Litchfield enquirer., 1860-06-07

conceaied HIS lace anu yeb Ut thS HID glance thrill ran through my veins.
 It is he," exclaimed.
 The blood rushed to my heart. I de scended into my cell My whole frame trembled. It is he Y stammered, with hall choked voice. He is there-there II am about to die to expatiate his crime What shall I do what shall do ?" l A sudden thought from Heaven inspired me. put my hand into my pocket-my crayons were there. Then, springing to the wall, I began to trace the scene of the mur der with almost supernatural energy. Nc more uncertainty, no more hesitating exper mcnts. knew the man. had seen him I reproduced him before me. l At ten o'clock the jailor appeared in my cell. His owlish stupidity gave place tt admiration.
 els it possible P he cried, standing ol the threshold. "Go, seek my judges" said, pursuing my work with increasing cxultatation.
 "They are waiting for you in the crimson hall," he replied.
 II wish to make some revelation" con tinued, putting the last touch to the myste rious parsonage.
 In few minutes the two judges came They looked on stupefcd. With one hand extended to the picture, and trembling ill every limb, culled out
 There is the assassin !' Van Speckdral, after moments silence, asked the name of the man.
 q do not know it," answered but he is there now in the market, in the third stall at the left choppipg neat"
 "What do you think of it ?" said he, turning towards his colleague
 "Let them find the man," replied the oth. CT in grave tone.
 Some of the keepers welt out to obey the order. The judges remained standing, look ing at tie picture. 1 sank down upon the straw with my head between my knees, ex- bausted with excitement.
 The noise of steps beneath the resound- ing arches of the corridor aroused me. The man entered. Van Sprecktlral pointed in silence to the picture He looked at it moment, turned pale, then, with roar which chilled us with terror, he struck out his enormous arms, and with one bound was out of the door, There was a fearful con- test in the corridor. We heard the painting respiration of the butcher, low imprecations, brief words, and the sound of struggling feet. It was over. The man re-entered. His head was bowed his eyes bloodsbot !; his hands bound behind his back He fixed his gaze once more upon the picture, ap- peared to reflect, then, in voice as if speaking to himself, he said:
 Who could have seen me ?--at mid night" was saved !
 Many years have passed since this terri ble adventure. no longer cut profles, or paint portraits of burgomasters. By dint of labor and perseverance,, with the blessing such labors as can alone satisfy the aspira- tions of true artist But the remembrance of the nocturnal sketch has never left me. Sometimes, in the midst of my finest efforts, the thought of it returns, and I lay down my palette and dream for hours
 How could crime, committed by man l do not know, in place which 1 had ney- CT seen, be reproduced under my pencil, even in it's smallest details? Was it chance? No! And, besides, what is chance, after all, but the effect of case of which we are ignorant? /?
 Schiller was right when he said "The immortal soul does not share the imperfec- tions of matter when the body sleeps, it uufolds it's radiant wings, and wanders, God knows whither Nature is bolder in her re- alities than the imagination of man in his widest fancies"