Chapter VII (4)

It is, however, in the sublime “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from the Recollections of Childhood,” that we best perceive the power of Wordsworth’s imagination in all the various modes of its expression—descriptive, analytic, meditative, interpretative, abstract and ecstatic; and in this ode each of these modes helps the other; the grand choral harmonies of the rapturous upward movement seeming to be born out of the intense contemplation, that hovers dizzily over the outmost bounds of human conception, to scrutinize, in the dim dawn of consciousness,

—those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing.

It is from these that we have ecstasy almost as a logical conclusion; for

_Hence_ in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,
_Our souls have sight of that immortal sea_
_Which brought us hither,_
_Can in a moment travel thither,_
_And see the children sport upon the shore,_
_And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore._

We have no space to particularize the felicity of Wordsworth’s muse in dealing with the affections, or the depth and power of his pathos. Before leaving the subject of his genius, however, we cannot withhold a reference to his “Ode on the Power of Sound,” which appears to be little known even to readers of the poet, though in the thronging abundance of its ideas and images, in the exquisite variety of its music, and in the soul of imagination which animates it throughout, it yields the palm to no ode in the language.

Wordsworth is most assuredly not a popular poet in the sense in which Moore and Byron are popular; and he probably never will be so among those readers who do not distinguish between being passionate and being impassioned, and who prefer the strength of convulsion to the strength of repose; readers who will attend only to what stirs and startles the sensibility, who read poetry not for its nourishing but its inflaming qualities, and who look upon poetic fire as properly consuming the mind it animates. Wordsworth is not for them, except they go to him as a spiritual physician, in search of “balm for hurt minds.” Placed in a period of time when great passions in the heart generated monstrous paradoxes in the brain, he clung to those simple but essential elements of human nature on which true power and true elevation must rest; and, while all around him sounded the whine of sentimentality and the hiss of Satanic pride, his mission, like that of his own beautiful blue streamlet, the Duddon, was “to heal and cleanse, not madden and pollute.” His rich and radiant imagination cast its consecrating and protecting light on all those dear immunities of humanity, which others were seeking to discard for the delusions of haughty error, or the fancies of ripe sensations. Accordingly, though many other poets of the time have a fiercer or fonder charm for young and unrestrained minds, he alone grows upon and grows into the intellect, and “hangs upon the beatings of the heart,” as the soul advances in age and reflection; for there is a rich substance of spiritual thought in his poetry to meet the wants of actual life—consolations for sorrow, help for infirmity, sympathy for bereavement, a holy gleam of awful splendor to irradiate the dark fear of death; a poetry, indeed, which purifies as well as pleases, and penetrates into the vitalities of our being as wisdom no less than loveliness:

“Filling the soul with sentiments august—
The beautiful, the brave, the holy and the just.”

P.

* * * * *

BRIDGET KEREVAN.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

I will tell you, scholar, I have heard a grave divine say that
God has two dwellings, one in heaven, and the other in a meek
and thankful heart; which Almighty God grant to me and to my
honest scholar. Isaak Walton.

“How did you find them all at home, Bridget?”

“Hearty, ma’am, thank ye;” and the girl moved busily about the room.

She was my chambermaid, and although she had only lived with me a little while, I felt very much attached to her, for she was so kind, industrious and honest. Soon after she came to us I was seized with a painful illness, and during it, she nursed me with the tenderness of a sister; often, when the spasms of acute pain would shake my feeble body, I had seen large tears standing in her full, round eye.

As she assisted me in undressing, I observed that she was not in her usual spirits, and when she handed me my dressing-gown, I saw that her hands trembled. But she patiently went through every little duty, although I could well see that she was suffering from some hidden trouble. When I sat down to my reading, she left me to prepare for me some tea—for, dear reader, I am a true old maid, and love my cup of tea, as well as I love my existence almost.

Presently she re-entered, and rolling a little teapoy beside my chair, she placed on it the waiter, and poured out my tea. Just then I heard the heavy breathing of my dear Aunt Mary, who was asleep in the adjoining room.

“Close the door of Aunt Mary’s room, my good Bridget,” I said; “and while I drink my tea and eat this nice piece of toast you have made me, come and tell me something about Ireland.”

I knew this would please her; for often had she talked to me at night, when I would be undressing, about the glens and vales of beautiful, song-famed Coleraine; and the fairies, with their round rings in the grass. She had never seen a fairy her own self, but “Elsie the child” her sister had, and the “_little body_,” as she called the fairy, had pinched the poor “_wean_ Elsie.”

Then again on Sunday, or holyday nights, she would tell me how, when a child, she had wished to be a nun, and that she would go out in the dark, pitch night, and kneel on the ground in the middle of their garden, and ask the good Virgin and the Saints to pray for her—for Bridget has always been a religious girl.

Then she had actually heard the Benshee cry. It came wailing around the house when her father died; and she had heard it a week before his death, when he was hale and hearty. She had heard it at night-fall one evening when she was crossing the glen below their cottage, as she was coming from Coleraine, where she had been spending the day with her grandmother. It commenced “low and mournful like” in the bushes beside her, and then ranged around the hills, swelling out louder and louder, until it ceased behind the cottage. As she would dwell on this, my fancy would picture to me the enthusiastic, imaginative Irish girl, standing with lips apart, listening to this mournful wailing night-wind, which her after troubles shaped into the sad poetical Benshee; and if I had had the skill of an artist, I would have made a lovely sketch, I am sure; for so plainly did her descriptions bring before me her figure and the surrounding landscape, lightened with the warm hue of the lingering twilight so peculiar to Ireland.

Bridget sat down on the rug beside me, and when we went to bed that night, good reader, it was later than unsuspecting Aunt Mary imagined; but I had heard all Bridget’s troubles, had soothed and comforted her, had read her lover’s last letter to her—for she had a lover—what girl has not?—and sent her to bed with a heart considerably lighter than when, with aching head but patient fingers, she had prepared my nice night meal.

Bridget’s father, Dermot Kerevan, was a Scotchman by birth, but of Irish parentage. His father had settled in Glasgow, and there did Dermot spend his early years, and obtain thriftiness and steadiness, qualities not often found in an Irishman. Dermot was early apprenticed to a gardener, and when he was out of his term of service, his master recommended him to an Irish gentleman, who wanted a gardener for his place, “The Forest,” at Coleraine. There Dermot came, and it was not long before he brought home to his pretty gardener’s-cottage, the beauty of Coleraine, Grace Mullen, who he had persuaded to be his “_bonnie wife_,” as he called her. They must have been very happy—for sweeter domestic pictures I have never heard described, either in tale or poem, than my good Bridget would sketch in her little stories of their home, during her father’s life. But this blessed happiness could not last for ever. One fine spring day poor Dermot was brought home from the garden, up at “the great house,” on a litter, nearly dead. He had fallen from a high tree while lopping off a branch. He lingered only a few hours, leaving the lonely widow with her “four childer,” to battle with life alone.

Bridget was the eldest, and she was only twelve. Then there was Grace, and Elsie, and little Jinny, the baby, all to be cared for. Bridget was sent to her uncle’s at Glasgow town, and the grandmother of Grace Kerevan gave the shelter of her poor roof to the rest of them. Widow Kerevan opened a little shop in her grandmother’s front room, and did “bits of work for the people all around Coleraine,” as Bridget expressed it.

A year after the kind, loving father’s death, home came Bridget from Glasgow town. Her uncle, the rich distiller, was enraged at her, for she had told his wife she had rather starve in Ireland than go to the meeting-house all day Sunday, and sit straight up at her sewing and knitting the rest of the week. Poor girl! the strict, rigid habits of her uncle’s thrifty Scotch wife had driven her almost frantic. She, who had roamed at will, over hill and glen, and had never been bound down to any duty. The domestic affairs of her own home had always been soon dispensed with, and she had spent most of her time in rambling through the forest, or by the stream-side, or playing with Gracey, Elsie, and the baby, chasing their shadows on the grassy hill-side; then how could she bear the strait-laced notions and rules of her notable Scotch aunt? Not at all, and she told her so; and they sent her home to the starvation her aunt had often taunted her with, holding it in perspective, when she would be rebellious.

The mother, grandmother, and children crowded around her. Grace Kerevan held her child, from whom she had been so long parted, close to her bosom, and sobbed with joy.

“And so,” said the old grandmother, “the ‘Scotch _quean_,’ as poor Dermot used to say, told ye we starved here? Never mind, darlint, ye shall always have a p’raty, even if we all do without.”

Poor Bridget worked early and late, for the farmers’ wives, but she only made a “small thrifle,” as she said, and sometimes they were so poor that they had scarcely a potato apiece in the house.

“And did you ever wish yourself back in Glasgow town, Bridget?” I inquired.

“Niver, ma’am,” was the girl’s energetic answer; and I do not believe she ever did, for the genial light of home-love shone in her poor, Irish home, for which her little affectionate heart had pined, under the wealthier but cold roof of her uncle.

“Thin I came to Ameriky.”

“But, Bridget, how came you to think of America?”

“Och, the girls all around talked about Ameriky, and my aunt’s cousin’s husband’s sister writ home a letter about her making such a power of money. Well, I talked to mother about it, but she cried, and so did grandmother, and they asked me where I’d get the four pound to pay my passage with. That kept me quiet a bit, for I’d niver seen so big a heap of money. But one day, when I was shaking up grandmother’s bed, I felt a great big lump in it, that was sewed up in the straw, and I dragged it out, and it was an old stocking with money tied in it. I ran screamin’ with joy to mother. But och, how she cried and grandmother scolded. Then I cried, too, and grandmother came and hugged me, and told me to give over cryin’, that there was the money if I wanted it. She said she’d hid it away in the bed, years agone, to keep off the dark day. Then I cried, ‘Grandmother, let me go ’till Ameriky, and I will send ye so much gold that’ll keep the dark day away forever.’

“Then mother said, ‘Let the girl go, for sure she’s had light given her, and she knows better than us.’”

“Did you not feel a little sorry, Bridget, when they gave up at last?” I asked.

“No, ma’am, not a bit,” she continued; “and I hurried around and got ready. The girl that had writ the letters home about Ameriky, sent out a ticket to her sister to come on the vessel that was just going; but she—Rosy McLanahan it was—was very sick, and couldn’t go; and so mother bought her ticket for me. But, och, when mother bid me good bye, and kissed me, and left me on the vessel, then I cried. I didn’t cry a bit when I bid grandmother and the childer good bye at the house, but it was when I saw mother going down the side of the vessel, and get into the tumbling little boat, that I cried. I felt so lonely like, just as I did when father was buried; and I watched the little boat, and her red cloak, until she got ashore. Then there she stood, and shook her handkerchief until it growed too dark to see her. Och, Miss Enna, but then I cried—all to myself though—for I was ashamed the people should see me, and I went off to my little bed and cried all night; for I thought I was furder away from them than father was, for he was in heaven, and I was out on wide wather. Then I thought of what father used to tell me about God bein’ with us always, and I tried to stop my cryin’ by prayin’.”

“How old were you then, Bridget?”

“Not quite fifteen, ma’am.”

“Were you not glad when you saw America, my poor child?”

“Indade and indade I was, for I’d been so sick all the way, and when the vessel came up the river to Philadelphia, I cried with joy. But when the vessel anchored, and people came from shore, and I heerd them a greetin’ one another, my heart fell like a great lump of lead, for I’d nobody in this wild, new country to greet me. Then I cried again, but it was with the heart-ache. I sat there all alone, when one of the women, who had been very kind to me on the passage, came up to me, and she brought with her a man, who, she said, used to know my mother when she was a slip of a girl in Coleraine, and if I would go home with him, he would try to find me a place. I bundled up my clothes, which were only a few pieces, and went with him. This was on a Saturday night like, Miss Enna, and on Monday they took me to a place.”

“Was it a nice place, Bridget?”

“Yes, ma’am; but ’twas a plain, hard-working family; they kept only me, and they had a lot of childer and a whole parcel of apprentice boys; but Mrs. Hill—that was her name—was kind to me, and worked with me when she could, and took good care of my money, which she put all away, and I didn’t spend a bit. She giv’ me some of her old dresses and an old hood, so I saved up all my money for four months. Then I writ my first letter to mother, and sent her the sixteen dollars.”

“Oh, Bridget!” I exclaimed, “why did you not write before?”

The girl laughed quietly, and replied,

“I wanted to send a big bit of money when I writ home; and I know’d the neighbors would stare, and grandmother would open her eyes, and mother would be so proud of her Bridget sendin’ home three pound and over. Then came a letter from them at home, and it made me cry so. They were all well, and had got my money; but mother tried to scold a bit bekase I hadn’t writ before, but she was so plased to hear I was doin’ well, that she didn’t scold much. Then I worked on, but I felt lonely like, and kept thinkin’ how nice ’twould be to have Gracey with me. So I saved up twenty dollars, and sent it to Ireland; and soon Gracey came to me. Mother couldn’t come, I know’d, for grandmother was so old as to stay in bed all the time. I’d been a year in Ameriky when Gracey came over; then after awhile I sent for Elsie, for the times were still harder in Ireland, and mother had bad work to get on with her poor old sick granny to nurse. Elsie seemed so little when she came, that I didn’t know what to do with her; but Mrs. Hill, the kind soul, said she might come and live with me; that she could play with the childer, and rock the cradle, and go errands, and she would give her her clothes the first year; then, if she was smart, she would give her a half dollar a week—for Mr. Hill was richer now. I took great pleasure in Elsie, she was good and minded me; but Gracey was headstrong like, and would have her own way. She gave me a dale of trouble, and many’s the night I’ve laid awake and thought about her. She liked to taze me, and make me believe she was worse than she was.

“At last Mr. Hill and his wife made up their minds to buy a large farm clear up in the country, a great many miles off from Philadelphia, and Elsie and me went with them. This did Gracey good, and she was a better girl ever afterward, for when she was left alone in Philadelphia, she saw how cross she’d been to me, and this made her sorry; and she went to church rigilar, and attended to her duties, and used to go and talk to my good old priest, Father Shane, for he writ about it to me, unbeknownst to her—och, but I was glad thin.

“After I’d been in the country—on the farm, I mane—a letter came from mother, telling us of poor grandmother’s death, and the letter had all tears over it, which made Elsie and me cry, for we know’d they were poor mother’s tears. In this same letter she said she wished we could send her a ticket to come to Ameriky with; that if she could only see her Bridget once more before she died, she would be happy. This was spring-time, so I takes up Elsie’s money and mine, and goes off to Philadelphia to buy a ticket for mother and show Gracey mother’s letter. Gracey had no money to give me, for she was always extravagant; and no wonder, for she was pretty, like mother, and liked a bit of finery better than plain folks like myself. She cried about it, but I comforted her, and told her niver mind, I’d enough; but I couldn’t buy myself a dress—that I didn’t let her know though for fear she’d fret.

“So I bought the ticket, and got Father Shane to write a letter for me. I was going to stay in Philadelphia a week—so Mrs. Hill said I might; but the day after I bought the ticket, a wagon came all the way from the farm to tell me Elsie was dying—that she had sickened the day I left, and had the measles. Then again, Miss Enna, I was in trouble, for Elsie was so good, and she looked like father. Och, I cried all the way out to Mrs. Hill’s. Sure enough, when I got there my poor baby was near gone. I nursed her night and day, poor child, but ’twas no use, God took my _wean_ away from me.

“The night she died she opened her eyes and know’d me for the first time. I thought she was getting well, though the doctor said she couldn’t.

“‘Bridget,’ siz she, ‘we’d a nice play down in the glen, hadn’t we!’

“I couldn’t answer, my heart was so full, for I saw she thought she was home in Coleraine.

“‘Bridget!’ she called, and held out her little hands to me. I took her in my arms, cryin’ all the time.

“‘Let’s go into the cottage,’ siz she, ‘for father and grandmother have been callin’ us a good many times. It’s dark out here, Bridget, and cold—hold me, Bridget, dear, for I can’t see.’

“Then she called ‘mother!’ and tryin’ to put her little arms around my neek, said she wanted to go to sleep, and told me to sing to her. I hugged her close up to me, and after a few words about the long grass under the hill by the cottage, where she and Jinny used to roll over playin’, she drew a long breath, and as I kissed her, she died. Och, but that was the darkest night I iver spent, Miss Enna. I was all alone, for Mrs. Hill had gone to sleep, tellin’ me I must call her if Elsie was worse. There I sat all night holdin’ my dead darlint close to my bosom, too heart-struck to cry. But when in the morning Mrs. Hill tried to take her from me, they say I screamed and held on to her like a mad person.

“I niver saw Elsie afterward, Miss Enna,” said the poor girl, with tears streaming down her cheeks, “for when they buried her in the cold earth, I was raving sick, and they said I would die too. Part of the time I know’d them, and part of the time I was crazy, but when I’d my sinses, I prayed God would just keep me alive to see my mother. He heard my prayer,” she continued, crossing herself devoutly, “and before mother came I was well again, though my heart was full of sorrow for Elsie.

“When I sent for mother, I told her not to come till fall, for I thought by that time I’d lay by a trifle of money to take a room in Philadelphia and buy some furniture. All summer I worked hard, and Mrs. Hill, the good soul, give me as much money in the fall as if Elsie had been workin’ too. She know’d what I wanted with it, and she give me some old chairs, and a bed, too. I was sorry to leave her, for her and her husband was kind to us always; but I know’d mother would feel lonely like in town without me. So I packed up all my things, and came in Mr. Hill’s market-wagon to town.

“Father Shane had writ to me that the vessel was expected in a week or so—and I came to town just in time to rent a nice room for mother. I’d enough of money to pay a month’s rint ahead, and to buy some wood. Then I bought a carpet and a nice bedstead, and a table, and a good, warm stove—oh, yes, and a _cushioned form_, or sofy, as the people call it here, that looked like the one we had at home in Coleraine. Gracey give me a little trifle, which was a grate dale for her, seein’ it had been summer-time, and she had to have a new bonnet, bein’ in town.

“The night before mother came, Gracey ran round from her place to see mother’s room, and how proud I felt, as we stood in the middle of it, and looked around at all the things—we felt so rich.

“‘Now, if we only had a bureau,’ said Gracey, ‘to put under that little glass of mine.’

“Gracey had always finer notions than me. I’d niver thought a bit of a bureau, for I know’d mother had a chist which would hold Jinny’s clothes and hers—all they had, poor things. Father Shane came to see me that night, too, and brought a big, black, wood cross to hang over the mantlepiece, and a string of beads for Jinny. Och, but we felt very happy, only every little bit, poor Elsie would come to my mind, and I’d think of how merry she’d been if she’d been livin’; and grate tears would roll down in spite of me. Father Shane spoke very pretty about her, and made me feel better, and after he and Gracey went away, I sat down by the stove, and there I sat all night, for I didn’t want to rumple the bed I’d made up for mother, for the sheets looked so white and smooth.

“The next afternoon the vessel came up the river, but it was ten o’clock at night before mother got off. There I stood on the wharf, talkin’ to her, that was on the ould vessel, all the evenin’. When she first see’d me, she cried,

“‘Och, and it’s my Bridget, God bless her!’

“She was so glad, she’d have tumbled overboard, but for one of the sailors who caught her. We both cried and laughed, and some laughed at us; but the good sailor who had caught ahold of her when she was fallin’, told her to cheer up, that she’d soon be on shore with her Bridget. He helped her down the side of the vessel, and when she hugged me and we both cried, I saw him wipe his eyes. He shook hands with us both, and asked where we lived, and said he’d come to see us.

“But, och, didn’t mother stare when she see’d her nice room. Then she throw’d her apron over her head and cried like a baby. Jinny had grow’d so tall I didn’t know her. I was glad she was tall, for I’d hated to see her, for fear she’d make me cry about Elsie, bein’ little like her; but she was near as tall as Gracey, and right pretty.

“Mother examined all the room, and kissed me, and hugged me, and then, when Gracey came, she looked very proud—for Gracey was so fine lookin’. Gracey staid all night, and we made her and Jinny a bed on the floor with the cushions of the _form_, for mother said she’d sleep with her Bridget. We talked nearly all night, and we all cried about Elsie, and I told ’em a great many pretty stories about her.

“‘Yes, mother,’ said Gracey, ‘Elsie, the darlin’, was always a blessin’ to Bridget, but I was a trouble.’

“I made her hush, and told her she wasn’t as bad as she pretended to be, and then after a bit we all went to sleep. But after I’d been asleep awhile I wakened, and there was mother lanin’ over me cryin’ and kissin’ me; I didn’t ope my eyes, but laid so still; for oh, Miss Enna, it was so nice to have my own mother beside me, and then I was afraid I was dramin’.”

“Well, Bridget,” I said, as the girl wiped her eyes, “how did you support your little family?”

“Very azy, ma’am,” she replied, “for we all took care of ourselves. Mrs. Hill came in and asked Jinny to go and live with her. Then I got a nice place at poor Mrs. Kenyon’s mother’s. You know’d Mrs. Kenyon, Miss Enna, ’twas she who died?”

Indeed I did know her, for Mary Kenyon had been one of my dearest friends, and only a few short months before the grave had closed over her—the beautiful and the good.

“Well,” continued Bridget, “after a bit I got mother two nice first-floor rooms, at the corner of the street where she lived; and in the front one she opened a little store, which kept her nicely.”

But now came the romance—the love-story of good, innocent Bridget’s life. Her lover was the good, kind-hearted sailor who had been so interested in them when widow Kerevan landed. He came to see them as he had promised, and though Bridget and the widow thought that Gracey’s pretty curls and bright eyes brought him so often “_o’ evenin’s_,” they soon found out it was the good Bridget he was after.

“It’s three years now gone, since we were ingaged,” said Bridget, “and nearly that since I have seen or heerd tell of him,” and she sighed heavily.

“Where did he go to, Bridget?”

“Why, ma’am, he went in a states government vessel to the Ingees, and he said he’d write to me; but I’ve niver had a line from him since he sailed. He writ a letter to me at Norfolk town just before he went off, and told me to love him true ’til he came back, then we’d be man and wife. Mother long since wanted me to take another beau, for she sez I’m gettin’ old, and bein’ plain like, nobody will have me, then I’ll be an old maid that nobody likes or cares for; but I’d sooner be an old maid, than brake my vow to Patrick; and even Father Shane has scolded mother and Gracey about it, for they both taze me—and he sez I’m right.”

“How do you mean break your vow, Bridget?”

“Why you see, Miss Enna, both Patrick and I loved old Ireland so much that we rigilarly ingaged ourselves, like the people used to in the old country.”

“How was that, my child?”

“Patrick takes a Prayer-book the night before he went away, and stood in the middle of mother’s room, and swore on it by the holy cross, that he niver would marry any woman but me, Bridget Kerevan; och, but his oath was so solemn and beautiful, it made me tremble all over. Then he puts the Prayer-book in my lap, and we took hold of each other’s hands over it, and I made the same vow, and then we both kissed the book. Mother and Gracey were by and heerd it all. How can I, then, Miss Enna, even if I wanted to, take another beau? And I’m sure if any thing happens to him I shall niver want another beau, for he was my first real one, and he seemed to come right in Elsie’s place like in my heart.”

As she sighed heavily, I comforted her, by telling her she was perfectly right in keeping good faith to the absent Patrick; that she need not mind if they did trouble her, it was better to suffer annoyances than give up to do wrong.

“To-night,” she continued, “they taxed me so bekaze I wouldn’t have any thing to say to one of the neighbor’s boys from Coleraine, who know’d us when we were childer; and mother said it was her belafe that Patrick was safe and happy somewhere else, married to some other woman. This made me very mad, and I started up and went out of the house without sayin’ a word; but mother ran after me down the street, and made me kiss her good-night, and we made up and parted friends.”

“That was right, Bridget, for she is your mother, and though mistaken, she meant it for the best.”

“I know that, Miss Enna, but they trouble me so much, I sometimes hate to go home.”

Then she went softly up into her bed-room and brought down a poor, worn-looking letter, and a dilapidated book, with one cover off, and the leaves part gone.

“This is his letter from Norfolk town, Miss Enna; read it, plaze, aloud, for I niver tire hearin’ it.”

I read it, and found it to be a manly, affectionate, lover-like letter. He touchingly reminded her of her vow, in homely, plain language, it is true, but real heart words were they, that brought tears to my eyes.

“What is that book, Bridget?”

“Oh, Miss Enna,” replied the girl, looking down, and her round face grew crimson, “it’s a book of his’n. He used to be always readin’ in it; and one day he throw’d it into my lap, and said, when I could read it he’d give me a silk gownd fit for a quane to wear. I laughed and thought nothin’ at all about it until after he’d been gone above a year, when I found it down at mother’s one night in my old chist, which mother had given me when I’d bought her the bureau poor Gracey wanted so bad. I’ve kept the book iver since; and I take it out of my drawer o’ nights, and sit down and try to see somethin’ in it, but even if I could rade, which I can’t, I couldn’t see nothin’ in it, for it always makes me cry.”

I took the book from her with great curiosity; I was anxious to see what was the nature of it, for I hoped to judge by it of the character of this sailor-lover. It was Falconer’s Shipwreck. I was satisfied, and was a firmer friend than before to Patrick.

A few weeks afterward, one night Bridget came home with a face perfectly radiant, or “_bamin_,” as she would have said. I was reading in my bed-room all alone. She came in, closed Aunt Mary’s door, and giving me a letter, said,

“Rade it, dear Miss Enna, rade it; he’s alive, and is comin’ home;” and she sat down on the rug beside me, and laughed and cried at once as I read the letter aloud to her.

Sure enough, the lover was safe and true. He had written to her often, but the letters had been lost, he supposed, as he had never heard from her; but he felt sure, he said, that she was still his Bridget, even if he did not hear from her.

“There, you see, Miss Enna, how bad I’d been if I’d done as they wanted me to,” she exclaimed; “and so Father Shane said to mother to-night, when he read the beautiful letter—for he brought it to me. Patrick writ to him, and sint him this letter to me inside of his’n, bekase he said he’d writ so often to me, and sure a letter would rach me through Father Shane.”

Patient Reader, this is a true story; but I am the only one to be sympathized with in it, for I lost my jewel of a chambermaid. A few months afterward Patrick came home and claimed his faithful Bridget. We had a busy time when she was married—for the whole family took an interest in good Bridget’s fortune. Patrick was a nice, healthy, bright-looking Irishman; and when on the Sunday after he arrived he came to take her to mass, I saw him as they walked down the street together, look at her sturdy little figure with as much admiration as if it had possessed the fine proportions of a Venus. Love is such a beautifier.

Father Shane married them, and Patrick rented a nice little house in the suburbs of our town, and took Widow Kerevan home to live with them. Bridget is a happy wife; but she has one trouble, and that is, that her husband’s calling takes him away from her, and places him in danger; but when he returns from long voyages she is as bright and merry as a lark.

The other day I went to see her, and as her little girl Elsie came nestling close to me, Bridget said,

“Ever since that child was born, Miss Enna, I feel that my blessed darlint has come back to me. Och, but He’s been kind to me,” she said, blessing herself with devotion, “for He give me back both Patrick and Elsie.”

Good girl! God had indeed been kind to her, for he had bestowed upon her those priceless gifts of the spirit—Faith and Truth.

* * * * *

WHAT KATY DID.

BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO’.

“O tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked too?”

I was passing through a grove of budding maple trees, thinking of you, of “Graham”—that is, wondering what in all the world I could find to say, that you would care to hear; a desperate mood for one to be in, certes—when my meditations were disturbed by the voice of a creature which came from the heights above, chirping out, not softly, not musically, but in a shrieking tone, as though bent on vociferous disputation with somebody, “Katy _did_.” The spirit of opposition roused within me as I heard that cry; I was about to deny the assertion point blank, when the sweet, tiny voice of another insect, answered distinctly, “she didn’t.” It was like the acceptance of a challenge in effect; forthwith the first speaker began again, with increased energy, “Katy did! Katy did—she did! she did! she did!” But still the milder voice, quite undismayed, replied valiantly, and with a solemn air of undoubtable truth, “She didn’t.” The neighboring spirits were now all aroused; never did mortal before hear such a rush of sound as burst upon me then! A perfect flood of abuse gushed from one throat, while distinct and dignified denial met it all in reply. Asseverations numberless, and uncharitable defamation of one, powerless now to vindicate herself, followed. With wonder and with _patience_ I listened to the end; oh, loveliest reader, will you do so likewise? Here is the substance of that most strange _conversasionne_.

* * * * *

Little Kitty Clover was the only child of her widowed father—“a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time;” she was a blooming fairy of a girl, spoiled, of course, and worshiped, too—a very “household goddess.” Miserably educated had the young thing been; for—only think of it!—at sixteen years of age, she was as wild and free in spirit as a chamois, as brave as a chamois-hunter, and through the unpardonable neglect of those who had the care of her, she had been taught nothing whatever of sorrow, save the Dictionary definition—and _that_ she could scarcely comprehend. At this age she was still under the care, or rather in the companionship, of a governess, Lucy Freer, a lady also young, indeed but two years older than her pupil; but _she_ was a dignified, commanding personage, (and thus differed very much from Kitty;) a silent, sad, but remarkably handsome girl, who sometimes wept, and never laughed, (which was strange, for one would have thought that the spirit of mirth dwelling in Kitty was of an absolutely infectious nature;) but Lucy had the sweetest of smiles when she was pleased or happy, and that smile, with her unvarying goodness and talent, secured from the first, the warm love of her pupil.

As we have intimated, Kitty’s father had done all that he possibly could to spoil his daughter, and the labor in that way, it must be confessed, had been far from vain; but fortunately, nature had given the girl a warm, affectionate heart, and the training of her childhood had not tended to make her half so selfish and exacting as might in all reason have been expected. She was innately frank and noble; and there was a clear expression of her blue eyes, which told how honest and sincere she was in all her thoughts and doings.

Retired and unsuperficial as had been her way of life, poor Kitty! she found occasion to fall “desperately in love!”

Shortly after the governess made her home at Woodland Cottage, in C——, a gentleman from London came to call upon her. The pupil happened to be present at the interview, and she heard the stranger announce his intention of making his home in the village; and the great evident satisfaction of Lucy Freer, as _she_ heard this determination, did not escape the observation of the keen-eyed Kitty; and having little else to think about for several days, she indulged in wonderment as to what kind of regard her governess could cherish for the handsome man, that she should be so very light of heart, so really joyous from the very moment of his appearing.

Eugene Lind, that was his name, was about thirty years of age, as fine looking, stately, and elegant a person as need be; he was a lawyer by profession, but still more of a poet by choice. As the only acquaintance he had in C—— was housed at Woodland, he became at once a frequent guest at the cottage, where he found always a genial host in Reginald Clover; but the truth must be said, that though the old man’s welcome was desirable, it was not him that the lawyer really went or cared to see. This became quite evident when, ere long, in view of his old friendship for Lucy, he made bold to push his way directly to the school-room, when his visits were made in the day hours, which was oftenest the case.

It was no very marvelous wonder that Kitty Clover, secluded as she was from the rest of the world, save that minute portion of it that dwelt in and just about her own home—it was no wonder, I say, that, in the course of time she should have begun to think quite as much of Mr. Lind as she did of her grammar and mathematics; that she should even prefer at last, _greatly_ prefer, listening to his fine readings and conversation to any other amusement. But she did no more than listen, that is for a year, till she was sixteen, and then Kitty had become so accustomed to his presence, so cognizant of her own powers of speech, as to find it really possible to talk with, and to learn of him; and he was a wiser teacher than Lucy even, for he imparted a high charm to every book he laid his hands on—it became “tabooed” immediately to the child’s apprehension.

Ah! no longer did she sit then, a shy and silent creature, in the great bow-window, pretending to total abstraction from all things past, present, or future, save what she found in the dry pages of her book; but boldly, at least calmly, came she forward to sit beside her governess, to meet the glances of the poet-lawyer, to listen, and to speak with him and Lucy, as a sane and intelligent being.

And so it was that, day by day, and more and more thoroughly, she learned to love him; so it was that his words fell one by one, with creative power on her heart, till the most radiant and glorious flower sprung up there; but though its fragrance filled her life with a beauty which she _felt_, she could not comprehend it, did not at all understand it, till at last from wondering she passed to knowledge, as she wakened to see how very pale the governess was growing—how languidly she carried forward the work of instruction—how abstractedly she went about all her tasks—how she neglected totally the volumes which had once been her love companions—how she oftentimes wept—how dull and dispirited she was when Eugene Lind was not by, and how she invariably, for a moment at least, brightened up and smiled when he drew near.

And when poor Kitty’s eyes _were_ opened, lovely reader, they seemed good for nothing in the world but to weep—just a vent for tears; for then she knew—she could not _help_ knowing—that Lucy Freer loved the lawyer. And it was a terrible discovery to make, was it not—for now, the child, what right had _she_ to think of him? She did not wonder for a moment whether or no the love of the governess was well-founded, whether or no he returned it; she could only say to herself, “he has visited her constantly, has exerted himself to be agreeable, and it’s all his own fault and doing—he has no right, and is too old to trifle so. Lucy is an orphan, and poor; she is beautiful and good enough—yes, even for him! I have a father, and am rich; he _ought_ to love her, and he shall tell her he _does_.”

And so little Kate (recollect my world-fashioned lady, all this happened a long time ago, and she had learned her knowledge of life’s obligations only from wild romances) felt that a duty devolved on her which must be performed; and oh, how strenuously she labored, how dispassionately she reasoned with herself, that she might become strong to fulfill it!

Eugene had not visited the cottage for many days; a Friday night came round, and for two whole weeks he had absented himself. On this day, as by mutual consent, the books were laid aside, the school-room deserted, Lucy retired to her own room ill—certainly at heart—and Kitty, silent and troubled, yet stronger to bear her burden of sorrow, because she felt that another suffered more than she, walked, practiced her music, arranged flowers with the utmost determination, and then, restless, but not knowing what to do with herself, she wandered about the house, quite as if in a dream, yet cautious as a somnambulist, for how carefully she shunned the presence and inquiring glances of her good old father. She _was_ dreaming—such a dream, indeed, as adds years to the “inner life” of the young—dreaming of bereavement, self-sacrifice, and death! even she, that bright young girl!

But at last, with assured purpose, Kitty seated herself to write a letter. A difficult work it was to pen it, good and loving soul, thou wilt not doubt it. No attempt at disguise was made in the writing, yet she left the letter without signature, thinking to herself he will understand how it all is; he will, if there is any honor in him, explain—at least he shall feel that there is one here who watches him.

“Mr. Lind,—Because you seem blind, and deaf, and dumb, to all that you should, as a man of honor, be proud to see and know, I deem myself excusable in reminding you of what you owe to one who has received you into her presence as a brother, as _more_. I have no feeling of false delicacy in thus appealing to you. A sense of right you must have. You will _feel_ that I am only true to myself, to my sense of right, in so doing. Halting thus, when you have gone so far, you do that which no gentleman _should_ do. I cannot yet believe that you have sought the presence of one who loves you well, if not wisely, merely because it afforded you a momentary pleasure. Let me remind you that the life-peace of a human being depends upon the course you shall pursue.”

This heroic epistle was, of course, written, destroyed, and rewritten many times before Kitty became fully satisfied that it was to her purpose. That very night it was despatched to the post with no feelings of false delicacy, as she said, but with a very little trepidation. Dear child! she must certainly have been laboring under a species of moral insanity, when she thought it better to risk so much as she did, rather than a whole life should be made miserable by her hesitation, as she believed Lucy Freer’s would be.

The next day, Saturday, happened to be consecrated to the memory of St. Valentine, February the fourteenth. Much relieved in mind, Kitty sat on this “All Fool’s Day,” with the governess in her boudoir—a very charming place it was, by the way, where beauty lived with the heiress. They were listlessly looking over the love declarations which filled the silver waiter before them; and it was evident that the passionate confessions on which they gazed, produced little effect, save a vague, momentary curiosity in the minds of either. One of them, in her young heart, had renounced all loves, and as for the other—

But at last Lucy looked upon her pupil with a flushed, smiling face, exclaiming, “Here is a missive for _you_ from Eugene! You know the writing—isn’t it his? It will be worth reading.”

“Hum!” was the doubtful, brief reply—and Kitty held out her hand quite carelessly for the Valentine, though, try as she might, she could not conceal the sudden flashing of her eyes, and her hand, I believe, trembled a little. She took the note and read—to _herself_.

I who love you duly, truly,
Dare to tell you so to-day;
Sweetest maiden, though love-laden,
Bolder souls beset your way.
Do you hear?

While the earnest, eager voices
Vow their passion and their truth,
I, too, bend in adoration
Of the splendor of your youth.
Do you care?

And because your lightest whisper
Chains my spirit as a spell,
Oh, because your smile is dearer
To my heart than I can tell,
_Will_ you love me?

In my memory I have throned you,
Thinking of you every hour;
Dear young Kitty, I adore you,
Ah! forget your tyrant power.
_Try_ to love me!
E. L.

A sudden smile, brilliant in its gladness, swept over the maiden’s face as she read; but then remembering somewhat, she arose, and hastily flung the perfumed note within the grate, saying,

“The impudence of those village boys is unpardonable; neither of us know them much more than by sight, and they have no right to presume so far!” But though she spoke so pettishly, Kitty’s smile, as she read the quoted love-lay, had not escaped Lucy’s notice, and she said quietly in reply,

“My dear, Eugene Lind is not a _boy_, and I don’t think his writing to you _this_ day a piece of presumption either.”

At night-fall, when Kitty sat alone, another epistle was laid before her, which she read from beginning to end in such a state of bewilderment as may be “imagined but not described.”

“Dear Friend,—I have this morning received a letter, singular rather in its bearings—at least to the fashion-moulded automaton it might seem so—to me it is blessed to appear any thing _but_ blessed. A letter written in such a style of undisguised earnestness and truth, that, though it is Valentine day, I cannot doubt (perhaps you will say it is because I _will_ not) either the writer’s name, or the purport of her words—a declaration of love! And to me it is unspeakably dearer than any thing else in the wide world could be. It is only because I felt sensible every day of an increasing, engrossing interest in her, that I have stayed so long away—it seems an age to me—from Woodland Cottage. Now, if it be indeed true that I _have_ gained the affection of your glorious young charge, am I not blest? Of such ‘a consummation, most devoutly to be wished,’ I have dreamed, but never dared really to hope. To-morrow I shall come to you, Lucy, and you must counsel me. The letter inclosed has just reached me, accompanying one for myself from Richmond. Joy to you! for now can you ‘give care to the winds’ once more—a bright day is dawning, I clearly foresee it.

“Adieu, yours ever,
“Eugene Lind.”

Was there ever—was there _ever_ such a mishap?

Surely never did astonished, troubled mortal wish more fervently for instant annihilation than did poor Kitty Clover as she read this letter, discovering at its conclusion that it had been by mistake addressed to _her_! With what frantic haste did she commit it to the flames—how furiously the bell-rope swung in her hand—how passionately she dispatched the servant who answered her call with the letter which had come inclosed, to Lucy. And then, the windy tempest having passed, how wildly did she weep, as she barred herself from human sight, that she might agonize alone over the effect of her most stupid interference! Dead within her was all curiosity; she cared not who the stranger Richmond was; she cared not for the conviction that Eugene Lind was at that moment rejoicing in the thought of having won her love; the natural misconstruction he had been so glad to put upon her words, took in her mind nothing like the shape of a “comedy of errors”—it was something intolerably worse.

For hours she wept wildly and without ceasing; but the fountain of tears was at last exhausted, and near midnight, having become wonderfully calm again—the calmness of desperation it was, doubtless, and thinking of every thing but sleep—Kitty ventured into the presence of her governess. Neither had Lucy yet retired; but there she sat, poring over her letter, and looking more beautiful and happy than she had in many weeks.

Kitty seated herself at Lucy’s feet, and said, quite regardless of her friend’s astonishment at the ghost-like appearance she made,

“Is there anybody you love?”

“Why, if there were _not_ I should die!”

“_Whom_ do you love?”

“You, dear Kitty.”

“But, is there anybody you shall _marry_? Do you like any person well enough for that?”

“I truly hope it. ’Twould be forlorn to think otherwise.”