San Carlos'; and if you get behind the scenes, ask for Braccini, the poetá of the theatre, who has been long in England; "Cospetto di Bacco!" he will exclaim: "il degn uomo, quel Vice Cancelliere: il Cavaliere Licci!—Gran Dio! quale talento per la musica!-Cappari! egli ha guadagnato i cuori di tutte le donne Napolitane."³ I certainly expect to hear him some day astonish the bar, by unwittingly striking up "O Pescator delle onde," or "Sul margine del Rio," in the Rolls Court; and, as in ancient Greece ('tis said) pleadings were chanted, let us yet hope to hear an argument preferred to the tune of "They are a' noddin, noddin, noddin;" an answer stated andante; a reply given in a bravura, and judgment pronounced presto. With all his faults (if they be such, which I do not admit), the present Master of the Rolls is a good judge, and an able man;—"un peu vif, peut-etre," as Fanchette might say; and it is more agreeable