On another occasion two deserters were taken out for execution by shooting. The Reverend Father Fitzgibbon, a Catholic priest, chaplain to one of the regiments then at the place, took an interest in them and, although they did not belong to his communion, he volunteered his spiritual aid for the occasion. Father Fitzgibbon had officiated in the ministry years before at Springfield, Illinois, and had become well acquainted with Mr. Lincoln, then a practising lawyer at that place. It occurred to the good priest, therefore, to use his influence with the President for the pardon of the condemned men, or a commutation of their sentence. He telegraphed his request to Mr. Lincoln. No reply came until the hour appointed for the execution had actually passed. Major Pratt, with his usual kindheartedness, delayed the catastrophe as long as he could do so consistently in view of his duty. At length the condemned men were placed on their knees and a file of soldiers held their guns ready to fire at the command of the provost, when a horseman was seen riding furiously from the direction of the telegraph office and it was hoped that he might be the bearer of some message of mercy. True enough, the benevolent Lincoln had pardoned them, and there was not one in the crowd of spectators who did not feel relieved on hearing the good news, and many a rough cheek was wet with tears. It will be readily believed that the prisoners participated largely in the joy of the occasion. There is an old fatalistic saying that "every wight has got his weird," or that every man's career on earth and the manner of his death are predestined. This may or may not be true, but many things occur to give at least plausibility to the belief. One of these men thus rescued from the very jaws of death, lost his life some twenty years afterward by being shot by a woman whom he had grossly insulted with improper proposals, and to whom he was about to offer personal violence. The "weird," if there is such a thing, missed him at Harper's Ferry, but overtook him some thirty miles farther up the Potomac. The author will give another instance of apparent fatality. Like the sentimental Sterne, he loves philosophical digressions which, perhaps, the reader may pardon. Besides, the occurrence took place near enough to Harper's Ferry to give it some little claim on the chronicles of that neighborhood. In the confederate army during the civil war was the scion of a very respectable house in the lower valley of Virginia. Like other young men, no doubt, he felt that in him was the making of a hero but, in his first battle, he discovered that he had missed his vocation. In his second and third battles his fears were confirmed and, still worse, his comrades suspected the truth. He held on to the colors, however, but, after a few more experiences, he ever sought some excuse for absence from his post in time of battle, until his example was considered detrimental to the