Of one of the latter, now gone, the writer has a rather gruesome recollection. In the reckless hardihood of youth, there were few parts of the castle which were not reached by himself and his not less daring companions; and, in a moment of heedless adventure, on jackdaws’ eggs intent, he walked across one of these beams from the eastern gallery to the western wall, with nothing but empty space between him and the ground, 70 or 80 feet below. He performed this feat safely, but a few days afterwards the beam fell. At that time, in the forties, {233} three of the corner turrets had conical roofs covered with lead. The writer’s name was cut in the lead of the most inaccessible of these, as well as on several other places, still to be seen. The lead has been sold, and the roofs removed, long ago. Within these roofs was a complicated network of supporting beams, crossing and re-crossing each other, among which pigeons, and even owls, nested. A schoolfellow of the writer clambered up into one of these, bent on plunder, but the beams were too rotten to bear his weight, and he fell to the floor, some 15 or 18 feet, on to the hard bricks. No bones, fortunately, were broken, but he sustained such a shock that he was confined to his bed for some weeks. But a more remarkable escape occurred at a later date. Visiting the castle, a dozen or more yeans ago, while the writer was looking down to the basement from the topmost gallery, close to the foot of the small staircase which leads to the flat roof of the south-eastern turret, the son of a farmer in the parish came up to him and said, in the most unconcerned manner, “Sir, my brother fell from here to the bottom yesterday.” I replied, with surprise, “Was he not killed on the spot?” “No,” was the answer, “he was only a little shaken.” The boy, probably about 10 or 11 years old, was wearing a smock frock, loose below, but fastened fairly tight about the neck. In search of eggs, I presume, he sprang across the open space below him, from the eastern gallery to a ledge running along the south wall, but, in attempting to do this, his shoulder struck the brickwork of the corner turret, which spun him round, and he fell. His smock frock, however, filled with air, and buoyed him up, thus checking the rapidity of his descent, and he alighted on the ground upon a heap of small sticks and twigs dropped by the jackdaws, and the result was little more than a severe shaking. We have noticed the handsome mantelpieces, which are referred to and engraved in several publications. They are ornamented with the Treasurer’s purse and the motto “N’ai j’ droit,” and other heraldic devices of the Tattershall, Driby, Bernak, Cromwell, D’Eyncourt, Grey of Rotherfield, and Marmyon families, a study for the genealogist. Nor may we forget the vaulted gallery on the third floor, with bosses of cement and beautifully-moulded brickwork in its roof. This fine old ruin has not only suffered from the