"To whom do they sing," I asked; "to you | day night, and joined. The next day he went or to each other?" to work at his trade, which was a good one, and he could make money fast. He came home sober every night, and on Saturday received his wages and bought a barrel of flour, "O no," she quickly replied, "to my sister; she sleeps here.' "But your sister is dead?" 66 "O yes, sir, but then she hears all the||a ham, some groceries, and so on, and got them birds sing." “Well, if she does hear the birds sing cannot see that wreath of flowers?" on the dray and sent them home. The drayshe||man drove up to the door and told his wife that the barrel of flour and the groceries were for her. She told the dray-man there must be some mistake about it; it did not belong there for she never had a barrel of flour since they were married-always had to buy "But she knows I put it there; I told her before they took her away from our house, I would come and see her every morning." 66 You must have loved that sister very much," I continued, “but you will never talk||it by the six-pence worth, or shilling's worth with her any more: never see her again." "Yes, sir," she replied with a brightened look, "I shall see her always in Heaven." "But she has gone there already, I trust." "No, she stops here under this tree till they bring me here, and then we are going to Heaven together." 66 But she is gone already, my child; you will meet her there I hope; but certainly she is gone, and left you to come afterwards." She cast at me a look of inquiring disappointment and her eyes began to fill with tears. O yes, my sweet child; be it so, That still she hears the young birds sing, And in a brighter, purer sphere, Those virtues that have charmed us here, AN EXCITING PICTURE. Mr. Vickers, a reformed man of Baltimore, in the course of a recent speech, related the incident which we subjoin. We wish it could be read by every hard drinker in the country, for it appears to us to convey an admonition which even the most insensible must feel. "You cannot think," said Mr. Vickers, "how soon a man's circumstances become changed when once he has signed the pledge. I will tell you of a man whom I knew in Baltimore. He was not worth a cent a day, and his family was supported by his hard working wife. He had heard of the Washington Society, and he had determined to join. But how should he get his quarter of a dollar which was required for an initiation fee? He went to his wife and told her he wanted a quarter of a dollar, What for! said she. No matter,' said he, I want it and must have it.' She gave it to him, knowing it would be of no use to withhold it, and supposed that he meant to buy rum with it. He went to the Washington Society on Mon -the flour certainly could not be for her. While they were talking, the husband came up, and said she-Husband, here's a man says this barrel of flour and these groceries are for us.' So they are, and I have bought them all with the twenty-five cents you gave me last Monday night. I joined the Washington Temperance Society with that twentyfive cents; we shall have flour by the barrel after this instead of by the six-pence worth, or the eleven penny bit's worth." " "What," said Mr. Vickers, "do you think were the feelings of that wife and mother. She had before to sit up all night sometimes, sewing, to earn enough to maintain herself and children. What had the pledge done for her? It had given her a husband; it had given her children a father. The pledge had saved him. We watch over the poor drunkard. Ah, yes! and save him too," THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. BY BARRY CORNWALL. How many summers, love, When't bends the flowers, To count the hours! Some weight of thought, tho' loth, Ah! with what thankless heart Like sudden spring- THE BROKEN HEART. A TRUE STORY. BY C. EDWARDS LESTER.* One evening, in walking the deck of the ship in which I crossed the Atlantic, I fell into conversation with a passenger whose demeanor had created a lively interest in my mind. This interest was first excited by an incident that occurred in the early part of our voyage. On the evening of the day we sailed, as the faint outline of home, which had for some time hung trembling on the vision, faded behind the waters, I saw him leaning over the stern, with his eye fixed steadily upon the retreating shore. I also noticed, when he was aroused from his reverie by the giving way of a rope, as he turned and the moon fell upon his face, traces of fresh tears. I felt a sympathy with him from that moment, and I longed to win his confidence and learn his history. I was persuaded there was in his heart a fountain of gentle feeling. We conversed as we walked the deck arm in arm, until we approached the subject of our own personal history. After I had in a frank manner related some of the more singular incidents of my own life, and expressed a desire to listen to his history, he freely told me his story-and it was no less touching than strange. You are the only human being, he commenced, I have seen in long years to whom I would say what I am now going to reveal; and after I have told you my story, you will be the only one now on earth who knows it. Fifteen years ago this spring, I was passing, with my father's family, through one of the most beautiful districts of Massachusetts. Just as we were entering the quiet village of our horses took fright from a kite which fell suddenly in the road before them. They ran with great violence, and threw us all from the carriage. My sister was so seriously injured that we could not proceed on our journey for several days. We all took lodgings at a neat and quiet hotel in the village, expecting to be detained a considerable time. The day after the accident, my sister requested me to make inquiry for a female friend, whom she had known in Boston some years before, whose parents lived in the village. She said they had been very intimate, and she would be glad to meet her once more. After some inquiry I found her residence.Mary was too ill to write, and told me it would be a sufficient introduction for me to say that I was her brother. "But," said she, playfully, "Edward, take care of your heart, for she is a lovely girl.” 66 Mr. Lester is the author of "The Glory and the Shame of England." The letters in this story are literal copies, and the events occurred precisely as related. NO. 10.-VOL. VI. Mary had often spoken of her friend to me with the deepest enthusiasm, and my fancy had already invested her with all the charms I dreamed of one day finding in some fair creature who would yet cross my path. I had just left Harvard College, and my heart was as free as the breath of that evening.As I opened the gate, I saw a very beautiful girl in a corner of the dooryard, training a honey-suckle over the arbor that led into the garden. Her head was uncovered, and the rich auburn hair was falling in luxuriant curls over her shoulders. She did not observe me until a playful little dog came out from the arbor to dispute my entrance. She called "Blanch" back, with a sweet voice, and I approached her. She was in the freshness and beauty of youth; that fervid season when the young female heart begins to develope its pure affections; when the first thrill of love either has or soon will waken rapture from every chord of the soul. I inquired if this was the residence of Judge "Yes, sir," she answered; "do you wish to see my father?" "Not if I have the pleasure of addressing his daughter." The rich blood mounted to her cheek while I unfolded the object of my visit. “You may have heard of the accident the travellers met with in entering the village last evening. It was my father's carriage, and the lady who was injured was your old friend, Mary —, of Boston. "Oh! is it possible? How much is she hurt? I wish I could see her." This was said with deep earnestness, and certainly, as she came nearer to me while I related the circumstances of the misfortune, she appeared more lovely than any being I had ever seen. 66 My sister requested me to call with her love for yourself, and a request that you would visit her, if possible, this evening." "I shall be glad to go, sir-shall I find her at the house by the large elm?" "I will show you if you will give me the pleasure of your society." "Thank you, sir, if you will wait a few moments." The blood, which had left her face pale as marble at the intelligence I communicated in regard to my sister, spread its rich freshness over her cheeks again as she led the way into the house, and left me, to prepare for the walk. A group of family pictures hung around the room into which I was ushered, and there was one there which I knew at a glance was her's. I stood before it in rapt enthusiasm, almost unconscious where I was, until I heard a slight noise in the hall. I turned and saw her standing by the door. She had seen me gazing on her picture, and we both felt a painful embarrass ment as we left the house. Neither of us I dreamed that the heart of man was without envy and the world without a foe. Thank God! it is all over now and I will tell it all. We held converse about the glorious heavens above us and the verdant earth beneath our feet; of the world and all its enchanting pleasures. One word I left unsaid, and that word was all the world to me; I did not, I could not whisper, "love!" It was a charmWhen we reached our lodgings I showed ed word I could not utter. We passed on and her to my sister's room, and saw them sink came up through an avenue of trees to her into each other's arms. I went to my cham- father's house. We stood at the door where ber to weep, and yet I could not tell why. I we were to part; again I tried to summon had entered that room changed. The hopes resolution to make my confession, but a painand the joys of existence which had been so ful agony stifled the effort. I then thought I dear to me but one short hour before, were would write to her after our separation, and nothing now but withered leaves. The cur- asked her if I might do so. She said she rent of my life seemed to stand still, uncer- would always be glad to hear of my welfare. tain which way to flow. In a moment every I pressed her hand with the wildest enthusigem of heaven I had loved to gaze upon was asm. That pressure was gently returned. I forgotten, and a new solitary star shone there gazed upon her with an emotion which I could which I had never seen before. Oh! thought not repress, and said "farewell.". She reI, if this be love, how powerful is its trans- turned the word and pressed my hand long port! and fervently. The moon beams silvered a Day after day passed away, and every even- tear which was falling from her cheek. I ing Frances came to see my sister. I loved could not resist the impulse of my affection, her in the very depths of my soul, and yet I and clasped her to my breast and kissed that dared not breathe one word of affection into tear away. It was a moment of exquisite her ear. She seemed so pure that every happiness, which a man can experience but thing was hallowed by her touch; so kind- once or twice in the longest life, giving a hearted and joyous that every thing was glad-momentary glimpse of heaven, and then losdened by her presence; and yet as uncon- ing itself again in human cares or less vivid scious of her loveliness as the wild plover joys. that has never been looked on but by the eyes of Heaven. Yes! I loved her, and every time I met those deep eyes my heart glowed with a purer love, a more entire devotion.Those were days of enchantment, but they could not last. The time came for me to leave her, and I felt that I was leaving the gate of Paradise to wander over a blighted world, from which every thing that was once beautiful had departed, and for ever. It was the last evening we were to pass in at once. "New hopes may bloom and day may come, Of milder, calmer beam; But, oh! there's nothing half so sweet In life as love's young dream." We parted, and I saw her no more. The next morning we left the village. I had not yet learned how necessary the sight of her form, the sound of her voice, or the spot where we first met, had become to my happiness. Her image was before me night and day. She mingled in every scene of joy or sadness; she inspired every hope, and shed over all the future a soft and holy light. In a few days, I wrote to her, poured out my whole soul, and requested an answer. I should here say that I placed my letter in the hands of a young gentleman whom I had frequently seen in that village, who was about returning, and who engaged to deliver it to Frances in person. I now felt relieved from the harrassing anxiety which had weighed on my spirits; for my confession was made, and I should soon know the result. But day after day and week after week passed by and I heard not a word from Frances. I was sure she must have received my letter, and it was certainly entitled to an answer. Why did she not write, if it was only to banish hope? Then came the revulsion. A bright star had risen lupon my path-I had followed it till it led me to ever. despair. I had been guided by an angel to the bowers of Paradise, and then expelled for That was a dreary summer to me.The world, it is true, was glad and beautiful all around me; joy lighted on every hill-top; and the blithe carol of pleasure was heard along the silver streams; but I was unblest. Nature seemed to spurn me from her when I tried to forget my misery and court the joys I once felt in her companionship. But it was possible Frances had not received my letter. She would not have given me leave to write to her unless she had intended to answer me, for she was too kind and generous ever to deceive. I knew that I was not worthy of her love. She was too pure for the love of earth. But still, when I thought of the many hours I had passed with her, and the parting scene, and that falling tear, I could not but hope that she would suffer me to minister to her life, and spend my own in making her's happy. These reflections determined me to write to her again. I entreated her to answer me, if she said but one word, and that word were fatal to my hopes. In a few days I received her reply, and when I read it the charm of life fled for ever. She stated that she had received both my letters, and now wrote to me for the first and last time. She had passed many pleasant hours in my society, and at one time thought she loved me; but she now regretted that she had even on one occasion discovered an affection which was only transient; she could not love me except as a friend, and I must not dream of marriage. I now felt that I should be a fool to dream an hour longer. I woke to the task of crushing the edifice that hope had reared-of forgetting the only being I had ever loved--of blotting out the fairest star that shone in my firmament. I plunged into the busy world, but her image followed me there. I fought against my passion in solitude, but the effort to destroy it only increased its power. A deep gloom settled upon my spirit, and had I not dreaded the thought of presenting my soul before the throne of God before he summoned it away, I would have ended a life which had become wretched beyond description. This life was misery, and the future was shrouded in thick gloom. My health, which had never been firm, began to yield.I expected to die in a few months--oh! how gladly would I have hastened the hour of my deliverance. Perhaps I might live to see another spring smile over the landscape and bring hope to me; but I contemplated the future with fixed despair. Sometimes a momentary gleam of hope would shoot up before my vision and make my pulses thrill for an instant, but it as soon vanished, leaving me in deeper dejection. I had always found it quite impossible to reconcile Frances's letter with my former views of her character. I thought she possessed too well-balanced a mind to act as she appeared to. Was it possible that letter had been written by another hand? I obtained one of her letters to my sister, for they often corresponded, and compared them together. There was a general resemblance in the writing, but still the contrast was sufficient to admit the hope, faint as it was, that the letter had been forged. I seized the first ray that broke through the surrounding darkness, as a drowning man grasps the straw which floats around his sinking body. I determined no longer to intrust interests, upon which my existence itself seemed suspended, to letters. I would see Frances myself, and receive my sentence from her. If rejected, it must be from those lips where I once thought I had sealed our mutual love for ever. The next morning I took the western coach and resolved before I closed my eyes in sleep to know what my destiny was to be. I walked from the hotel to her father's house, and, with emotions which only such circumstances can inspire, pulled the bell. I was now standing on that spot where, in the enthusiasm of first love, but a few months before, I had held that beautiful child of heaven in my arms. I heard no sound in the hall and rang again-and listened with painful anxiety for the door to be opened. At last it was opened. I inquired for Frances. The family had the day before gone to Boston! fate was arrayed against me. On inquiry, I learned that Frances had gone on a long journey to the west, and the housekeeper only knew that they designed to proceed to New York and then to Cincinnati. I ascertained her father's address in New York and travelled across the country, by day and night, until I reached the city. I called at the house where they had taken lodgings, and the answer was that they had that morning left, but no one could tell where! When I threw myself down upon my bed that night, I prayed that I might die. With a despair deeper and darker than I ever thought could settle upon the human heart in a world where mercy flashes from every sunbeam, I returned to my home. What a change had come over me in a few short months! I resolved to struggle no longer against my love, but resign myself to its power, and let the star of hope shine on the cheerless path that led me to the grave. The dream made me happy. I was determined to indulge it to the last. I believed she would never be mire, but I fondly loved to linger around the ruins of that splendid castle which time had almost destroyed. I knew that none of my friends were aware of the extent, possibly not of the cause, of my unhappiness; but they were opened the first, which was written only three months after my departure, and glanced through it till I came to the postscript. It stated that she had not seen Frances, but had al and that the only reply she received was, "As you love me, Mary, do not mention that subject again-you will not, I know, willingly inflict misery upon me." alarmed for my health, and advised me to go to the south of Europe for a time. I rejoiced when the suggestion was made, for I longed to be far, far away from anything which could remind me of the wreck of my hopes. Pos-luded to my affection in one of her letters, sibly I might, in the whirl and excitement of the world, forget my unhappiness. I made preparations for the voyage. The evening before I sailed I went to my sister's room and revealed to her the whole history of my love. She was deeply affected, and hung upon my neck and wept as none but a sister can weep upon a brother's heart. Dear Mary! She is now in heaven. Oh! it is a glorious reflection, is it not, that there is a world where no sigh of anguish shall ever be heard? where no tear shall ever fall? Mary promised always to speak of Frances in her letters. The next evening the parting words had been spoken, and a fresh breeze soon took us away from the land where "I had seen the hopes that fed And felt the strength that nerved my heart Beneath my spirit's agony." I wandered over Europe, and tried, on the classic shores of the Mediterranean, among the tombs of old empires and their gray monuments, to contemplate my history as I contemplated the ruins of beautiful Greece. I knew that I could not forget Frances, and this I did not wish to do; I only wanted to forget the dark and dreary disappointment and worship her memory, as it rose like some classic form of antiquity. Time and distance had now begun to mellow the rugged outline of those dark days. But there were moments when the past with all its painful scenes rushed back so vividly upon my memory, that they were no longer clothed in that softened light which at other times hallowed their remembrance; they stood before me in the stern light of reality. a I broke the seal of the second, which bore date a few weeks later. The first paragraph ran thus: "Dear Edward: At the request of Frances been unwilling to leave her to return hoine. a few days ago I came to visit her, and I have It is with strange feelings that I write to you now. I know not whether this letter will thrill your heart with joy or turn your brain to madness. Dear brother, I would give the world if you had never gone to Europe. I will not deceive you. It is my duty to tell you much of your strange fortune that you do not know. Since you left this quiet village, where we passed those days which to you were bright as heaven, until a few days ago, Frances has been declining in health and suffering the deepest gloom. You would hardly recognise in her faded countenance and slender form the same bright, joyous being rival we slept together; when I entered our you once saw here. The night after my arlodging I found her sitting by the window, alone, weeping-1 sat down by her and took know what grieves you; perhaps I can make her hand and said kindly, Frances, let me you happy.' "Oh! no, Mary,' she answered, 'you never can heal my heart-it's broken, and I shall go down to the grave in the morning of life, and no one will know why I died.' “Oh! Frances, don't say so,' I replied, ‘I think I know already the cause of all your misery. Is it not my brother?' She fell upon my bosom and said— 666 Oh! yes-but pray do not breathe it to the world. Let me know that I have your sympathy, and I will die.' "Oh! Frances, why do you say so? Edward loves you better than his own soul.' 666 'Mary, you are deceived-It's a dream I have indulged too long, and have awoke from to die.' let me I had received letters from home in the mean time, yet they were written soon after I left America, and they communicated no intelligence of Frances. For several weeks an impression which I could not shake off had filled my mind with fear that some dread-it ful evil had befallen her. For my friends I felt no solicitude; but the image of that lovely girl in distress haunted my vision night and day. I went to Venice; and soon after my arrival there, called on an American gentleman to whom my letters were to be directed, and found a small packet from America. I "But hear me, love. You never saw Edbroke the seal with a trembling hand, for I ward after you parted, the evening before we dreaded the result. Besides letters from my left here last summer, but you received his parents, I found three from my sister. Illetters?' 666 "Dear Frances,' I answered, convince you, for I know it is true.' Can it be-oh! can it be, Mary?' she said, as the fountain of her tears opened again, and a faint smile played around her face. 'No! no!' |
