A strange excitement is upon me,—with all my wooing sleep will not come to my relief. O how painful it is to count the slowly lagging hours, throughout the silent watches of this summer night! Restless am I as a wave of the sea, and, may be, as useless and insignificant. The pulsations of my mind are as fitful as the breeze which breathes upon me through my open window, but like that breeze they hasten to one point, which is the heart of a poor dreamer.
I cannot, with Othello, feel that I have thrown away a pearl. It was the shell of a pearl only, whose heart was a living worm.
Little things! Of these is the world composed, and that man is a fool who looks upon them with contempt. Yes, it is a little thing to say, “I love you with all my heart, and will follow you to the end.” But when believed, if this proves to be the mockery of a hypocritical heart, who can describe the consequences that may result to the believer? Fatal they may be to the soul, as the bite of Tarantula to the body, unless our thoughts are attracted by a strain of melody emanating from the throne of Deity. And to that great Being am I deeply thankful, for having upheld me in my trying hour.
It hath been whispered in my ear, that the being whom I lately cherished as my life-blood, now mentions my name with a scornful smile. And why? not because of my inferior wealth, or family, or education, for with respect to these I am her superior,—but because I loved her as an angel. How little did I think of this, when her head has been pillowed on my bosom, and I have seen and felt the throbbings of her own! Yet, even then she nourished the spirit that would “damn” a queen. She tried to break my heart,—she failed,—but what matter? She must answer for the deed. When she comes to die, if not till then, when she come to “tread the wine-press alone,” then must she repent her folly and ingratitude, and it is my prayer that she may be among the redeemed in heaven. Then will she be purified from the corruptions which cling to her here, and become a worthy subject of heavenly solicitude and love.
Where, O where are all the blissful dreams upon which my heart has so long existed? Vanished, like the shadow of a cloud, and I am a companionless pilgrim through the world. Who can comprehend the misery of a desolate human heart? I thought she loved me with a spotless passion, and yet, while anguish rends my brow to-night, she is sweetly sleeping and dreaming on her couch of down. Surely, surely it must be a sin to love. What have I done, that my heart-strings should be snapt asunder,—that I must kiss the dust and be unhappy?