ing to the court of the Luxembourg, and entered a carriage
which conveyed him to the place of execution, outside the garden gates.
He alighted, and advanced towards the file of soldiers drawn up to
despatch him. To an officer, who proposed to blindfold him, he
replied--"Are you ignorant that, for twenty-five years, I have been
accustomed to face both ball and bullet?" He took off his hat, raised it
above his head, and cried aloud--"I declare before God and man that I
have never betrayed my country: may my death render her happy! _Vive la
France!_" He then turned to the men, and, striking his other hand on his
heart, gave the word, "Soldiers--fire!"

Thus, in his forty-seventh year, did the "Bravest of the Brave" expiate
one great error, alien from his natural character, and unworthy of the
general course of his life. If he was sometimes a stern, he was never an
implacable, enemy. Ney was sincere, honest, blunt even: so far from
flattering, he often contradicted him on whose nod his fortunes
depended. He was, with rare exceptions, merciful to the vanquished; and
while so many of his brother marshals dishonoured themselves by the most
barefaced rapine and extortion, he lived and died poor.

Ney left four sons, two of whom are in the service of his old friend,
Bernadotte.

* * * * *

THE ANNIVERSARY.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

"Nay, chide me not; I cannot chase
The gloom that wraps my soul away,
Nor wear, as erst, the smiling face
That best beseems this hallow'd day
Fain would my yearning heart be gay,
Its wonted welcome breathe to thine;
But sighs come blended with my lay,
And tears of anguish blot the line.

I cannot sing as once, I sung,
Our bright and cheerful hearth beside;
When gladness sway'd my heart and tongue,
And looks of fondest love replied--
The meaner cares of earth defied,
We heeded not its outward din;
How loud soe'er the storm might chide,
So all was calm and fair within.

A blight upon our bliss hath come,
We are not what we were of yore;
The music of our hearts is dumb;
Our fireside mirth is heard no more!
The little chick, its chirp is o'er,
That fill'd our happy home with glee;
The dove hath fled, whose pinions bore
Healing and peace for thee and me.

Our youngest-born--our Autumn-flower,
The best beloved, because the last;
The star that shone above our bower,
When ma