THE BROKEN HEART.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XLIII, Issue 2286, 26 February 1912, Page 7

THE BROKEN HEART.

Brery one must recollect the tragical story of young E , the Irish patriot ; It was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young, so intelligent, so generous, so brave —so everything that we are apt to like In a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country—the eloquent vindication of his name—and his pathetic appeal to posterity in the hopeless hour of condemnation—all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictat-< ed his execution. But there was one heart whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes he had won, the affections of a beautiful and Interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barister. She loved him with the disinterested fervour of a woman’s first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his aame, she loved Mm the more ardently for his sufferings. . . . To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father’s displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the parental roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief and ween her from the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are sotne strokes of calamity which scath and scorch the soul — which penetrate to the vital seat 6f happiness—and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude — walking about In a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and “heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely.” The person who told me her story bad seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it In such a scene — to find It wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay, to see it dressed out iu the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan end woe begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her Insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice, but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted everyone into tears. The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not bat prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in hia suit. He solicited not her tenderness but her esteem. He was assisted by her ] conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another’s. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away In a slow but hopeless decline, and at length Bank Into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, composed the following lines She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And loves around her are sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains. Every note which be loved awaking; Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains. How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! He had lived for his love, for his country be died— They were all that to life had entwined him ; Nor soon shall the tears of- bis country be dried, Nor long will hia love stay behind him ! Oh, marfte her a grave where tbe sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious mor- ' soar; J

They'll shine o'er sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved island of sorrow !

—Washington Irving, in "The Sketch Book."