books about healing a broken heart

the broken heart. i never heardof any true affection, but 't was nipt with care, that, like the caterpillar, eatsthe leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose.middleton. it is a common practice with those who haveoutlived the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the gay heartlessnessof dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passionas mere fictions of novelists and poets. my observations on human nature have inducedme to think otherwise. they have convinced me that, however the surface of the charactermay be chilled and frozen by the cares of

the world, or cultivated into mere smilesby the arts of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldestbosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes desolating intheir effects. indeed, i am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extentof his doctrines. shall i confess it?—i believe in broken hearts, and the possibilityof dying of disappointed love! i do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my ownsex; but i firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. man is the creature of interest and ambition.his nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. love is but the embellishmentof his early life, or a song piped in the

intervals of the acts. he seeks for fame,for fortune for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. but a woman'swhole life is a history of the affections. the heart is her world; it is there her ambitionstrives for empire—it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. she sends forthher sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; andif shipwrecked, her case is hopeless—for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. to a man, the disappointment of love may occasionsome bitter pangs; it wounds some feelings of tenderness—it blasts some prospects offelicity; but he is an active being—he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of variedoccupation, or may plunge into the tide of

pleasure; or, if the scene of disappointmentbe too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking, as itwere, the wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be atrest." but woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded,and meditative life. she is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings; and if theyare turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? her lot is to bewooed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has beencaptured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. how many bright eyes grow dim—how many softcheeks grow pale—how many lovely forms fade

away into the tomb, and none can tell thecause that blighted their loveliness! as the dove will clasp its wings to its side, andcover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals—so is it the nature of woman,to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. the love of a delicate female isalways shy and silent. even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but whenotherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and broodamong the ruins of her peace. with her, the desire of her heart has failed—the greatcharm of existence is at an end. she neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden thespirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents throughthe veins. her rest is broken—the sweet

refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholydreams—"dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightestexternal injury. look for her, after a little while, and you find friendship weeping overher untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but lately glowed with all the radianceof health and beauty, should so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." youwill be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her low;—but noone knows of the mental malady which previously sapped her strength, and made her so easya prey to the spoiler. she is like some tender tree, the pride andbeauty of the grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preyingat its heart. we find it suddenly withering,

when it should be most fresh and luxuriant.we see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, wasted andperished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautifulruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten itwith decay. i have seen many instances of women runningto waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if theyhad been exhaled to heaven; and have repeatedly fancied that i could trace their deaths throughthe various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until i reachedthe first symptom of disappointed love. but an instance of the kind was lately told tome; the circumstances are well known in the

country where they happened, and i shall butgive them in the manner in which they were related. every one must recollect the tragical storyof young e——, the irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. duringthe troubles in ireland, he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. hisfate made a deep impression on public sympathy. he was so young—so intelligent—so generous—sobrave—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 chargeof treason against his country—the eloquent vindication of his name—and his patheticappeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour

of condemnation,—all these entered deeplyinto every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated hisexecution. but there was one heart whose anguish it wouldbe impossible to describe. in happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affectionsof a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated irish barrister. sheloved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. when everyworldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace anddanger 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 theagony of her, whose whole soul was occupied

by his image? let those tell who have hadthe portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth—whohave sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all thatwas most lovely and loving had departed. but then the horrors of such a grave!—sofrightful, so dishonored! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe thepang of separation—none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances which endearthe parting scene—nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dewsof 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 anexile from the parental roof. but could the sympathy and kind offices of friends havereached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no wantof consolation, for the irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. the mostdelicate 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 dissipateher 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—which penetrate to thevital seat of happiness—and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. she neverobjected to frequent the haunts of pleasure,

but was as much alone there as in the depthsof solitude; walking about in a sad revery, apparently unconscious of the world aroundher. 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 had seenher at a masquerade. there can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking andpainful than to meet it in such a scene. to find it wandering like a spectre, lonely andjoyless, 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 heartinto momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. after

strolling through the splendid rooms and giddycrowd 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 thegarish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintiveair. she had an exquisite, voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, itbreathed forth such a soul of wretchedness—that she drew a crowd, mute and silent, aroundher and melted every one into tears. the story of one so true and tender couldnot but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. it completely wonthe heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one sotrue 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 assistedby 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 gainingher hand, though with the solemn assurance, that her heart was unalterably another's. he took her with him to sicily, hoping thata change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. she was an amiable and exemplarywife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouringmelancholy that had entered into her very

soul. she wasted away in a slow, but hopelessdecline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. it was on her that moore, the distinguishedirish poet, composed the following lines: she is far from the land where her young herosleeps, 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 nativeplains, 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 countryhe died, they were all that to life had entwined him—nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,nor long will his love stay behind him! oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,when they promise a glorious morrow; they'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smilefrom the west, from her own loved island of sorrow!