The Broken Heart CHAPTER 1.
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It is rarely that our sympathies are awakened for the poor who reside near us, and pass our dwellings daily. How indifferent are we to their condition — how regardless of their needs! Unless their sufferings and privations are forced upon our notice — we dream not of their existence. We read of misery in towns and villages far remote, and wonder that it could be allowed to exist; we even venture so far as to pass strong censure upon those who failed to relieve it, and think, "surely they must have known of its presence!" and yet, perhaps, in the low comfortless habitation beside our own dwelling — is one suffering almost to the extent of human endurance, and we know it not. While sympathizing with the far off distress, we forget that need and suffering are all around us.
Thus I mused, after passing from the poor, half furnished dwelling of the widow Morrison. She had lived a few doors away from my own home for years; and although I had often noticed her, sometimes with an armful of wood, sometimes with her pail of water — yet no feeling of interest in her, as one of the great human family, had ever been awakened in my bosom.
It was a cold morning in January, with a deep snow upon the ground, when I noticed, as I passed in the morning to my business, that the widow Morrison's windows were not open as usual. Why I observed this, I knew not, for I had never thought much about her. But, somehow or other, the fact of the windows being closed, haunted me all the while, and when I started to go home for dinner, I felt a nervous anxiety to know whether the windows were still closed. A chilling sensation ran through my nerves as I came in sight of the poor looking tenement, and saw that there was still no sign of life about the house. I did not, however, yet, feel interest enough in the poor widow, to call in to see why she was not stirring as usual.
There might be many reasons why she had not unclosed her windows. She might be away on a visit. And no doubt she is, I said to myself thus endeavoring to quiet the strange concern I felt.
I said nothing about it during dinner; and left as usual for my place of business; not, however, in passing, without casting an eye of concern upon the closed windows of the dwelling of the poor widow. Her image was present to my mind during all the afternoon; and as the day began to draw to a close, I grew so restless, that I could no longer restrain a desire to go at once and satisfy myself of her real condition. Once having made up my mind to do this, I lost no time in repairing to her humble home.
It was just before night-fall when I knocked at her door, but there was no answer from within. The noise was returned with a hollow deserted echo. I shook the latch rapidly, and then listened for a sound, but none came to my ear. Yes! there was a sound; a low, feeble, child-like murmur. But again, all was still. I knocked now louder than before, and shook the rattling door violently, for my mind had become strangely agitated. The weak fastening gave way, and in the next moment I stood, for the first time, within the humble dwelling of the poor widow.
Upon a low bed, with scanty clothing, lay the widow Morrison, cold and stiff in death. With his young cheek upon her pale, cold face, nestled on her arm, and almost within her bosom, was a sweet child, scarcely three years old. He lifted his little head as I entered thus abruptly, looked at me for a moment, and then laying his white hand upon her face, shook her head gently, and said
"Gramma, get up! Oh, gramma, get up! I'm so cold!"
For a moment my feelings overcame me, and my eyes filled with the first drops that had moistened them for months. Lifting, in the next moment, the dear child from his cold resting place, I carried him at once to my own house; and then, with some of my family, returned to perform the last offices for the dead. Our kindness had come too late for the released sufferer. How shocked were our feelings, to find, on examination, that there was in the house neither fuel nor food! Thus, almost at our next door, had one perished of cold and hunger!
From a friend of the widow, who was present at the burial, I gained many interesting particulars of her life. I have thrown them into form, and now present another leaf from the book of human life, though blotted and soiled with many tears.
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