"When true hearts lie withered, and fond ones are | broken woman, ragged, and perhaps culpable, flown, Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone?" There was a trembling earnestness and pathos in her delivery of these two lines that touched upon every better chord of my heart, and told me that it was no common child of song or of poverty that had sung them. The words in themselves are beautiful; very, very beautiful; and let them be heard in what hour they maybe it one of sorrow or of joy-they unconsciously lead the heart to think upon old scenes and upon old times; the friends of our childhood and of our manhood-too many of whom have dropped from around us—come crowding back upon our memories, and we in the waveless mirror of the mindView the fleet years of pleasure left behind;" and the unbidden tear often dims the eye that has before it at the time the face, form, and bearing of those who gladdened "life's young holiday;" who, like the sun-gleams on a winter's day, glowed for an instant and were no more. I threw open the window, and asked her to sing it again. "When true hearts lie withered, and fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone ?" Shakespeare beautifully writes "What a hell of witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear!" The voice of pleading, gushing from the lips in music's holy strain, hath a witchcraft in it that I could never resist; it comes home to me, and I am not ashamed to own that this poor creature-pshaw! what was I going to say? There was a long history; and, oh! who can tell how sad a one, chronicled in the singing of those simple words: the morning of life perhaps hopeful and happy; the noon clouded and tearful; the evening full of dark, bitter, heart-breaking trials. I gave the songstress my mite, and blushed to think, as I bestowed it, that it was so small. "Twas not a Catalini that sung, nor a Mara. There was no gorgeous scenery, no thrilling music, no crowding audience, no applauding tongues; it was merely a broken-down, heart pouring out beneath the vault of heaven "Thick inlaid with patines of bright gold-" that music and those words that were stamped upon every page of her life's story. "Poor songstress," ,"muttered I, as I sauntered back to my easy chair by the comfortable fire— poor soul!" How is it, that at times we have such fearful twinges of conscience-such knockings at the heart? And that at other hours we are dead to every feeling of kindness and of goodness? True it is that "Many things by season season'd are To their right praise and true perfection :" and that which makes pleasure to-day may cause sorrow to-morrow. We are children of circumstances; we are led by them, governed by them. The merest trifle turns the man of pleasure into the man of thought. As the shifting of the wind drives a vessel back upon her course, so does an accident throw man back in the pride of his strength and of his manhood to the helplessness and truthfulness of his earlier days. Be the letters traced ever so faintly on the wall, we start from the path we have been pursuing like a frighted horse, and for a while dream of nought but good. But, but—alas! how many buts there are in man's existence !some well-guided shaft from the bow of misfortune is sure to leave one cankered spot on the tablet of his existence. words I had heard, and of her who had uttered I could do nothing, think of nothing but the them, and my busy brain pictured her travails through life. She might have been evil-doubtless she had been; but who can lay his hand upon his heart, and say, "This is pure?" Who "Look to my conscience, 'tis clear as the sumcan uncover his brow before his Maker, and say, also wished to win back a good name—to be mer brook?" Yes, she had erred; but she had good; but "Her erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, And found not pity when it erred no more." She had fallen into the gulf, and no hand was held forth to save her. Smiles had lightened her tears once; but now, not one smile ever mingled with them, to throw the rainbow of peace and hope upon her heart. and the poor little cherub would look up at me and smile, the only smile that ever met me, and it drove away at the time sorrow, and bade hope lighten up my spirit. "I recollect them well; every bright look, every sweet smile of recognition, is treasured up in my heart's inmost core, and they will guide me yet through many a scene of misery—for I and the world have not yet done. "She was my only comfort, and many, many hours have I sat lulling her on my bosom to I felt ashamed of having a home, of having a warm her, while cold and hunger, and utter well-spread board, a cheerful fire, and a guardian wretchedness, almost bewildered me-waiting angel of love and goodness that made that home for him to come, that I might look upon him happier, that fire more bright and warm. I had-for I loved him still, for what had beenseen series of poverty-stricken objects during the day, they had awakened no such feelings; I had passed them, perhaps not heedlessly, but they were passed and were forgotten. But here I was arrested; there was something so touching in this woman's tones, something in unison with her song of woe, and in a few short words teliing a long, long tale of misery to you while sitting at your "ain fire side." Imagination is fond of catching one i' the vein; and in this instance it sketched and coloured, and yet the canvas did not answer to nature. It was a daub; it drew and shaded, but it was not within his hands, and rocked himself backwards and a master hand. The picture was incomplete, and it was given up in despair, as did the artist of old who could not paint the foam on the dog's mouth; when, suddenly, the canvas glowed with life-reality was there; truth grew from fiction, and the poor creature was before mewith me-breathing-with her ragged dress, her careworn face, her pathetic voice; and the tale of her trials and of her sorrows was told me. My brain had been wrong-she had not been guilty. Misfortune had been her bane; she had had but one evil, and that was poverty. I told her I had wronged her; she smiled faintly, as she answered, So has the world." * "He came home late; his step was unsteady, and his cheek was flushed. He sat himself down on the corner of the bed, buried his head forwards, as though suffering from mental agony. I rose and approached him, and placed our child on his knees. He looked up into my face, and then down upon the smiling infant's; his gaze was long and wistful, while hot tears fell upon the innocent. 666 Mary, Mary,' he gasped, rather than spoke: Mary, my beloved, 'tis very like what thou wast-very-before I broke thy heart, blasted thy hopes, and robbed thy cheek of its bloom. "They were the first words of love he had spoken for days, and I could have died at that moment. 666 Mary, what busy fiend was it urged me on to dim thy beauty to sow sorrow in that bosom which might have been the garden pro"I was happy, very happy; neither care nor lific of such brightness, such happiness? But, sorrow obtruded into our home. He was kind, oh! who can tell of, who knows, the snares that good, and attentive, and I gave back his affec- beset the path of the falling man! Trifles first tion with all the utter confidence and devoted-speck the horizon of his happiness; but, like ness of a woman. Two years rolled over us, and two more pleasant ones never blessed a youthful couple. At the beginning of the third, my husband was unfortunate in an undertaking, and, as misfortunes seldom come alone, before the twelve months had elapsed, we were without a home and almost without a crust; and he who had once been so truthful and upright, so cheerful and contented, became melancholy and captious; and that fiend that so often tempts the unfortunate beckoned him from the path he had hitherto pursued, and he became a drunkard and a gambler whenever he could procure a few shillings to sport at the table of fortune. Oh! I could have worked for him, slaved for him, had he but remained still in our wretched garret. But, as I saw him sink deeper and deeper into the pit of sin and shame, my very spirit died within me; and many, many times was I tempted to leave this world, but I had one tie still-my child, my poor little Ellen-my poor—poorShe stopped, and sang in that low, sweet manner, again that cloud which rose out of the sea in the shape of a man's hand, too surely they tell of the coming tempest. Debt, debt-the curse of the struggling man-leaves him no rest, no matter whether pillowed on his wife's breast or buffeting in the world. Life is a hell: the world peopled with busy devils, that haunt him at every corner; no comforter comes, no hand is reached to help, when only a few, few pounds are wanting to save him on the brink of destruction. I have seen the rich roll by, Mary, in their carriages, and a word from them would have preserved me, you, this sacred pledge of earlier, happier days; but that word was never spoken. How little does the prosperous man think of the trials that beset the path of him who is struggling against the world! The year's end arrives, he has fought bravely through all, has put up with privations, has even wanted; and the last day comes, and he is a poorer man than when he began. And the rich man turns upon his heel, conscious of integrity, and wonders how such a crime could be committed, and sits a judge upon his erring, fallen, poverty-tempted neighbour.' "Mary,' he continued, raising his hands over me: Mary, I have loved thee through all my wretchedness-love thee still. Who paled ! thy cheek, my sweet one? Who caused that sunken eye? Who broke thy life's peace, my earth's cherub? Who brought hunger-coldill? I—I! But I am punished. My clouded reason is clearing; my mind, so long shut, is now open; and, in this one minute of life, I undergo the torments of years. Like a dull, leaden, senseless animal have I lived; but now I am again. I can see the evil I have worked against thee; my terrible passions have brought a curse upon us both. Pardon-pardon!' "He sank at my feet, and embraced my knees with frantic energy; his head bowed as though he were once more raising his voice to heaven. I dared not disturb him: he clung to me with terrible tenacity. At length, I persuaded him to rise and seek repose in our poor bed; he complied slowly, and in a manner that told me he was hardly sensible of his actions. Alas! he never rose again! The reproaches he heaped upon himself, night and day, harrowed my very heart; rest never visited his eyelids, sleep never lulled his aching nerves, till he slept in the arms of death. "She was lovely as the beam of morning, and as pure. Who could have seen her soft blue eye, her light, fairy-like figure, and not have worshipped her? Who could have heard that soft, low voice, and not have loved her? We worked together, hoped together, and were happy together. But a demon came between us and happiness; he came in the pride of youth and beauty, of wealth and power; and he loved, he said, my angel. We said we were lowly and he was great; but he would not listen. Love, he told us, conquered all things; and he wept when he said so. His tears washed away the beam of happiness that had so long blessed us; our home became desolate, the sun seemed to give no light, the dream of my age was gone: she had had her jewel, chastity, stolen from her, and its lustre shed joy around us no longer. * "Old days returned-the wretched pallet, the rotten walls, the broken roof, the bereaved heart. But I had no husband there, no returning suppliant, no words of love; but our child -the only pledge of youthful love, the child that had been my companion, my soul's flower -was withered. Her reason had fled in the prime of her youth and beauty; and I have no one left but her to love, no one to tend, no one to speak to in the long night when sleep has fled me; none to tell that the bright sun is shining, or that spring is coming-all, all gone! No word of hope ever gladdens my heart-none left but her; and there she lies, twining into fanciful wreaths the few flowers I beg for her daily, for she loves flowers; they seem to cheer her, and her eye follows my movements when I bring them to her, as though she knew that they would not harm her. And she sings sweet songs, soft and melancholy airs that were her favourites in earlier and brighter days; and they have somehow become implanted on my brain, for I can sing no other. I have been asked for a cheerful song: but feelings are too powerful for the tongue-sorrow is too deeply graven upon my heart for joy to come from my lips. But listen! dost thou hear?" The colours were dying from the canvas, but a few outlines of her form remained; the picture imagination had drawn was not deathless; but I heard her still. "Hist!" she said: "hist to the gurgling of sweet waters over their pebbled bedshe sings! Look at her soft blue eyes-the violet petals beneath a dew drop. Hist!--" "The lark is at heaven, and I must away!" "Move not, but listen-listen!" And I heard low, melancholy notes, but ravishing as it is told are the voices of angels "Who wander there 'Mid flowers that never fade or fall;" and as the music grew fainter and fainter, like the strains of a flute driven gently away by the evening breeze, I distinctly heard "When true hearts lie withered, and fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone?" "Twining wreaths of flowers, like Divided from herself and her fair judgment, lies the poor victim of a bad man's lust: deprived of the two choicest gifts of heaven, the two brightest gems that decked her earthly tenement-her reason and her purity! As "the snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun," did he live in the tender beaming eyes of poor Ellen. When the sun sinks at evening, the snake takes it to its covert, and harms no one but those who attempt ill to it; but when that eye was fondest and lightest, when that heart was truest and most confiding, did the man turn and sting, and blight, and wither, the reason that fed the light he had rejoiced in. And the poor mother, twice bruised beneath the iron yoke of sorrow, once to be lifted to life and to hope, but now never to smile again on earth; never to shake off the load that misfortune has thrown upon her, till she stands before the bar of Heaven side by side with her child's destroyer. Sorrow-trouble-why will ye obtrude into our chambers? weave yourselves into our life's fairest doings? And in our gayest hours hold before us the glass, on whose polished surface is reflected the forms of our fellow-creatures writhing with the serpent poverty, that twines its steely folds around every movement of their existence, and checks them from rising from the dust, from the mire of crime, even when their hearts are turned to do good? Well might the poor mother say, "Misfortune never comes alone;" for "That song to-night Will not go from my mind." "When sorrows come, they come not single spies, I shall dream of it, and I care not if I do; for But in battalions." "All fancy this-all fancy!" whispers a voice into my ear; "you draw conclusions, not from observation, but from your own imagination." Not so. The day's accidents reveal much to our minds that the deepest searcher could not light upon; and the most careless observer meets at every corner many a rude shock to his self-satisfied philosophy which would tell him that there is no trouble-no misery. To such as would lay this flattering unction to their souls, I would say-Go into the world, not into its courts, nor its mansions, nor its highways, but into its alleys, its hovels, its by-places, and the veil that self has drawn before the fancy will be quickly removed; you may not truly see the poor deprived girl lying on her bed, "Fantastic garlands Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long-purples," but you may see hollow-eyed poverty hand-in hand with vice; you may find Worth struggling with evils that are on the point of crushing the victim; you may find the poor girl weeping tears of blood over her lost honour, and yet not able to redeem herself; you may find temptation ever busy to lead further from the right path all those who have struggled manfully, yet unsuccessfully, against growing cares. And these, believe me, are the poor; these are the ones that philanthropy should delight to deliver, should search out and find, and, having found, assist. And pity, "Gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, should drop its tear of sympathy on the breaking heart, and lay its hand of healing on the festering wound. Ellen-poor Ellen! Aye, bad man, thou didst cast from thee a jewel more rare than ever decked a monarch's diadem; and, mark me, thou hast planted a seed in thy bosom which will swell and grow into a tree, and every fibre will draw poison from thee and distil it into every twig that will spread through heart, bosom, and brain, and leave thee no quiet, no peace, no hope! Thou wilt be shunned by all, be pointed at by all; thy shadow will be avoided, and thou wilt be-No! one spark of charity may remain in the heart, one ray of all that spirit of forgive ness that the woman thou hast bereaved would hold out to thee-No! we hope not forgotten by thy God! Poor Ellen! Imagination has still a chain upon me; melancholy has its sweets, and who would not indulge it? amid the quaint shapes and strange imageries that hover round the pillow, how many are there that would be less pleasing than that of the sweet maiden, singing— "When true hearts lie withered, and fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone?" |