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.

  Notings, selections,
    Anecdote and joke: 
  Our recollections;
    With gravities for graver folk.

* * * * *

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.”