THE BROKEN-HEARTED. Have I not Hear me, my mother earth! Behold it Heaven! Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven? Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven; BYRON. To watch the spark of life as it wears away is a melancholy task, peculiarly so when the spirit which is quivering and trembling on the verge of the other world is the last of its line. About six months ago chance or rather Providence threw me in the company of the individual whose life is briefly given in the following manuscript. I often would meet him in his lonely rambles of an afternoon; and from an occasional nod, I ventured to speak to, and sometimes walk along with him. It is true he never broached the subject of his melancholy, yet it required not much penetration to discover that the canker worm of care was preying upon his heart. One evening I missed him from his usual walks, another and another came and I saw him not, on the fourth night as I sat by my fire a servant tapped at the door, and asked if Mr. lived there; I replied in the affirmative. He informed me that a sick gentleman at the EH-, wished to see me; I lost no time in hastening thither, and found on arriving at the room that it was the gentleman I had formed the slight acquaintance with in my walks, and a second glance told me he was dying. He observed as I approached his bed-side, "you seem to have taken an interest in my fate sir, and in order to inform you of my history, I have sketched it on paper for your perusal, when I am gone; when I commenced it I did not think I should die so soon, you will find it in yonder table drawer, take it and profit by it. In a few minutes he was no more—I now give the manuscript to the public: "There are perhaps but few children of sorrow in our world but can trace all their woes back to the day of their commencement. I am one of those. When I was about 20 years of age, my father gave me my choice of professions; medicine or law, I chose the former, and commenced a course of preparatory studies with a medical gentleman in the village in which my family resided. With this gentleman was another youth about two years my senior, who was likewise preparing himself for the medical lectures in Philadelphia. Who he was, none knew, save that he entered the village about a year before my acquaintance commenced with him, as a store clerk; but was soon discharged by his employers, who it was hinted had detected him in purloining their goods to give to lewd women; a few of which characters unfortunately lived within a few miles of our community; at any rate he had left his employers, but being considered a smart young man, my father and several other gentlemen told him if he would study medicine and be diligent they would pay his expenses during his attendance in Philadelphia. It was certainly wrong in my parent to put me in the office where Eugene Harris was, yet I presume he thought the kind instructions and pious admonitions of my sainted mother would not, could not be forgotten by me. I believe it is a fact universally admitted that we cannot associate with any persons without becoming more or less assi THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 107 milated to them, or they to us. It was my misfortune to become fascinated with the manners of this youth, and it was his good fortune to—but let me tell my story without suffering those feelings which I had hoped were dead, from kindling again in my bosom. He was a young man of a good mind and would have been pronounced handsome, but for the 'lurking devil' in his eye, which in spite of himself would sometimes flash like lightning on a 'murderer's grave,' with demoniac glare. He was about the middling stature, brown hair, and had a voice deep and to a stranger startling. -; "I had not long been pursuing my studies when chance threw me in the company of the too lovely Louisa daughter of a Scotch gentleman who having made an ample fortune by merchandizing had retired to our village, to pass the remainder of his life in quiet, from the turmoils of business. I became enamoured, and continued my visits to her father's, till my own father who saw as every one else did, my attachment to Louisa, told me one day that he was sorry to see me every day disqualifying myself more and more for the profession I had chosen. 'The fact is Edwin,' said he, 'you will have to quit here, if you wish to prosecute and be successful in your studies.' I told the old gentleman I was aware I could not do justice to my studies, for the beautiful form of Louisa was continually haunting my imagination, and sleeping or waking was uppermost in my mind. "Then my son you had better, as you have made some progress in your studies, go to Philadelphia directly; you can attend the lectures and with assiduity may get your diploma during next year; then if you are constant in your attachment to Louisa, I shall have no objection to your union.' You may be surprised at my dwelling so particularly upon those little trivial subjects, but while I write, the scenes and incidents of early life come vividly before the eye of the mind; and it gives a kind of mournful pleasure a melancholy calm to my soul, to recollect those little incidents which have so long been forgot. "I hastened to the house of Mr.- -, and saw Louisa. I told her of my father's determination, but that I would write to her often and if she was only faithful to me I would pledge myself to make her mine on my return to With composure my lovely Louisa heard the resolution, her susceptible mind instantly discovered the cause of my father's determination, and with becoming magnanimity she replied, ‘Edwin I admire the course your father would have you purŝue, I am aware that female influence is great, and however little I might have, I know your becoming too fond of my society would make you neglect your studies; be not afraid that I will forget you, that I can forget you,' and a tear started to her eye. It would be useless to tell of the vows and protestations; of the little keepsakes that passed between us; and of the tears that were mutually shed. In the language of the plaintive Scotch ballad "We took but ane kiss, and we tore ourselves away." "Shall I describe this angelic girl? What she was, I mean, for the earth worm has long-long since banqueted upon her beautiful form. She was at that period about nineteen; a form of the most seraphic mould; her hair was a rich chesnut, and her face like that heavenly spirit which flits before the eye of the painter, when he commands his pencil to sketch the features of more than mortal loveliness: in short, for my heart-strings are almost torn asunder as the memory of the past rolls on, she 'was an angel compass'd in a mortal's frame.' "I called on Harris and proposed that he should accompany me. I knew, from some little experience of his character, |