ride each morning to accustomed resort of brook or tree or hill-side; the room filled with melody or fragrant with flowers; the declining strength, cutting off one by one the enjoyments of the still beautiful sufferer; the hopes, alternately encouraged or depressed, even to the last; and sweeter, better than all, the soft tones of the sister or the manly voice of the father, subdued and often broken, reading page after page of God's Holy Word to the gentle listener, and in the firmness of christian grace bidding her

'Look to HIM who trod before

The desolate paths of life;

And bear in meekness, as He gently bore,
Sorrow and pain and strife:

and then the death-scene, too sacred to be unfolded to the eyes of strangers, but beautiful as is ever the exit of the believer; are all imprinted upon the hearts of those who witnessed them, never to be effaced.

The spirit of Captain A, crushed by the heavy blow, clung more closely to the surviving daughter, and in her increased fondness seemed to find a support from utter wretchedness. Alas! that support was also doomed to fail him! The assiduous attention so long rendered to the deceased had proved too much; the same disease had fastened upon her; and ere a twelvemonth had elapsed, she too had sunk, quietly, gently, in the calmness of christian faith, into the same grave. Her parting words, ' I shall not leave you long behind, father!' seemed prophetic of the end; for a month had not gone when he too, borne on the arms of four of his fellow-officers, was laid beside his daughters.

That enclosure in the old burial-place is sacred to many hearts. I have seen the mother sitting beside it, and have heard her, holding the little hands of her child between her's, repeat the tale of sorrow, until it's blue eyes filled with tears at the sad recital. I have listened to the voice of the summer night-wind, as I hung over the rude paling; have watched the stars looking down with their tremulous beams upon the green graves; absorbed in the recollection of the beauty that was laid beneath; and might have listened and watched until they paled in the morning twilight, but for the deep, solemn sound of the old church-clock, warning me of the hour of midnight.

AN

OLD

MAN'S

REMINISCENCE.

'AN old revolutionary officer, now living in New-York at the advanced age of ninety-one, in every respect a gentleman of the old school, paid a visit, some eight years since, to a friend in Albany; and while there, was taken to the house and room in which, fifty years before, he had been married. In a letter to his granddaughter he gave an account of this visit, and his feelings on the occasion; and she, having a rhyming propensity, threw the dear old gentleman and his reminiscence into the accompanying lines.'

An old man stood, in serious mood, within an ancient room,
And o'er his features gathered fast a shade of deeper gloom,
While to his eye, bedimmed with age, came up the gushing tears,
As Memory from her hidden cells recalled long-buried years.

What were his thoughts that hour, which thus awakened many a sigh?
What brought the shadow o'er his brow, the moisture to his eye?
What in that old familiar place had power to touch his heart,
To call that cloud of sorrow up, and bid that tear-drop start?

The past! the past! how rolled the tide of Time's swift river back,
While the bright rays of youth and love shed lustre on its track!
Full fifty summer suns had shone, since on that silent spot
Had passed a scene, while life was left could never be forgot.

There had the holiest tie been formed, the marriage vow been given,
And she who spoke it then with him was now a saint in heaven!
But long, long intervening years seemed like an idle dream,
As o'er his soul with glowing light came that bright vision-gleam.

He stood before the holy man, with her his youthful bride,
And spoke again the plighting word that bound him to her side;
Again he clasped the small fair hand that hour had made his own,
The vision faded - and he stood all desolate and lone!

His youthful brow is silvered o'er with four-score winters' snows;
The faltering step, the furrowed cheek, tell of life's certain close:
The plighted bride, the faithful wife, beloved so long, so true,
Now sleeps beneath the burial-sod where spring the wild-flowers blue.

There is no music in his home, no light around his hearth!

The childish forms that frolicked there, have passed with all their mirth;
Years have rolled by the changing years-and now he stands alone,
Musing upon the past! the past!' — hopes faded, loved ones gone!

Yet, aged pilgrim! dry the tear suppress the rising sigh;
Look upward, onward, to the scenes of immortality!
Fleet be the moments, if they bear in their resistless flight
The spirit on to that pure world of blessedness and light.

There are thy loved ones, gathered safe, in beauty side by side,
And there the partner of thy life, thy manhood's gentle bride;
Fair as she stood in that sweet hour, this day recalled to mind,
A little season gone before, a better rest to find:

And thou, when death shall close thine eye, in heaven that rest wilt share,
And find the tie once broken here, indissoluble there.

New-York, August, 1843.

M. N. M.

THE I N N O C ENCE OF A GALLEY-SLAVE.

CONCLUDED FROM OUR LAST.

FOR more than six weeks doctor Mallet had two patients instead of one under his charge, in the house of Monsieur Gorsay. For some days the situation of Lucia seemed more precarious than that of the old man, to whom ungratified vengeance imparted an energy which triumphed over the weakness of age, as well as the severity of his wounds. While the outraged husband thus clung desperately to life, which he would not leave unavenged, the young wife, stricken by gloomy despair, seemed hastening to meet an untimely and longed-for dissolution.

On seeing her becoming day by day more feeble and more excited, the prey of a slow fever which after exhausting the body threatened to seize upon the brain, and extinguish reason, the physician regretted more than once the rude test to which he had resorted, with the view of rendering his remedies more efficacious by disclosing the source of the malady. By degrees, however, his persevering efforts triumphed over a disease whose hold the youth of Lucia rendered less tenacious. The fever abated before it had carried its ravages into the sanctuary of the mind; as a conflagration, after destroying many meaner buildings, has its progress stayed at the threshold of a stately temple. The young wife gradually recovered her strength, and preserved her mental powers. triumph of art! With loss of reason she would perhaps have lost

the sense of her misfortune.

Sad

Monsieur and Madame Gorsay had not seen each other since the day of the attempted assassination. Separated from each other, but united by one common thought, equally bitter to both, during the long hours of their sad vigils they had emptied to the dregs the contents of the empoisoned chalice of an ill-assorted union. Monsieur Gorsay was first in a condition to infringe the strict rules established by the physician. One evening, taking advantage of the momentary absence of his attendant, he left his apartment, and with difficulty ascended to that of Lucia. With a gesture of command he dismissed the nurse, who, terrified by his unexpected appearance, stood for some moments motionless at the door. Lucia was sitting, or rather reclining, upon a sofa near the fire-place. At sight of her husband she made no movement, spoke not a word, but remained motionless, with eyes riveted upon him with an expression of horror. Husband and wife gazed on each other for some time in silence, marking with gloomy avidity the ravages which disease and suffering had made upon both since their separation. The old man found the young wife whom he had left full of bloom and freshness, now wan and emaciated.

Lucia per

ceived many new furrows on the brow of her husband; but soon her whole attention was absorbed by the peculiar expression of his eyes, which glowed upon her with implacable passion.

'It seems then that I must pay you a visit, since you do not choose to descend,' said Monsieur Gorsay, seating himself at the other side of the fire-place.

They might have told you that I was ill myself,' replied Lucia, in a feeble voice.

'And had you not been ill you would not have left me? Oh! I doubt it not!' said the old man, with a bitter smile. But yes; I see that you have been ill. You are so changed, that when I first entered I hardly knew you. To judge from your appearance, you

must have suffered much.'

Much!' said the young female, repressing a sigh.

To suffer and at your age! this seems very unjust, does it not?' continued Monsieur Gorsay with ironical compassion; for me now, who have lived so long, and am only fit for the grave, suffering is very suitable. But for you, a child, a flower, to suffer! Yes indeed, I can imagine how so strange a destiny surprises you, and makes you murmur. It was my part to suffer all the pains, yours to enjoy all the pleasures. What are a few drops of useless blood in comparison with those bitter pearls, the traces of which I see in your eyes? I have been a great egotist, no doubt; I ought to have shed your tears as well as my own, so that the lustre of your beauty might not have been dimmed; and I would have had but a sorrow the more!'

The old man dropped his head upon his breast, and remained silent for some time.

'You do not answer me,' continued he, steadily regarding his wife.

You have asked me nothing,' answered Lucia, with a mournful air.

'You are right; my head is so weak that I cannot remember what I have been saying the minute previous; or rather, I think I said what was not in my thoughts. What was it I wished to ask you? Ah! here it is!' continued he, after having appeared to tax his memory; do you think yourself strong enough to bear a short journey?'

'What journey?' said the wife, with secret disquietude.

The journey to Bordeaux. You know it is but a short distance.'

And what have we to do at Bordeaux?' replied she, in an altered tone.

We must be there at the opening of the assizes,' answered Monsieur Gorsay, with affected sang froid. I received a summons a few days since, inclosing one for you. They are going to try this man, and it is necessary that we should give our testimony.'

Lucia arose, and fell at the knees of her husband, grasping convulsively both his hands.

'I am guilty!' exclaimed she, in an accent to which despair gave inexpressible poignancy; I have broken my vows; I have forgot

ten my duties; I have deceived and betrayed you; I am a miserable wretch, unworthy of forgiveness! I expect neither favor, nor pity, nor mercy. Trample me under your feet; I will not utter a complaint! Kill me; I will make no resistance! I ask nothing for myself I desire nothing."

For whom then do you ask any thing? and what do you desire?' replied the old man, sternly.

What do I desire!' exclaimed she, with redoubled energy; 'I desire, I implore, that you will not cause another, much less guilty than myself, to bear the punishment of my crime. I desire you to retract a declaration more cruel than a murder for the dagger only deprives of life, the scaffold bears away honor likewise. If you wish for blood, why not accuse me? There are women who kill their husbands; why might I not be one of these? Denounce me; I will avow every thing. You will be free from a crime which ought to fill you with horror; and an innocent man will not be made to suffer death.'

All this is very heroic,' said Monsieur Gorsay, with imperturbable raillery; but I have too good an opinion of our friend to believe that he would be willing to save his life at the expense of yours. It is his duty, as a devoted lover, to suffer himself to be condemned to death without saying a word; and I am sure that he will do so.'

He will do so, most assuredly,' repeated Lucia, gazing fiercely at her husband; but will you, so near your own death, commit murder? Do you believe in GOD?'

'Was it Monsieur d'Aubian who taught you to believe in him?' said the old man.

You are right—you are right! Choose the most cruel words; pierce my heart and avenge yourself; but let it be upon me alone.' 'And where would be the justice of that? By what rule should the most guilty go unpunished? No! for you, tears! for him,

death!'

'Death!'

'Perhaps only the galleys; we must not always look on the darkest side of the picture.'

'But he is innocent.'

'Innocent!' repeated Monsieur Gorsay, rising, and dragging his wife from the suppliant attitude she had assumed. In your estimation it is only the murderer, who plunges a dagger in your bosom, who is criminal. But do you think that the soul has no blood as well as the body? It is the price of this blood of my soul that he must pay, for he has shed it even to the last drop! Ah, Lucia! you do not comprehend that I love you!-that upon this wide earth you are my last, my only treasure! And you wish that I should pardon him! Never! never!'

He repulsed with an inexorable gesture the young female, who remained standing a few paces from him in an attitude of the deepest sadness and dejection. At this moment Doctor Mallet entered the room.

'It is a good sign when the patient begins to disobey the orders