Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1928-09-06

twashinston. Irving. l7s3-lsSe, was an
Sketches. It is from his, famous Sketch
Book" that the present selection is takenD
Man is a creature of interest and am
bition. His nature leads him forth into
the struggle and hustle of the world.
Love is but an establishment of his
early life. or song piped In the inter-
walls of the acts. He seeks for fame,
for fortune, for space In the worlds
thoughts and dominion over his fellow
men.
But a womans whole life is history
of affections. The heart Is her world;
1t Is there her ambition strives for en-
pire-it is there her avarice seeks for
hidden treasures. She sends forth her
sympathies on adventure; she embarks
her whole soul in the traffic OF affec-
ton: and If shipwrecked, her case is
hopeleSS-for 1t Is bankruptcy OF the
heart.
To man, the disappointment OF love
NAV occasion some bitter pangs; it
wounds some feelings of tenderness-it
blasts some prospects of happiness: but
he is an active being-he may diSSlpate
his thoughts In whirl of varied occu-
pations or may plunge into the tide OF
pleasure; or, If the scene of disappolnt-
ment be too full of painful associations,
he can shift his abode at will, and TAX
ing, as 1t we're, the wings of the morn
ing can Fly to the uttermost parts OF
the earth, and be at rest"
But woman is comparatively hxed, a
secluded and meditative life Is hers. she
is more the companion OF her own
thoughts and feelings and II they are
turned to ministers OF sorrow. Where
shall she look for consolation? Her lot
L. ! = NJ 0nd If nnh1nnV
in her love, her heart Is like some fort
ress that has been captured. and sacked,
and abandoned and left desolate.
How many bright eyes grow dim-how
many soft cheeks grow pale-hoW many
lovely forms fade away into the tomb,
and none can tell the cause that blight
ed their lovliness? 1t Is the nature OF
woman to hide from the world the pangs
of wounded affection. Look for her
after a while, and you find friendship
weeping over her untimely grave. You
will be told of some Wintry chill, some
casual indisposition that laid her low
but no one knows of the mental malady
which previously sapped her strength
and made her so easy prey to the
spoiler.
She is like to some tender tree, the
pride and beauty of the grove; grace
full in It's form, bright In its foliage, but
with the worm preying at its heart. We
find it suddenly whitening, when 1t
should be fresh and luxuriant. We see
It drooping its branches to the earth,
and shedding leaf by leaf. until, wasted
and persisted away, 1t falls even in the
stiffness of the forest, and as we muse
over the beautiful ruin, We strive In
vain to recollect the blast or the thun-
derbolt that could have smitten 1t with
decay.
I have seen many instances Of women
running to waste and Self-neglect, ana
disappearing gradually from the earth,
almost as though they had been exhaled
to heaven; and repeatedly fancied that
I could trace their deaths through the
various declensions of consumption, cold,
debility. languor, melancholy. until l
reached the first symptom OF disap-
pointed love.
Everyone must recollect the tragic
story of young Edward, the Irish pa
triot; 1t was too touching to be soon for
gotten. During the troubles In ireland,
he was tried, condemned, and executed,
on a charge of treason. His fate made
a deep impression on public sympathy.
He was so young-so intelligent--so gen.
erous-so brave-so everything that we
are apt to like in young man.
His conduct under trial, too, was lofty
and intrepid. The noble indignation
with which he repealed the charge OF
treason against his Countrywide elo-
uuent vindication of his name-and his
pathetic appeal to posterity, In the hope
less hour of condemnation-all these en-
tered deeply into every generous
bosom. and even his enemies lamented
his execution.
But thre was one heart whose an