interview. My look of earnestness conveyed more probably than what I spoke; he turned from me, and his voice faltered as he replied, "Nonot to-night-not to-night-you shall know it all to-morrow."

I spoke some few words-I know not what-of comfort, of advice, and, at the last, of entreaty, that he would regard me, in every stage of his difficulty, as his friend. I would then have retired for the night. In truth I never felt more in need of rest and solitude.

Acton besought me to remain-for that he had something of importance to intrust to my friendship to perform. He began by assuring me that in case there were any necessity-and his melancholy smile contradicted the doubt of the fact, his words were intended to convey-I was the first and only friend to whom he would apply for assistance and advice. He said that as my mind might be otherwise engaged upon the morrow he would give me then a few directions, that after circumstances might render necessary. He proceeded to inform me that he would place in a private drawer of his escrutoire, which he pointed out, some papers, a part of which were already in his possession-otherssome letters-which it was his intention to write in the course of that night, and which, if occasion arose, I would perhaps do him the kindness to dispatch as I should find them severally addressed. All this my friend spoke in a subdued and harsh tone of voice, more like that of a man labouring under the effects of extreme disease, than of excitement.

These many measures of precaution, together with the impressive sadness which his manners exhibited throughout our conversation upon that evening, confirmed me in the conjecture which had, from the very first, occurred to my mind, viz., that Acton had already arranged a hostile meeting with Dalhas for the following day. I forbore questioning him further upon the subject at that time, trusting to a good night's rest and the efforts of his many friends and those of Dalhas, in the morning, to do away with much of the ill-will and hostility that had been engendered between them; the conviction besides, that he would not stir farther in the matter, without personally consulting me, was no little accession of comfort.

I sat up with him for a greater part of the night. I had no heart to leave him then. Never once in allusion to his quarrel, did he express regret for what had occurred, or the slightest uneasiness with regard to its consequences,-such an admission, even then, would have been revolting to George Acton's pride; his mind, however, had received a shock that laid it prostrate-he opened his whole heart to me like a child. How much in that unhappy hour did he disclose of his character that had been to me hitherto as a sealed book,-how deeply did he shame me out of my own former base suspicions with regard to the rectitude of his intentions; in what brazen characters did he hold up to me the

gross injustice of which I had been guilty towards himself, and expose in its proper colours the proud and malignant jealousy of Dalhas.

He read to me aloud letters which had passed between Emily and himself, all speaking in the spirit of ardent and honorable love, of their union at no very distant day, when some few objections on the part of Acton's family could, as they hoped, be happily removed. His letters to his father breathed nothing but what was dutiful and submissive—hopeful, yet earnest, and full of praises of her he loved. My poor friend, he was, indeed, deserving of the attachment he had excited -of the very purest affections a pure heart had in its power to bestow! That very morning he had received a letter from his father, and in that letter, which was upon the subject of his marriage, there was much that suggested hopes of his parent's final and unconditional consent.

Before quitting his chamber for the night, fearing the bad effects of a prolonged watching upon his nerves, at such a moment, I entreated that he would betake himself to rest. He promised me that he would, so soon as he had completed what he was about to write, and pressing my hand warmly in his own, he bade me an affectionate good night.

Having occasion, after the lapse of a few moments, to return to his apartment for something-I forget what-that I had mislaid, I discovered Acton bending in an attitude of earnestness over a small enamelled picture frame which he was supporting carefully in both hands. The portrait was that of his mother. A tear defaced a sheet of paper, which was arranged as for a letter, upon a book below. Acton did not even attempt to divert his eyes from that on which he gazed as I entered. To my renewed entreaties that he would retire for the night, he evidently dared not trust his firmness to reply. But as I was about to close the door upon finally withdrawing, in a voice distinct, although broken with emotion, he pronounced the words "God bless you."

They were the last I ever heard him utter.

Worn out as I was both in mind and body, by the harassing events of the past day, I soon fell into a troubled sleep. Uncouth, distorted fancies assailed me even then, and broke my rest. More than once during that long night I awoke screaming, to shudder at the new tale of horror my poor fevered brain had woven, and then turn again to sleep, and dream, and waken to some horror even greater than the last. Often I started up in my couch, still sleeping; and all I dreamt, the very minutest thought of torture upon which for one moment my disturbed imagination rested,-and there were fearful ones, and not a few-bore some connexion, either distant or remote, to the scarcely less fearful occurrences of the preceding day. And once I dreamt of death and blood, and the loss of a friend 1 loved, and a deep bell tolled; with a bound that almost threw me from my bed, I started into a sitting posture, and

awoke. My head pained me as it were filled with molten lead-my parched lips-the blood that flowed as fire through my veins-told of the fever that had seized upon my frame; and was I still dreaming. I held my hands across my eyes and ears, to shut out the dreadful sound,—and yet that bell tolled. I stood from off my couch upon the floor of my apartment; still half unconscious, I threw wide the shutters that obscured the morning's light. In the verge of the eastern sky was a grey speck to be seen, the herald of approaching day; but the heavens were yet obscure, and there were dark and lowering clouds upon the horizon. "Twas evident the night had been tempestuous; the winds yet howled ere they retired to give way to the genial and sunny breezes of a summer's day. The rain continued to patter in large drops against the latticed window panes. I threw back the folding sash. Then were the causes of the abrupt and disturbed conclusion of my dream made apparent; it was no dream now. .Borne upon the breeze that played so coolly upon my throbbing temples, there came, indeed, the deep tolling of a bell,— it was the College alarm bell. I had heard it once before, upon the occasion of a fire in the castle, and well knew the tones of its warning voice.

I could distinguish, also, lights and voices, and hurried footsteps in the court below. What could have occurred? Surely, no-my thoughts reverted to the events of the last evening-I sickened, and would have fallen, had I not supported my weight against a chair.

The heavy tread of feet slowly ascending the staircase at the termination of the corridor, as of men that bore some heavy burden, became perceptible. I burst open the door of my apartment, and leaned for support against the cold wall of the passage. By the light of a lantern which they carried, I saw approaching four college servants, and they bore between them-God of horrors-they bore the lifeless body of George Acton.

Morning had well dawned ere I recovered consciousness. They said I had been raving, and could not be induced to leave the room where the dead body of my poor friend lay. The last shock was too powerful for my already shattered nerves, enfeebled as they were by excitement and disease. I was pronounced to be in a state of high fever. For three long weeks was I confined to bed—to rise out of it at last-feeble and helpless as an infant.

I must hasten to the conclusion of my painful narrative. Between the hours of four and five upon that fearful morning, the College Steward had been awoke by the sudden discharge of fire arms. The report appeared to proceed almost from the college chapel-Prince Edward's

Chapel as it was usually termed. Seriously alarmed, he proceeded to arouse the college servants. Many of them were already on foot, having been, like himself, disturbed from sleep. Upon entering the precincts of the chapel, nothing unusual could be discovered, by the aid of the feeble light that glimmered through its painted windows. Upon instituting a stricter search, however, it struck the observation of the steward that a private door, leading from the gallery to an office and account room of his own, had been forced open. From this apartment, which was of a circular form, and situated in a projecting tower of the castle, a winding staircase, built in the massive thickness of the wall, conducted to a spacious vault-whispered to have served as a dungeon of yore-a compartment of which had been recently formed into a college cellar. Having provided themselves with lights, the servants commenced a descent. Almost the first object that obtruded itself upon their vision, was the murdered body of Acton!! A pair of pistols and an extinguished lantern, were found lying near the spot. The blood still continued to ooze from a ghastly wound in the forehead of the unfortunate young man. The discharge had entered near the brain, and must have caused almost instantaneous death.

I cannot longer dwell upon these recollections-they revive much of the agony of feeling I underwent then, in those hours of illness and bereavement. I shall only add here, that I fulfilled the painful duties entrusted to me by my departed friend—that while I lay raving upon the bed of sickness, his remains were committed to their last, long homeand that before another summer had succeeded the winter then at hand, the afflicted Emily had followed the being she loved so well on earth, heart-broken, to the grave.

Some years had elapsed. I was stationed in my civil capacity of magistrate, in one of the northern provinces of Bengal. Upon my return home after the duties of the day, I found awaiting my arrival, such English letters as had arrived by that day's mail. Amongst them was one unusually large packet of papers. Upon opening it I started as I recognised the handwriting of the long-lost-the murderer, Dalhas. For worlds I would not record the remorse-the upbraidings, the torturings of conscience, the confessions, those papers contained, disclosed.

Suffice it to know that Dalhas, in the hesitation and delay consequent upon the commission of his crime, had made his escape unseen, and

* From the circumstance of King Edward the Sixth's having caused it to be refitted and used as a place of protestant worship, during his temporary sojourn at Hertford Castle.

NO. I.-VOL. III.

D

had bribed a boatman upon the Lee to conceal him on board his barge for the night, and subsequently to convey him to London; and that once there he had enlisted in a regiment about to proceed to the Peninsula, from whence his letters to me were dated. •

Upon the outside of his last letter, scrawled in red ink, was the following brief announcement:-"Killed in action, Fuentes D'Onor, 5th July, 1811." It was evidently in the handwriting of some comrade, to whom he had entrusted these papers to be forwarded to me, in case of that event which, from his own letters, he appeared at no great distance of time to anticipate. And such was the end, and such were the last friends, and such the only record of, Dalhas,-the once fascinating, and proud, and courted, Dalhas.

Had it been possible that the narration of the melancholy circumstances detailed in the foregoing pages could have caused a moment's pain, to any surviving relatives, of my unfortunate friends of former days, they should never have been even committed by me to paper, with the ulterior view of communicating them to any living soul. I have taken some pains to ascertain the fact, and have been positively assured, that to those members of their families now alive, the circumstances as they in reality occurred are entirely unknown. The affair was very naturally hushed up at the time, and has since been preserved in the most religious secresy. It is unnecessary to add, that the names by which I have distinguished the actors in this sad tragedy, are fictitious; so that in no one line in any page of my narrative, is there any allusion, either of description or otherwise, calculated to call the blush of shame to the cheek of any human creature that may peruse them.

To this day, I believe, the vault in which the fearful scene was enacted has been kept closed, and there are many strange stories afloat in the neighbourhood that tell of groans and unhallowed sounds, to be still heard there, at the dark hours of midnight. To the popular belief that these subterranean passages were haunted,* in all probability the unhappy Dalhas owed his safety upon the night of the duel. While the college servants hesitated to search the vault, he had already effected his escape across the college park to the river side.

Never in after times have I ever watched the commencement or progress of any quarrel, were it ever so insignificant, between two young men, without calling to mind, and shuddering as I did so, the story of GEORGE ACTON and CHARLES DALHAS.

H.