mitted to the Holy Sacrament. The priest laid his hand with blessings on his heady and he there pledged his heart to God, and vowed forsake all sin. How comes it that he now so distinctly remembers the solemn tones of the organ as he was leaving the church, and the large painting of the Saviour close by the altar, which he had turned to look at once more before he passed from the crowded aisle? He had never been in that church again to pray—alas! never.
He had indeed been there again—but it was on another and a reprobate errand—and then—he was young at that time, and reflected less. Ah! then, too, he thought more of the young and beautiful girl who had knelt next to him at the altar, and with whom he had afterwards taken a quiet walk. On other evenings he was wont to spend his time with some wild, bad companions, and to join in their giddy mirth and mischievous sports; but that evening their company wearied and disgusted him, and he followed the young gin to her fathers house. He had now become an apprentice; but he was careless and idle; to sit hard at work did not suit his taste. And yet these were pleasant days when he looked back on them.
He became a journeyman, and was betrothed to his pretty friend of the Confirmation-day. She had gone into service, and was a hard-working, honest, well-principled girl; he continued to be idle. Often and often she entreated him to be more industrious, to seek work, and not to waste his time on riot and strife; and often he promised to reform. But his only reformation was, that he took more pains to conceal from her his bad habits. When he was sitting with her, and her anxious look rested upon his dull eyes, or his faded cheek, he felt that it was time to stop in his career of evil, and resolved to become a steady and respectable workman. But these good resolutions vanished when he left her presence. At length the evil spirit within him conquered; he wanted money, and stole a watch from a fellow-workman. Then the arm of the law seized him, never again to let him go.
After he had undergone the punishment awarded to his theft, he came abashed, and with downcast eyes, to his betrothed; but she had heard of his guilt. With bitter tears she reproached him for his conduct, and she forbade him ever again to show himself in her presence. He was furious at her reception of him, and left her, vowing to be revenged. Many wild schemes rushed through his brain;—now, he determined to murder her; now, that she should also be dragged into disgrace. But one day he met her in the street, and her pale, tearful, melancholy countenance disarmed his wrath, and annihilated his plans of revenue.
And now, as the prisoner scrawls absently with that rusty nail on the wall, and his sunken eyes fill with warm tears, what is memory recalling to his saddened mind? Ah I is it not that short-lived time of early affection—is it not those sweet, calm features—those speaking eyes—that love, so true and so pure? Perhaps his fancy paints himself as an honest, industrious citizen, as a happy husband and father, with her by his side, and in a very different place from that dreary cell—in a comfortable home, enjoying all that he so madly threw away—love, happiness, and respectability! But his thoughts wander on; he throws the nail away from him, and leans back, with arms folded across his chest.
