mansion had a forlorn look. The weather still continued foggy, with drizzling showers, and though the trees were not yet entirely stripped of their foliage, their glories had altogether departed. The turf was damp and plashy, and in some places partook so much of the character of a swamp, that the horsemen were obliged to alter their course.

But all obstacles were eventually overcome, and in ten minutes after their entrance into the park, they were within gunshot of the mansion. There were no symptoms of defence apparent, but the drawbridge being raised, it was Catesby's opinion, notwithstanding appearances, that their arrival was expected. He was further confirmed in this idea when, sounding a trumpet, and calling to the porter to let down the drawbridge, no answer was returned.

The entrance to the mansion was through a lofty and machiolated gateway, strengthened at each side by an embattled turret. Perceiving a man at one of the loopholes, Catesby discharged his petronel at him, and it was evident from the cry that followed that the person was wounded. An instant afterwards calivers were thrust through the other loopholes, and several shots fired upon the rebels, while some dozen armed men appeared upon the summit of the tower, and likewise commenced firing.

Perceiving Topcliffe among the latter, and enraged at the sight, Catesby discharged another petronel at him, but without effect. He then called to some of his men to break down the door of an adjoining barn, and to place it in the moat. The order was instantly obeyed, and the door afloat in the fosse, and springing upon it, he impelled himself with a pike towards the opposite bank. Several shots were fired at him, and though more than one struck the door, he crossed the moat uninjured. So suddenly was this daring passage effected, that before any of the defenders of the mansion could prevent him, Catesby had severed the links of the chain fastening the drawbridge, and it fell clattering down.

With a loud shout, his companions then crossed it. But they had still a difficulty to encounter. The gates, which were of great strength, and covered with plates of iron, were barred. But a ladder having been found in the barn, it was brought forward, and Catesby mounting it sword in hand, drove back all who opposed him, and got upon the wall. He was followed by Sir Everard Digby, Percy, and several others, and driving the royalists before them, they made their way down a flight of stone steps, and proceeding to the gateway, threw it open, and admitted the others. All this was the work of a few minutes.

Committing the ransacking of the mansion to Digby and Percy, and commanding a dozen men to follow him, Catesby entered a small arched doorway, and ascended a winding stone staircase in search of Topcliffe. His progress was opposed by the soldiers, but beating aside all opposition, he gained the roof. Topcliffe, how

VOL. XVII.

2 c

ever, was gone. Anticipating the result of the attack, he had let himself drop from the summit of the tower to the walls, and descending by the ladder, had made good his retreat.

Disarming the soldiers, Catesby then descended to the courtyard, where in a short time a large store of arms, consisting of corslets, demi-lances, pikes, calivers, and two falconets, were brought forth. These, together with a cask of powder, were placed in the baggage-waggon. Meanwhile, the larder and cellar had been explored, and provisions of all kinds, together with a barrel of mead, and another of strong ale, being found, they were distributed among the men.

While this took place, Catesby searched the mansion, and partly by threats, partly by persuasion, induced about twenty persons to join them. This unlooked-for success so encouraged the conspirators, that their drooping spirits began to revive. Čatesby appeared as much elated as the others, but at heart he was full of misgiving.

Soon afterwards, the rebel party quitted Hewel Grange, taking with them every weapon they could find. The forced recruits were placed in the midst of the band, so that escape was impracticable.

COMMON CONVERSATION.

BY E. P. ROWSELL, ESQ.

I SHOULD be sorry to reckon up the number of falsehoods I tell in a day. There, now, there's an honest confession. My lamentable deviations from the truth occur in the most innocent way-in the course of common conversation." And though, as I have said, I should not like to ascertain their total at the end of twenty-four hours, my impression is that that total would really be insignificant-quite respectable, in fact-beside the alarming number that could be clearly proved against a great many worthy people whom I happen to know.

I fell into the above grievous error after this fashion. An old gentleman, a friend of mine, comes in. Now he is writing a book, having for its object "universal happiness." He has a scheme of appalling intricacy by which the delightful end is to be attained. He has a pleasing fondness for explaining this mighty project to any miserable victim he may have secured. He begins at the beginning, but never arrives at the end

at least, I have never heard of anybody who has had the benefit of listening to the conclusion of his arguments, for he always winds up by declaring that he's left a great deal unsaid. Now, when this agreeable companion begins to talk, I begin to think-not about what he is saying, but something widely different. Very well. The poor old gentleman is delighted with an apparently so attentive auditor. He explains and enforces in a manner that astonishes himself. He revels in his descrip

you

tion for a clear twenty minutes, then stops suddenly, murmurs that he has made too long a visit, rises, and putting forth his hand, assails me with this awkward question, "Now, my good friend, do understand my scheme in all its details?" Understand his scheme in all its details! I really could not repeat a single word that he has uttered. But do I say this? Oh, no. I seize him by the hand-vile sinner that I am, I seize him by the hand- -as though in ecstacy, and declare that I DO thoroughly comprehend that glorious project, and feel convinced that he will be the most important benefitter of his species who has arisen for centuries!

Now take another case. I have just completed a letter to a man, telling him that it appears to me he does not follow in that straight course which a sense of honour emphatically points out to a rightminded individual-in other words, that he is a great vagabond. But how do I conclude my letter? Why, by saying that I am his obedient servant. I have told the man he is a scoundrel, but I finish by declaring that I will act agreeably to his commands! I would prostrate him, do him dire injury, have him expelled from all decent society, if I could, yet I am this man's "obedient servant." However, I have no choice; custom requires that I should tell a fib, and I tell one accordingly.

Again. I have just had a visit from a man I do most sincerely dislike; he is a horrid bore. I caught sight of him prior to his knocking at the door, and I straightway sprung from my chair, and pacing the room, swore like a trooper. Yes; it is a melancholy fact,-I forgot myself for the moment, and swore like a trooper. Presently Mr. Smith is announced. Now observe, reader. I dart forward,—I shake him by the hand, I smile most pleasantly,—I look hugely pleased, and thus I greet the man:

"How do you do, how do you do, my dear sir? How pleased I am to see you; this is really a pleasure; what a time it is since you have paid me a visit!"

Yes, this is what I say,-I, who the moment before was cursing the ill luck that brought such a bore into the circle of my acquaintance; yet, what can I do, I have no alternative; the blame again rests upon custom,—one is expected to tell falsehoods,—and one can't help oneself. If any pious individual can suggest a way of getting over the difficulty, I shall be very much obliged if he will communicate with me forthwith.

Here again. A few days ago I was exceedingly unwell. A friend called, and not knowing that I was ill, he at once congratulated me on my good looks. Yes; he said he had never seen me looking better. Now, that miserable sinner, happening to meet a friend immediately on quitting me, said, speaking of me, as I was told afterwards (what do you think?):-"Poor fellow,-fast breaking up,-looks very bad-shocking. I should say, wouldn't be with us at the end of a twelvemonth." This was pretty well; yet we are accustomed to regard such a deviation from the truth as perfectly allowable,-aye, praiseworthy, in fact, and commendable.

My belief is that, when in the company of friends, every third sentence we utter contains a falsehood. We tell fibs mildly and pleasantly, and from the most amiable motives. Talking to please other people, we drop most innocently into very grievous error. We assert opinions the very

reverse of that we entertain. We admit and we deny, assent and disapprove, really quite regardless of fact and truth, and all through politeness and desire to please. Any man who ventured to be honest and speak as he happened to think, at any friendly gathering, would quickly find himself regarded as a sour, uncourteous, disagreeable individual, and quickly be expelled respectable society.

66

I offended a man desperately the other day. A little squalling infant was placed before me, and his father said with a self-satisfied smirk,— They tell me he's very like me,-just my eyes and nose they say. There may be some trifling resemblance, but, dear me (here he looked inquiringly at me), it can be but trifling.

I knew what he expected. He thought I should straightway declare that any one who could not see the most striking likeness on the part of the miserable little creature before me to his worthy father (who was a man six feet high and very stout), must be sorrowfully afflicted with impaired vision. But I was in a bad humour, and said it was impossible to perceive any resemblance; whereat my friend turned away in mighty dudgeon, and there has been quite a coolness between us since.

How few people can give a truthful description! there is some feeling generally at work that prompts the colouring a narrative, and adding or subtracting as may be. A spirit of advocacy, in fact, enters into nearly all we say or do, and we cannot prevent it. We entertain an opinion, and straightway become attached to it; we narrow the sphere of our mental vision so as to shut out objects unfavourable to the conception we have formed, and try to persuade ourselves (though we always fail— there is still an uneasy feeling within us that we are but attempting a cheat) that we are taking a wide, liberal, impartial, unprejudiced view. Our judgment gives an opinion to which our will refuses to listen; the will is victorious, and enforces a course disapproved by our judgment; thus, though every man will be ready to defend his own sayings and doings with some odd sort of idea that he is in the right, very few dare calmly and quietly sit down and ponder whether there be no self-delusion, and whether or no in very truth right be on their side.

Thus I come to this very delightful conclusion, that pretty well all our sayings and doings, those which are simply casual and occur without thought, and those by which we are characterised and identified, set forth the great fact of perpetual insincerity. We deceive other people; we deceive ourselves in a regular, systematic way. I fear it will always be so; it seems to me we grow worse daily. We are less ignorant and more enlightened than we were a century back, but I believe we are not one more whit more religious. There are fewer throats cut now than formerly, and fewer highway robberies-there we stop. Still, let not the few worthy individuals be disheartened; let them strive on to make the world wiser and better-a thankless but a glorious task; one which, whether anything accrue from it or not, shall not go unrewarded; one which they should toil and strain at till the eye become dim and the pulse grow feeble; one which they should only relinquish when called on to quit this wretched existence and to enter into the reward of their manifold labours.

ZIG-ZAG TO PARIS, AND STRAIGHT HOME;

OR,

A THOUSAND MILES AND FOURTEEN DAYS FOR FOURTEEN POUNDS.

A JOURNAL Of a tour in FRANCE, IN DECEMBER, 1848.

Friday, Dec. 15th.-Early a-foot on the road to Treport. Ville d'Eu is situated on the left bank of a deep valley, opening down to the sea. Treport stands in the jaws of this valley. A canal, communicating between the two places, traverses its bottom, fed by the stream it has superseded there. The road we took, descends its left side, looking seaward. The one by which we had reached Treport the previous night, is carried along the flat ground under the opposite bank. Evidently the bottom of the valley was formerly occupied by the sea, and has been reclaimed. Where the hills open out right and left upon the sea, they assume a bold and characteristic outline. On the left side they become rock; and here, on a platform on their highest point, stands advantageously, as at St. Valery, the town church, a fine piece of Late Pointed. Steep flights of stone steps ascend to it from the road below, and the whole affair, rock, steps, and church, makes a very satisfactory picture. At the base of the rock and high ground, extends, facing the harbour, the business façade of Treport, lining a handsome quay. The harbour is formed in a great measure naturally, by the fauces or opening of the valley, across which, at the point inland where they begin to contract in width, bridges and other engineering works extend. The town takes advantage of a transition from steep rock to rounded and broken-up hills, where the left-hand ground approaches the sea, to extend itself, and, as you walk towards the beach, you pass a small battery,-whence, by the way, Louis Philippe taught the Comte de Paris, luckless infant, to fire his first great gun, literally teaching "the young idea how to shoot," and, turning suddenly to the left, you find a small assemblage of decent-looking little houses, built for the accommodation of bathing visitors, facing the sea and the sands, and sheltered behind by the return of the high ground. Here is a coquettish little pavilion, built for, and formerly occupied by, the Duchess of Orleans, having a large bowwindow on the ground-floor, and above it a broad balcony, intended in hot weather to be covered by an awning,-what we should call a marine villa,—but what the Treport people call "un tout petit château."

The general aspect of Treport is that of a little fishing and trading port, to which has been superadded, on a very small scale, the fashionable dignity of a sea-bathing place. There is a fine open sea and smooth broad sands, and, with the resources of Ville d'Eu and the neighbouring forest, St. Valery, Abbeville, Dieppe, &c., within reach, part of the summer or autumn might be passed here very agreeably. But the accommodation for strangers appeared exceedingly limited.

We ascended to the church. It is of the French Decorated, or almost Renaissance style, rich and beautiful in much, but impure. Of this style we afterwards had occasion to notice several very elaborate examples. The pendants of the groined roof at Treport were remarkable, descending deeply into the church, and being attached to the roof by slender