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Sir R. Walshe then gave orders for a general assault to be made upon the house; and, in the attack that followed, Thomas Wintour, going into the court-yard, was the first who was wounded, having received a shot in the shoulder, which disabled him; the next was Mr. Wright, and after him the younger Wright, who were both killed; Rookewood was then wounded. Catesby, now seeing all was lost, and their condition totally hopeless, exclaimed to Thomas Wintour, "Tom, we will die together." Wintour could only answer by pointing to his disabled arm, that hung useless by his side, and as they were speaking, Catesby and Percy were struck dead at the same instant, and the rest then surrendered themselves into the hands of the sheriff.

At the end of January, 1606, the whole of the conspirators, at that time in custody, being eight in number, were brought to their trial in Westminster Hall, and were all tried upon one indictment, except Sir E. Digby, who had a separate trial. On Thursday, January 30th, Sir E. Digby, Robert Wintour, John Grant, and Thomas Bates, were executed at the west end of St. Paul's Church, and on the next day Thomas Wintour, Ambrose Rookewood, Robert Keys, and Guy Fawkes, suffered within the Old Palace-yard at Westminster.

On the 28th of February, 1606, Garnet was brought to trial at Guildhall, before nine Commissioners specially appointed for that purpose. Of his participation in the plot there was no doubt; and he admitted himself criminal in not revealing it, although, as he asserts, it was imparted to him only in confession: but it is more than probable that the valuable papers, lately rescued from oblivion, and preserved in his Majesty's State Paper Office, will be able to prove his extensive connexion with the plot, his knowledge of it, both in and out of confession, and his influential character with all the conspirators.

Garnet was hanged on the 3rd of May, 1606, on a scaffold, erected for that purpose, at the west end of St. Paul's Church. Held up to infamy by one party as a rebel and a traitor, and venerated as a saint and a martyr by the other; the same party spirit, and the same conflicting opinions, have descended from generation to generation, down to the controversialists of the present day.

We subjoin the Autographs of some of the principal conspirators, from the same source as the preceding narrative, as an appropriate and equally authentic accompaniment:—

Robert Catesbye.—Taken from an original letter from Catesbye to his cousin, John Grant, entreating him to provide money against a certain time. This autograph is very rare.

Guido Fawkes.—Taken from his declaration made in the Tower on the 19th of November, and afterwards acknowledged before the Lord's Commissioners.

Thomas Percy.—From an original letter to W. Wycliff, Esq. of York, dated at Gainsborough, November 2nd, 1605.

Henry Garnet.—From one of his examinations, wherein he confessed to have been in pilgrimage to St. Winifred's Well.

Ambrose Rookewood.—From an original letter, declared that he had felt a scruple of conscience, the fact seeming "too bluddy."

Thomas Wintour.—From an original examination before the Lord's Commissioners, on the 25th of November, 1605.

Francis Tresam.—From his examination relative to the book on Equivocation. Tresam escaped being hanged by dying in the Tower, on the 23rd of December, 1605.

Sir Everard Digby.—From an original examination. He was related to John Digby, subsequently created Baron Digby and Earl of Bristol, and was a young man of considerable talent. He was in the twenty-fourth year of his age when executed.

To the Right Hon. the Lord Mounteagle.—The superscription to the anonymous letter that led to the discovery of the plot. By whom it was written still remains a mystery.

All the principal conspirators were married and had families; several of them possessed considerable property, and were highly, and, in some instances, nobly related.

L.

THE SKETCH BOOK No. XLIX

THE AUBERGE

(For the Mirror.)

"Tais-toi, Louise," exclaimed the landlady of a small but neat auberge at – to her daughter, a sweet child, about seven years of age, who, playing with a little curly French dog, was sitting on a three-legged stool, humming a trifling chanson which she had gleaned from a collection of ditties pertaining to an old woman, who, when the landlady might be busily engaged, attended the infant steps and movements of Louise. "Tais-toi, ecoutez, la diligence s'approche;" the truth of the good woman's remark being vouched for by the heavy rumbling of that ponderous machine, the "Vite, vite" of the postilion, and the "crack, crack" of his huge whip. This was shortly after the battle of Waterloo, when our troops, crowned with laurels, were hastily leaving the continent, burning with anxiety to revisit their native soil, and their countrymen of the peace department were as hastily leaving it, fired with curiosity to behold the spot where such laurels had been so hardly earned. At least such was undoubtedly the most prevalent cause of the great influx of continental visiters at that period; but there were, by way of contrast to these votaries of curiosity, too many whose contracted brow and thoughtful melancholy cast of visage betrayed forcibly their owners' curiosity to be otherwise and more feelingly worked upon; 'twas the anxiety, the wish to gather information respecting relatives or friends, killed or wounded in the late dire struggle, which had caused those appearances. But to my subject. 'Twas at the close of a very hot July day that the diligence drew up to the door of the before-mentioned auberge. "A diner," as the postilion (nearly smothered in his tremendous "bottes fortes," genteelly taking from his head a hat almost as small as the boots were in comparison large) was politely pleased to term it. No pressing invitation was requisite to incline our English travellers to take their seats around the table well arranged with French fare, and fatigue seemed to lose itself in the exhilaration proceeding from the chablis, champagne, and chambertin; but there was one traveller, whose melancholy defied eradication—an English lady, genteelly but plainly habited, to appearance about seven and twenty years of age; her features handsome and strongly marked; when in health of mind and body, they might have possessed the "besoin du souci," habitual to the country in which she was then travelling, but were now too deeply clouded with that "apparence de la misère," to which the English seem alone to give fullness of effect—a fault, perhaps, but a sentimental one, worthy of that or any other country. She had with her a beautiful boy, whose age might be about five, who, attracted partly by the pretty appearance of the dog, by signs and childish frolics, soon formed acquaintance with the hostess's daughter, the little Louise. For some time previous to the arrival of the diligence at the auberge, a storm had been expected; and the distant thunder and heavy drops of rain beating against the casements before the dinner was half over, gave appearance of justice and reason to the entertainment of such anticipations, and caused a general congratulation at the party being so safely housed. As the storm was increasing every minute, much argument was not necessary to induce the postilion to delay proceeding until it might abate. Some of the party adhered to the bottle, some resorted to a book, and some to cards, to wile away the time. The lady requested to be conducted to a private apartment, wherein to pass with her dear child (remote from the noisy mirth of her companions, so little according with her then feelings) the time, until the diligence might again be ready to start. But half an hour had scarce elapsed from the formation of this arrangement ere admission was sought and gained by a brigade of English soldiers, six of whom, on a support formed by muskets, bore what seemed to be the corpse of an officer, whose arm, hanging down, gave to another officer the hand. Such a scene soon attracted general attention. In a few minutes a couch, by the junction of two or three chairs, was made, and on that the body laid. The soldiers who had formed the support, with arms grounded and grief deeply marked on their countenances, presented a melancholy group; whilst the young officer, kneeling by the couch, and gazing intently on his friend, but served to heighten the melancholy of the scene. A long silence of anxiety, interrupted but by the rolling of the thunder and the pattering of the rain, ensued. "'Tis no use," at length exclaimed the friend of the wounded man, "'tis now no use even to hope, my brave fellows; the surgeon was deceived, and rash to consent to his removal. Your commander has sunk beneath the fatigue. I thought it would be so. Peace," he exclaimed, as the tears fell fast from his eyes, "peace to thy manes, brave, generous St. Clair." An agonizing shriek from above startled all; and in another moment the lady (the traveller in the diligence) fell on what appeared to be the soldier's bier. "Heavens! what dream is this?" exclaimed the officer who had been so assiduous in his attention to the unfortunate man; "my sister here!—let me intreat, let me beg—" "No, Albert Fitzalleyn—no, brother, no," uttered Mrs. St. Clair, "remove me not—I am calm, resigned, very, very calm—I expected this—if I cannot live I can die with him. St. Clair, awake—your wife, your Charlotte calls—what not one smile?—look here," she cried, pulling the frightened, trembling, weeping child towards the body, "your child, your boy, your dearest Edward calls for you too. O, agony! he does not move. Dead! no, no, it cannot be—my life, my love, my husband." And there was something, it did seem, in that sweet voice which reached the dying warrior's heart, for he opened those eyes already partly glazed with the film of death, and if in them expression remained, it beamed on his afflicted wife. Reason and strength too returned, but their dominion was momentary, for with one hand feebly grasping that of his wife, his other resting on the head of his dear boy, and his sunken eyes directed from the one to the other, the brave, the respected, the beloved St. Clair died! He sank on the rough, uncouth couch, and with him the senseless form of his fond wife. The stillness of the corpse scarcely surpassed that which for a time was reigning over the group assembled there; at length the brother gently raised the wretched widow from her sad resting-place; but the fair sufferer was released from all earthly pain; with her husband she could not live, but she indeed with him had died! Their son, Edward St. Clair, is in existence, living with, and beloved by, his uncle, Albert Fitzalleyn,

THE PAINTER.