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The Broken Heart.

EVERY one must recollect the tragical story of young Emmet, 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 so intelligent young so generous so brave so every thing 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 dictated his execution.


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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 barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor 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 name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image? Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth

who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

But then, the horrors of such a grave! so frightful, so

dishonored! There was nothing for memory to dwell on, that could soothe the pang of separation; none of those tender, though melancholy, circumstances, that endear the parting scene; nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal 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 wean her from the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the soul—that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure; but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad revery, 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 ever so wisely."

The person who told me her story had 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 in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and 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 every one 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 but 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 his 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 sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

It was on her that Mr. Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, composed the following lines:

"She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers 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 song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he 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 he died;
They were all that to life had intwined him
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

"O, make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow;

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


Idea of a Perfect Woman.

I INTEND to give my idea of a woman. If it at all answers any original, I shall be pleased; for if such a person as I would describe really exists, she must be far superior to my description, and such as I must love too well to be able to paint as I ought.

She is handsome, but it is a beauty not arising from features, from complexion, or from shape; she has all three in a high degree, but it is not by these she touches a heart: it is all that sweetness of temper, benevolence, innocence, and sensibility, which a face can express, that forms her beauty.

She has a face that just raises your attention at first sight; it grows on you every moment, and you wonder it did no more than raise your attention at first.

Her eyes have a mild light, but they awe you when she


pleases; they command, like a good man out of office, not by authority, but by virtue.

Her features are not perfectly regular that sort of exactness is more to be praised than to be loved; for it is never animated.

Her stature is not tall. She is not made to be the admiration of every body, but the happiness of one.

She has all the firmness that does not exclude delicacy: she has all the softness that does not imply weakness.

There is often more of the coquette shown in an affected plainness than in a tawdry finery. She is always clean without preciseness or affectation. Her gravity is a gentle thoughtfulness, that softens the features without discomposing them she is usually grave.

Her smiles are inexpressible.

Her voice is a low, soft music, not formed to rule in public assemblies, but to charm those who can distinguish a company from a crowd. It has this advantage — you must come close to her to hear it.

To describe her body describes her mind; one is the transcript of the other. Her understanding is not shown in the variety of matters it exerts itself on, but in the goodness of the choice she makes.

She does not display it so much in saying or doing striking things, as in avoiding such as she ought not to say or do.

She discovers the right and wrong of things not by reasoning, but sagacity. Most women, and many good ones, have a closeness and something selfish in their dispositions: she has a true generosity of temper: the most extravagant cannot be more unbounded in their liberality; the most covetous not more cautious in the distribution.

No person of so few years can know the world better; no person was ever less corrupted by that knowledge.

Her politeness seems to flow rather from a natural disposition to oblige than from any rules on that subject, and

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