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I found that the party approaching was that of Mr. Fortescue.

"It's all over," I said, pointing to the spot where the dead body lay.

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Fortescue, "it is Leeson!"

which a fellow-creature had been sent to his last account

With all his imperfections on his head. The coroner's jury, after examining one or two witnesses, found a verdict-"That de I answered in the affirmative. He walked ceased came by his death by a shot fired by over where he lay stiff upon the sod. He Charles Wilson, Edward Williams and another gazed upon the dead body with a strange exbeing assisting thereat, and that the value of pression of features. I thought there was said pistol was twenty shillings." The corosomething of satisfaction in the consciousness ner, on this very grammatical verdict, issued that he had himself escaped. He said noth-his warrant for the apprehension of Charles ing, however, but merely asked me the dis- Wilson, and Edward Williams. tance they had been placed.

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Ah," said he, "he had a second up to his business. He saved his life—perhaps mine too. Leeson would have hit his heart at twelve- but he was unaccustomed to nine; besides, he was at heart a coward, and he got

afraid."

It was generally said that there was gross mismanagement in allowing a coroner's inquest at all. I could not help thinking it a very natural result of leaving a body, with a pistol bullet in its side, lying in his majesty's park.

Major Williams obtained six weeks' leave He turned away from the corpse, apparent-of absence the very day the duel was fought. ly well satisfied that he was not occupying its place.

"It's a nice morning's work," he said, with an expression half of gayety, half melancholy. He took his intended second's arm and they walked off.

Charles kept his appointment with Mr. Irving that morning. He had gotten up early and done his business." Of course he communicated to him the transaction. Mr. Irving was greatly shocked. The entire matter, however, raised Charles in his estimation. When he had a little recovered from the shock, he began to question Charles about the particulars of the quarrel.

"Did the fellow say I wanted to hook him inbad luck to his impudence! - did he dare to say it? Well, Charles, you are a brave fellow; a pity your name 's not Irying; you would be worthy of it. Maybe, Charles, you might take it yet," he added, significantly. "You must hide, Charles, for a little while. I suppose there will be a coroner's jury. You will not be prosecuted, but you bad better keep out of the way just now. I know no better hiding-place than just where you

are.

You must not let yourself be seen by daylight; you can take out one of the horses, and have a gallop by moonlight for exercise. The search will not be very diligent for you; and this, very likely, is the last place they will think of looking. I remember the old woman in the country used constantly to put you in the chimney-corner to avoid the smoke, when the whole house was full of it. And sometimes you may avoid danger by staying near to it. Even if you are taken, the worst is a few weeks in jail, and of course a verdict of not guilty."

Thus lightly did he talk of a transaction in

Mr. Irving made very light of the legal proceedings; but Charles, in his own mind, could not divest himself of anxiety. The duel had been fought at an irregular distance; he had overheard the expression of Mr. Leeson's second, "It will be regular murder ;" and just before the pistol had been placed in his hand, Major Williams had said to him, "Remember, there is no time for foolery now;" words which Charles feared that others might have overheard, and which, manifestly, were meant as advice to shoot his antagonist if he could; for I believe he was correct in his opinion, that when two gentlemen challengo each other to deadly combat, and fire loaded pistols, each towards the other, with the best aim they can, it alters quite the character of the transaction if anything has occurred, which would give reasonable ground of sus picion that either of them did all this with any intention of shooting the other.

Charles, therefore, entertained reasonable fears that all the circumstances I have mentioned, by furnishing grounds for such a sus picion, would tell against him on his trial. His imagination was haunted with the most dismal visions of the future; perhaps only the reflection of remorse for the past.

He could not but feel remorse. None of my readers can know-I pray they may never know-the feelings of the man that has ever, under any circumstances, taken away a life. Blood, no matter how justly shed, leaves a stain upon the hand that sheds it. The shadow of the murderer's curse darkens where the curse itself does not fall. "He whe sheddeth man's blood," still walks in the gloom of that shadow. It is a terrible consciousness to feel that you have been forced to cut short a fellow-being's days. The soul darkens under the solemn sanction by which He who gave it guards the awful sacredness of human life.

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Mr. Irving's delight at Charles' acquittal appeared to have carried him quite away from his usual sobriety of deineanor. 'Jane," he cried, as soon as he entered the cottage, "come and see your nephew quite free-not guilty, huzza!"

If this feeling attaches itself to the mere | desired the coachman to drive to the cottage. act of taking away human life, even where Charles' heart fluttered in his bosom at the the necessity that justifies it is most plain, direction. much more did it exist in all its bitterness, when Charles had shed a fellow-creature's blood under circumstances, the propriety of which he could not help feeling questionable. Not but that he reasoned himself into the belief that it was an act of self-defence; in truth, it was so when he was engaged in combat; but why had he thus placed himself in a position in which he was forced to take another's life to save his own? In defence, he reasoned with himself, of those charities of social life, which it is the first duty of every man to guard from aggression.

Mrs. Irving heartily embraced Charles, and welcomed him, as she said, back to liberty. Her congratulations, however, were mixed with tears. There was one, however, who met him pale and trembling. She had no congratulations either on her countenance or her lips. Faintly she held out her hand, and with an effort she murmured, "Charles, I am glad -you are- acquitted."

He might have calmed all the secret upbraidings of his conscience by this reasoning, if it had not been that he saw, in the glance of Ellen, her judgment that he had done wrong. He dare not allude to the subject in her presence; but there was an air of calm" and resigned melancholy about her, which seemed to denote that a wound was rankling at her heart. The bloom of health had fled from her pale cheek, and often did the large tear fall unbidden from her eye.

Charles could not but mark the change. Day after day he passed in her society, until his whole soul became absorbed in the passion that preyed on it. Yet there was something in the calm and settled melancholy of her look in the quiet sorrow that dimmed her eye in the meek paleness of her cheek, which, while it added to her loveliness, seemed to awe into silence even love.

A few weeks thus passed, and the time came when Charles and his companion surrendered themselves to trial. A previous intimation from Mr. Leeson's friends had assured Mr. Irving that they would take no steps to prosecute. The trial was a mere matter of form the prisoners were arraigned for the murder of Edward Leeson -a jury were impannelled-no witnesses appeared-and a verdict of not guilty was pronounced.

The day of his trial he drove home with Mr. Irving in his carriage. The joy of that gentleman manifested itself in a manner more expressive than was usual. He repeatedly

Bhook Charles' hand.

"Well, my boy," he cried, "it's all over now-not guilty it can never come against you again. It was far better for you to stand a trial-not guilty-huzza, my boy!"

His joy subsided a little into a reflective mood. Well, this is a glorious constitution under which we live-no man can be twice tried for the same offence. Quit forever, my boy- it is a glorious constitution.'

Charles heartily concurred in the eulogium on the free genius of British law.

"Your aunt must see you a free man,' cried the good-hearted old gentleman, as he

"Come, come, Ellen," cried her uncle, the ardent character of whose joy deemed such cold congratulations peculiarly inappropriate; come, Miss, you are more glad than any of us. No pretence," he added, in a significant tone. Charles' face became scarlet-a slight tinge passed over the paleness of Ellen's cheek. She sat down without speaking, and took up her work, which was lying on the table.

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Well, well," said her uncle, "you women are the queerest beings in creation; it's well for them," he added, smiling, "that keep clear of you. There she is, happy in her heart to see her cousin back, and she looks as if she was just ready to cry- -women always cry on their wedding day-I suppose it's the best method of expressing joy. Here, here," he added impatiently; "I know it all, Ellen," and he caught her hand. Here, Charles, take her hand-I know it all." But the hand was sternly withdrawn. The old gentleman was surprised. "Perverse, perverse,' he muttered. Here, Jane, we 'll leave them to themselves. Charles may make something of her; I can't."

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Without giving her time for resistance, he hurried Mrs. Irving through an open casement into the garden, leaving the young people alone. Ellen did not raise her eyes from. her work, but her face was deadly pale. Charles stood leaning on the mantel-piece. For some minutes he was silent.

"Ellen," he said at last, "Ellen, there is no need of affectation between us; you know I have loved you long-don't you, Ellen, know that I have loved you for years?"

"I do, Charles," replied the other calmly, without raising her eyes. Charles drew a chair close to her; she was trembling violently. "And, Ellen," he added, softly, "may I not believe that you have loved me?"

The other made no reply: tears fell large and fast upon the embroidery at which she was working.

Charles laid his hand upon her arm; his

own heart was throbbing violently; she started -she looked full in his face.

"Charles," she said, "there is no need of affectation; I have loved you, but never, never speak to me on the subject again!"

There was an expression of agony mingled with determination, in the manner she made the request, that gave it more the appearance of a command.

"Ellen, dear," said Charles, but he knew not what to add; it was a pause of deep and painful embarrassment to both will you not be mine-mine forever?"

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She uttered those words in the spirit of one of those religionists who, in the Catholic church, solemnly dedicate themselves to God; indeed, as she spoke her hands clasped in the attitude of attention; the calmness of resignation settling with a lovely radiance on her pale and sorrowful features; her eyes turned upwards, as if to gaze henceforward only on heavenly things she might, but for her dress, have been the original of the beautiful picture of "the Nun.'

Charles still hoped that time would wear

She had risen from her seat, pale and breath-away, in Ellen's mind, the stern resolution less; she seemed like some marble statue, which now alone seemed to interfere between chiselled with incomparable skill; her hair, him and perfect happiness. But when weeks black as the raven's wing, fell down in glossy had passed away, and no change came over ringlets; the blood had left her lips. the spirit of that dream of duty, he gave himself up to the hopelessness of despair; he looked upon it as a judgment from God for having taken life. I might tell of scenes of suffering such as seemed enough to atone for guilt far worse than his. There was in the dark and gloomy history of the next few months, a chapter of truth which many might pronounce too highly colored even for romance; it is time, however, that I should bring this chapter to a close.

Charles," she said, evidently with an ef fort; "Charles, never, never speak to me on this subject again; it must not be; I dare not-no, I dare not. You have taken away a fellow-creature's life; I dare not—I would share with you poverty and suffering, but I dare not share God's displeasure.'

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As she uttered these words, she looked up to heaven, as if for support. Charles reasoned with her; he addressed to her the arguments by which he had silenced his own conscience "It was self-defence," he said.

"Self-defence!" she answered; " Charles, dear, do not deceive yourself; why did you meet him in mortal combat? It was not selfdefence that took you to the place."

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No, Ellen," he answered, “but it was the defence of what is dearer to me than life; I could not hear you spoken lightly of; I risked my life first."

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Charles, dear," she answered, in a tone of tenderness, "Charles, will this be a good excuse to your God for taking away the life he gare? What harm did those words do me? Were they worth being washed out in the blood of an immortal being?"

Charles was awed by the solemnity of her manner. "No man could listen to it, Ellen, and not punish it."

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Vengeance is mine, Charles, God says; it was not for you to take it from him-it was not for you to send a sinner to his presence."

In vain did Charles reason, and argue, and entreat. The simple girl answered every argument by an appeal to the words of the Bible, "Thou shalt not kill." Sternly did she refuse to be entreated. "I did love you," she said, "but my duty demands that I should forget that. I would have borne anything, but I dare not displease my God; perhaps it is a mercy. My foolish head had its dreams of happiness here below; they are gone forever. I will now think only of God."

Ellen's health and spirits declined so much, that her mother removed to the south of England, in hopes that the change might restore her. Mr. Irving, who was deeply attached to his niece, accompanied her. Some short time afterwards, Charles Wilson left the country without bidding me farewell. I supposed that he had gone to some foreign climate, in the hopes of finding an early grave. I heard nothing of any of the party until, some months afterwards, casting my eye over one of the English papers, I met the following announcement, under the head of marriages :

"In the church of South Molton, Devonshire, by the Venerable the Archdeacon of Charles Wilson, Esq., Barrister at Law, to Ellen, only daughter of the Reverend Charles Irving, late rector of - in the diocese of Dublin."

Many years had elapsed, when I saw them both happy and honored in the midst of a growing family. Mrs. Irving was sitting by their fireside in a venerable arm-chair, smiling on the domestic circle. Mr. Irving had died full of years and honor, and lest all his wealth to his nephew and niece, with the exception of an annuity to his maiden sister, who spent the rest of her life wheeling about in a wheelchair, and drinking the waters at Bath. Charles had taken the name of Irving, and transferred himself to the English bar, where he had settled down into a snug situation.

From Chambers' Journal. SLEEPERS AWAKENED.

fairly be imagined, that they who had loved and reared the young girl as their own daughter, and who had proved themselves so gener

THE phenomenon of trance is a subject al-ous, just, and honorable, would have gladly most equally interesting to the imaginative and the scientific. The world, when in its infancy, recorded the marvel in the myths of the Seven Champions of Christendom, and the hundred years' repose of the Beauty of Faerydom; and as these dreams of imagination faded before the awakening power of knowledge, philosophers and grave physicians took up the tale, and sought to explain a mystery still full of darkness and awe.

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Now, although of late the philosophic public have appeared more interested in sending people to sleep than in waking them up as in mesmerism and electro-biology—it is possible that two or three incidents of the natural resurrection of the supposed dead, may not be void of interest to the general reader. We will begin with a winter's tale, to which we listened, under a most favorable conjunction of domestic and friendly planets, this last Christmas; the narrator being grandson to the heroine, and of course able to vouch for its authenticity.

Once upon a time- - somewhere in the reign of George II.a certain German colonel, in the service of the house of Hanover married young English lady of great beauty and little fortune. In accordance with a courte ous modern fashion, not common, however, in those days, some noble friends of the bride offered the young couple a home during the honeymoon, in their ancient and splendid castle in the north of England. The hospitality was accepted; and, as at the end of that period the soldier was suddenly compelled to rejoin his regiment, and embark for Germany, then the scene of war, the lady's stay was to be prolonged, at the request of her hostess, till his return. That period never came. He fell in battle a few months after his departure, and his wife did not long survive him. She died after giving birth to a daughter, whom on her death-bed she commended to the guardianship and care of Lady P.

The trust was accepted. The orphan thus cast upon their protection was reared by Lord and Lady P as their own child in all things save one. They were Romanists; but her mother having been of the Church of England, their sense of honor prevailed, and they had her educated in the reformed faith, sending her every Sunday to the clergyman of the parish for religious instruction. She grew up a beautiful woman, accomplished also beyond her sex in those days; and so it chanced that Lord P's third son, returning from his continental tour, was struck by the change time had wrought in his heretofore playmate, and forthwith fell in love with the portionless but bewitching little heretic. Now, it might

sanctioned this union; but it was not so. Her religion-albeit she owed it to themselves was an objection not to be overcome, even although she offered to change her faith, which, taught only at intervals, and contradicted by the habits and tone of thought of her daily associates, had not taken very firm root. Such a conversion, in truth, might justly be suspected under the circumstances, and the usual plan, therefore, was adopted — the lovers were separated. Lord P- procured a commission for his son in the army of Frederick the Great of Prussia, and sent the young lady on a trip to Portugal, under the care of the English ambassador, who was his intimate friend, trusting that she might meet with somebody abroad who would prove a successful rival to the young soldier.

If worldly prudence was not one of William P's virtues, its lack was not apparent in his new position. He was serving a master who was not at all inclined to think discretion the better part of valor, and who watched with admiration through his telescope the desperate and daring courage with which the young Englishman carried a difficult post in his second battle. Turning to one of the officers of his staff when the day was won, Frederick desired him to summon that brave English captain" to his presence. He was respectfully reminded that the young soldier did not hold that rank. "He has done so from the moment I remarked his conduct," was the reply. In the same summary style of promotion, the king greeted the Englishman at the close of another battle as " 'Major P," adding a gracious wish to know if there were anything the young officer desired which he, Frederick, could grant. No more unwelcome reply could have been devised than the one made to this royal kindness. Major Prespectfully requested permission to quit the service! Frederick heard him with as much surprise as displeasure; but after his implied promise to grant the request, he could not refuse. An order of dismissal was therefore drawn out officially, ending, according to the usual form, thus: " Major P is therefore at liberty to go ," the blank being left for the king to fill in. The angry Frederick added these words: "au diable, Frederick Rex." This curious dismissal and royal autograph are still preserved in Major P- -'s family.

The officer did not go in the direction indicated; he merely proceeded to a country, the fiends of which are, according to a sailor's proverb, "too civil by half." He went to Portugal; and, shortly after his arrival in Lisbon, renewed, as a matter of course, his family intimacy with the English ambassador,

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defiance of all prohibitions, and carried her with him to England.

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who having never heard of the forbidden lovepassages between his fair charge and the younger son of the P-s, made him always If happiness were to be estimated by worldly welcome at the Embassy; and so the days glided prosperity, it had been better perchance for happily away, till a letter from the ambassa- her to have slept on. They wrote a supplicador communicated to Lord P- the startling tion for pardon to Lord and Lady Pintelligence of his son's presence in Lisbon, soon as they reached London; but no reply and his frequent visits to his old friend. The was vouchsafed, no pardon ever granted, and reply to this missive was a positive probibition the rash young couple found themselves in the to the intercourse of the lovers, with which great city friendless and destitute, the younger the good-natured envoy was obliged to comply. son's allowance having been discontinued by Their enforced estrangement fell heavily on his father. What was to be done? Never both, especially on the lady, whose delicate were moral courage and energy more needed. spirits became suddenly and strangely affected. But the fair sleeper possessed both; she was, She grew faint and languid, without apparent- moreover, an excellent artist, painting flowers ly suffering pain; and finally, to all appear- admirably, and in those days the market for ance, died. The ambassador's daughters, talent was not overstocked: perhaps, also, young women of her own age, were greatly her story may have been whispered abroad, touched by this tragic catastrophe of the ro- and the secret interest of the ambassador exmance. The corpse was kept beyond the erted in her behalf. She sold her paintings usual time in warm countries; and at their and little fancy articles - the fashion of the earnest and tearful entreaty, the despairing times and baskets, and painted lover was permitted once more to behold his fans, successfully, and thus supported her fair betrothed before the grave closed over her. husband and herself. Strange contrast must It was the night preceding the intended inter- their life have presented from its earlier years! ment; the coffin, which had already received Instead of the stateliest of England's homes its cold, still inmate, was placed upon a table the poor obscure lodging; instead of all covered with a black pall; the chamber was luxury and ease, appliances and means to hung with black, and dimly lighted by large boot of grandeur- the toil and the struggle wax tapers, placed at the head of the bier. for daily bread. Yet they were very happy. Tremblingly, the young man raised the veil Both had doubtless learned the insufficiency which covered the face of the dead, and gazed of wealth and station to confer bliss, and upon the calm, fixed, colorless features in found pleasures undreamed of before in the silent agony; then, bending down, he kissed exercise of talent, in the pretty, needful toil, the white lips fervently again and again in the thousand little ties of sympathy and and oh, strange marvel of nature! the tale of mutual hopes and fears, comfortings and enthe Sleeping Beauty became a reality; couragings. The fancy loves to dwell upon the interior of that home: the quaint little room with its old-fashioned furniture, the few stiff chairs, the polished table, the worked fire-screen, partially protecting the fair young artist from the blaze of the cheerful fire as she bends over her task, and groups of roses and lilies, and all the sweet old-world flowers, upon her paper, or on the velvet or tiffany destined for her lady-employers; whilst her husband, seated at her side, beguiles the incessant toil of its weariness by reading to her in a low sweet voice, or telling her of the great Frederick, and of the battles fought beneath the Prussian eagle. This is the fairest side of the picture. Many a real care and harass ing anxiety must, nevertheless, have haunted the mind of the sleeper awakened, especially when the birth of her child, a daughter, demanded greater exertion and larger means. But there was no end to the ups and downs in the life of the honorable William PAbout this time, a distant relative, who had been interested by the romance of his love, died, and left him a large fortune - a greater trial than poverty to many a spirit. For a time, however, they enjoyed this sunshine of fortune the more, indeed, from recent pri

A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt; the lips trembled slightly, the eyelids moved; and the truth-enough to have turned a weaker head-flashed on him: she was not dead, but in a trance! With wonderful presence of mind, he extinguished the lights, lifted the sleeper from her coffin, and bore her into the next room, thus saving her from perhaps a fatal shock. Gradually the vital powers were restored; but no commands could now keep William P from her whom he had

thus restored from the grave.

There had been no possibility of doubting the reality of the trance. The young lady had been insensible, cold, motionless, and, in the judgment of her physicians, dead for more than a week; and a full and faithful account of this strange incident was forwarded by the ambassador now an intercessor for the lovers -to Lord P. But, singular and touching as the incident was, it wrought no change in the sternness of the parents' determination; and feeling that he could not again expose his betrothed to such suffering, and hoping that when the deed was irrevocable they should be pardoned, William married the fair sleeper in

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