a student of the College, he had never seen or heard of anything of the kind having been done before; the deceased looked at the coin, smiled grimly, and then made a convulsive clutch at it, falling at the same time heavily on his face; witness was greatly alarmed, and rushed out for assistance, and on his return he found that deceased had been carried up stairs, and laid on a bed, life being quite extinct. This witness having nothing further to state, received permission to retire. Mrs. Lyons, wife of the deceased, was next examined, the poor woman appeared very much distressed, and was accommodated with a chair during the proceedings. Her evidence was, that on the day in question, being in the kitchen, she heard a heavy fall in the adjoining room, and on going in to ascertain the cause, she found her husband lying on the floor, with a gentleman endeavouring to raise him, she hastened to his assistance, but on taking him up stairs, they found him to be dead. In reply to several queries put by the Coroner, the witness stated, that she had not the slightest doubt, that the sudden sight of the halfcrown had been the cause of death; her husband was a very nervous man, and very seldom saw such sums, much less received them; recollects that a shilling had once been offered to him under almost similar circumstances, when he trembled violently, and exhibited every symptom of a person going into a fit; had seen the deceased receive coppers, and on those occasions he generally exhibited tolerable firmness. The witness also said, that if the money had been given to her, she thinks she would have been very much overcome in consequence of the extreme novelty of the transaction. Mrs. Lyons having been sent down, Mr. Green was called, who, after having been cautioned by the Coroner, not to say anything that might tend to criminate himself, deposed that on Saturday morning last, after having eaten his luncheon in Mr. Lyons' house, he offered him a half-crown, having been strictly desired by his father never to run up bills with tradesmen, that the deceased burst into an unearthly laugh, and snatching up the half-crown, eagerly gazed on it for a few seconds, that his countenance then became rigid, and he fell senseless on the floor. Witness was dreadfully alarmed, and endeavoured to lift him up, his wife came in, and between them they contrived to place him on a bed, but the doctor who was sent for said that his death must have been instantaneous. The witness here became dreadfully agitated, and said in a voice almost inarticulate from emotion, that he had been advisednay, commanded by his father to pay his debts, and that it was his desire to obey his parent, which had led to this terrible calamity, that he now clearly saw the folly of so doing, and he trusted that if he lived for a hundred years, it should never be said of him again that he gave money away too rashly. The doctor who had been called in to visit the deceased, having deposed, that he died owing to the rupture of a large blood-vessel, caused in all probability by the facts already given in evidence, the room was cleared, and after a consultation of a few minutes, the Jury returned with a verdict of "Accidental death," with a nominal deodand of one shilling on the half crown-the foreman at the same time, requesting the Coroner to inform Mr. Green, that it was the unanimous wish of himself and brother jurors, that he should be admonished for the excessive carelessness of his action, and the Jury trusted that both he, and his fellow students would see the absurdity of offering money to people, who could never have the slightest use for it; they wished this to be done particularly, because they understood that there was another individual, who exercised almost the same profession as the late unfortunate Mr. Lyons, and who had recently shown a most nervous and insane desire to get into the possession of certain sixpences, which he had the temerity to imagine were due to him. Now, if the young men who entered the College, were not only cautioned, that the man's life and reason were safe, as long as they promised to pay him, and kept him out of temptation, but that the receipt of even one sixpence, would naturally beget a morbid desire for another, it might end in another fatal accident, like that which they had met that day to investigate. They therefore trusted that not only the students, but the authorities of the College would guard against such a calamity, by issuing an order, that if any young man would embarrass both himself, and his relations, by settling his accounts, the money should not be paid, till the tradesman had received three distinct warnings, given at monthly intervals, by which precaution, there would be every chance of his being able to collect all his energies to meet the shock, The enquiry then terminated, and the immense crowds, which the extraordinary accident had assembled, retired in depression and silence to their homes. SYMPATHY. THERE is a charm, there is a spell, Can soothe the heart in bitterest woe; Who but in silence finds relief, Nor claims a tear beside his own. For, prisoned in its gloomy cell, The blighted and the withered heart THE FESTIVALS OF ENGLAND. CHRISTMAS DAY. I. "Te, fortuna, deam facimus." JUVENAL. It was a December night, and the lamps were burning brilliantly in one of the gaming houses in London, The room was fully attended, and in the glaring gas light, the expression of everybody's features was strongly depicted. The young speculator wore an anxious and nervous look, while the experienced trader, cigar in mouth and bottle near at hand, watched the throws with a calm though earnest scowl. A momentary success would cause some pale haggard countenance to blush with hope, but the next instant perhaps would reduce it to its habitual wanness. Young and old, thoughtless and designing, there they were the reckless votaries of chance. But with one man we have more particularly to deal. He is tall and dark, negligently dressed, and while following the game with the deepest attention, constantly heightens the fire of that eye with deep and potent draughts. Night passes; Sir Walter Blackmore (such was his name) plays on. Morning breaks, and the grey sun peers out on the vast city; men in crowds hurry forward to their various tasks, and all are up and stirring. But the gaming room is still dark: Sir Walter plays on. He had lost, At twelve they rise; he looked very pale and worn. and as he left the house, he muttered in a hoarse under-tone, "Well, Sandridge must go." Though unheard by any but himself, the expression of these words brought a darker shade to his brow, and a sad and ruined man in truth looked he as he flung himself into a cabriolet and passed from the spot. Beautifully situated in homely, fertile, Worcestershire, stood the little village of Sandridge. Its cottages, though few, were peculiarly neat, and their bright casements, their fresh thatch, and the ivy clustering over their porches, were all witnesses to the guardianship of some active tasteful mind. Wooden palings, extending a mile or more beyond the village, and large elms within them, and a glimpse of distant gables, bespoke the Manor House, and this was Sir Walter Blackmore's country seat. But the eye that watched the peasant's home, and the hand that planted the rose in his garden,-the head that planned that school-house for his children, and the heart that felt for him, and with him, were not Sir Walter's-they were his beautiful wife's. Mary Percival was the daughter of a clergyman,-a girl of the sweetest disposition, and most attractive appearance. She was very fair, and her light hair hung in long ringlets,—her eyes were deep blue,-the cast of features delicate. Lovely as a statue, but who shall say how beautiful, when her fond heart beamed in her face. In early life Sir Walter had formed a strong attachment with Mary, which matured with years. The affection was never very reciprocal on her part, but the earnest wishes of her parents prevailed, and in course of time she became the Lady Blackmore. Perchance in the dark hour of retribution, some peculiar pang shall be allotted those who sacrifice the happiness of their children at the shrine of their own ambition. Oh! sad was that fair one, -a reprobate husband in the haunts of vice,-a loved and cherished infant in the cold grave, a heart yearning for a sympathy it could not find. Oh, sad! but calm and resigned. Christmas-day was a crisp and frosty morning, the clear pale sun brightened the leafless boughs, and glistened on the silvered grass. People stood at their cottage doors and interchanged the good wishes of the season, and the church bells rang briskly on, and listeners spoke kind words, and thought they went to the tune of the chimes. Thank God, that in these days of hurry and strife, many a village still lies hid where the noisy voice of faction or the discontented murmurs of ignorant agitation are never heard, and where hallowed festivals, as Christmasday, still come round to a cheerful people, untainted by false philosophy or insolent conceit, and still bring many blessed associations to hearts well fitted to receive them. The church was within the park, and twice in that day a little company passed under its ancient porch. But the hours wear on, evening arrives, and moonlight rests on the chancel window; the faint beam shows a female form before a small white tablet; an urn on the marble bore the name "Alfred,"-the words, "Thy will be done," were inscribed underneath. No sob, no sigh, sounded in those lone aisles; it was the silent communion with the dead-the mother with the child. Oh, love is not of earth; no iron hand of time, no deep and gloomy sepulchre, can part spirit from spirit. The kneeler rises and returns to the hall, and by her fireside she hangs over the pages of some favourite book. A gentle knock is heard at the door, and on looking up the steward is before her. His business was an unpleasant one, and he is long in telling it: it was to say that a letter from Sir Walter had ordered preparations for a sale to be made, on the ground that embar.. rassments would not admit of so large a place as Sandridge being kept up. Sir Walter had not trusted himself to break the news to Mary; she heard the first of it in this way. It was a great shock to her. Her pursuits, her works of charity, her books, her school-more than all, her boy--all were at Sandridge; all she must leave to wander she knew not whither. Wearied and sad she retired to rest and sank into deep slumber, but awoke at midnight. The frost had broken up-heavy rain was falling-moaning wind swept round the house-and she remembered all her sorrows. Who knows not the bitterness of the tear unseen-un. pitied? Midnight in London. Sir Walter sits at play. Rain dashed loudly against the windows, and his attention was arrested. He looked up for a moment, and Sandridge-Mary-youth-bye-gone hours-bitter feelings-all shot across his memory; and as his eye gazed on vacancy, his pale lip quivered with remorse. But he played on-and such is gaming. II. SOMETIMES at sea, in a mighty tempest, about the hour of deepest night comes a sudden hush, of brief duration, but so mysterious and unnatural, that even the bursting forth of the storm anew seems a relief. And so in the mind, when a moment of great trial has been endured; though the cause may remain unmitigated, a calm is felt so unexpected, that it gives us the awful sensation of losing command of the heart. Mary experienced this tranquillity the morning after she heard the news; but too soon, alas, to be followed by the grief again. We must not, however, linger on this painful time. She soon learnt London was to be her destination. Sir Walter came down just before the sale. His conscience made him very harsh to her; for he felt how he was wronging her. The evening before their departure Mary is missing; Sir Walter becomes very alarmed, and they search, She was found fainting in that silent chancel before the marble slab-another lesson for the gamester: but no,-he needs still harder teaching. Sandridge passed into the hands of strangers, and Mary is settled in a small house near Russell-square. The sum Sir Walter realised by the sale would have afforded him a moderate income; but the disease was not cured-he was spending his capital. Loss made him passionate and moody, and his dark angry eye often alarmed his gentle wife, while her calm soft replies to his rough speeches would sometimes bring the blush to his check. But the sweetest temper has a limit, beyond which it will not be pressed. Mary's gave way: not that she grew peevish or discontented, but the musical voice, the smiling lip, were changed. She passed into a silent sullenness, and a deep-abstracted melancholy settled in her beautiful eye. One morning in April, Sir Walter was returning from the club-house, where he had been all night-eight o'clock had struck, and the streets looked very bright in the watery-sunshine-when, as he turned into his own terrace, there passed him at the corner, with rapid tread, a female figure dressed entirely in white, with no bonnet on; her hair scarcely tied up, and her ringlets dishevelled by the fresh breeze. Sir Walter started back as she hurried by, and exclaimed, in a trembling voice, |