The Northern Star, And Farmers' And Mechanics' Advocate

SORROW.

There is a sorrow of the world, that deserves little or no pity. And there is a sorrow too deep to be soothed, but in the rest of the grave. That is the sorrow of her who sees the husband of her early affections going fast to the drunkard's grave, and to the abodes of blackness and darkness forever! We can see our friends suffer; we may stand by and witness the amputation of a limb—and we may pity: when we see the suffering of the body is but a prelude to the pain that must follow: when we see the being that we have loved, deliberately sacrificing both body and soul, to a demon that can show no pity—to a demon that has slain his thousands and tens of thousands, and delights in carnage and blood: it is this will cause sorrow which mocks all consolation. It is a worm that never dies. To lean on the trembling arm of the tottering inebriate—to sleep on the couch with the starting, troubled, maddened, woebegone, hopeless drunkard—are living, abiding sorrows, that can die only with life itself!

And such sorrows poor woman feels and endures, because she cannot die—because she is constituted to suffer, till the attenuated thread of life has spun its last fibre. and the bleeding heart has throbbed its last. When the grave shall tell its story—when the trump of the archangel shall reanimate the sleeping dead, then—O! then, murdered, slain—the thousands, yes the tens of thousands of immolated wives, should be a swift witness against the cruel assassin who, drop by drop, has drained the last particle of blood from the palpitating heart of her whom he had sworn to love and cherish through life—who has wept and hoped—entreated and prayed—till despair had fastened its talons, and the angel of mercy had fled forever!—Female Adv.