
114 
KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

they happened, and I shall but give them 
in the manner in which they were related. 
Every one must recollect the tragical 
story of EK , the Irish patriot. It was 
too touching to be easily forgotten. During 
the troubles in Ireland, he was tried, con- 
demned, 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 every- 
thiug 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 pos- 
terity, in the hopeless hour of condemna- 
tion—all these entered deeply into every 
generous bosom; and even his enemies 
lamented the stern policy that dictated his 
execution. 
But there was one heart whose anguish 
it would be impossible to describe. In 
happy days and fairer fortunes, he had won 
the affections of a beautiful and interesting 
girl, the daughter of a celebrated Ivish bar- 
rister. 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 
uame, she loved him the more ardently for 
his sufferings. If, then, his fate could 
awaken even the sympathy 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 whom they most loved on earth—who 
have sat at its threshold as one shut out 
in a cold and lonely world, from whence all 
that was most lovely and loving have disap- 
peared.* 
But then the horrors of such a grave—so 
frightful — so dishonored! There was no- 
thing for memory to dwell upon that could 
soothe the pang of separation; none of those 
yender, though melancholy circumstances, 
which endear the scene; nothing to melt 
orr w into those blessed tears, sent like the 

* Our readers may smile at the idea of our 
inserting a tale bearing the title of a “ Broken 
Heart,”—a thing, now-a-days, rather talked about 
than realised. However, when the amiableWash- 
ington Irving wrote this lovely episode, “‘ Fashion”’ 
had not put on her brazen front. _Woman’s heart 
had a soft place in it. It could feel; and was 
not ashamed to own that it felt. We therefore 
speak of ‘things as they were;” and pant for a 
return to the “good old times.”” Hearts are not 
“trumps”? now. We speak of the rule, not the 
exceptions. Besides, it must be borne in mind 
that the heroine of the present tale was not an 
English maiden.—Ebp. K. J. 





dew of heaven to revive the heart in the 
anguish of the parting hour. 
To render her situation more desolate, 
she had incurred her father’s displeasure 
by her unfortunate attachment, and was 
an exile from her paternal roof. But could 
the sympathy and kindly 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 cherished 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 win 
her from the tragical story of her love. But 
all in vain. There are some strokes of 
calamity which scathe and tear the soul— 
which penetrate 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 depth of solitude. 
Walking about in a sad reverie, apparently 
unconscious of the world around her, she 
carried within her an inward woe that mocked 
all the blandishments of friendship, and 
“heeded not the charmer, charmed he never 
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, 
lovely 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 the 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 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, in a country remarkable for 
enthusiasm, interest. It completely won 
the heart of a brave officer, who paid his 
addresses to her, and thought that she, so 
true to the dead, could not but prove affec- 
tionate to the living. She declined his at- 
tention, for her thoughts were irrevocably 
engrossed with the memory of her former 
lover. He however persisted in his suit. 
He solicited not her tenderness, but her 
