Читать книгу Fardorougha, The Miser - William Carleton - Страница 7

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The dwelling of Bodagh Buie O'Brien, to which Connor is now directing his steps, was a favorable specimen of that better class of farm-houses inhabited by our most extensive and wealthy agriculturists. It was a large, whitewashed, ornamentally thatched building, that told by its external aspect of the good living, extensive comforts, and substantial opulence which prevailed within. Stretched before its hall-door was a small lawn, bounded on the left by a wall that separated it from the farm-yard into which the kitchen door opened. Here were stacks of hay, oats, and wheat, all upon an immense scale, both as to size and number; together with threshing and winnowing machines, improved ploughs, carts, cars, and all the other modern implements of an extensive farm. Very cheering, indeed, was the din of industry that arose from the clank of machinery, the grunting of hogs, the cackling of geese, the quacking of ducks, and all the various other sounds which proceeded from what at first sight might have appeared to be rather a scene of confusion, but which, on closer inspection, would be found a rough yet well—regulated system, in which every person had an allotted duty to perform. Here might Bodagh Buie be seen, dressed in a gray broad-cloth coat, broad kerseymere breeches, and lambs' wool stockings, moving from place to place with that calm, sedate, and contented air, which betokens an easy mind and a consciousness of possessing a more than ordinary share of property and influence. With hands thrust into his small-clothes pockets, and a bunch of gold seals suspended from his fob, he issued his orders in a grave and quiet tone, differing very little in dress from an absolute Squireen, save in the fact of his Caroline hat being rather scuffed, and his strong shoes begrimed with the soil of his fields or farm-yard. Mrs. O'Brien was, out of the sphere of her own family, a person of much greater pretension than the Bodagh her husband; and, though in a different manner, not less so in the discharge of her duty as a wife, a mother, or a mistress. In appearance, she was a large, fat, good-looking woman, eternally in a state of motion and bustle, and, as her education had been extremely scanty, her tone and manner, though brimful of authority and consequence, were strongly marked with that ludicrous vulgarity which is produced by the attempt of an ignorant person to accomplish a high style of gentility. She was a kind-hearted, charitable woman, however; but so inveterately conscious of her station in life, that it became, in her opinion, a matter of duty to exhibit a refinement and elevation of language suitable to a matron who could drive every Sunday to Mass on her own jaunting car. When dressed on these Occasions in her rich rustling silks, she had, what is called in Ireland, a comfortable flaghoola look, but at the same time a carriage so stiff and rustic, as utterly overcame all her attempts, dictated as they were by the simplest vanity, at enacting the arduous and awful character of a Squireen's wife. Their family consisted of a son and daughter; the former, a young man of a very amiable disposition, was, at the present period of our story, a student in Maynooth College, and the latter, now in her nineteenth year, a promising pupil in a certain seminary for young ladies, conducted by that notorious Master of Arts, Little Cupid. Oona, or Una, O'Brien, was in truth a most fascinating and beautiful brunette; tall in stature, light and agile in all her motions, cheerful and sweet in temper, but with just as much of that winning caprice, as was necessary to give zest and piquancy to her whole character. Though tall and slender, her person was by no means thin; on the contrary, her limbs and figure were very gracefully rounded, and gave promise of that agreeable fulness, beneath or beyond which no perfect model of female proportion can exist. If our readers could get one glance at the hue of her rich cheek, or fall for a moment under the power of her black mellow eye, or witness the beauty of her white teeth, while her face beamed with a profusion of dimples, or saw her while in the act of shaking out her invincible locks, ere she bound them up with her white and delicate hands—then, indeed, might they understand why no war of the elements could prevent Connor O'Donovan from risking life and limb sooner than disappoint her in the promise of their first meeting.

Oh that first meeting of pure and youthful love! With what a glory is it ever encircled in the memory of the human heart! No matter how long or how melancholy the lapse of time since its past existence may be, still, still, is it remembered by our feelings when the recollection of every tie but itself has departed. The charm, however, that murmured its many-toned music through the soul of Una O'Brien was not, upon the evening in question, wholly free from a shade of melancholy for which she could not account; and this impression did not result from any previous examination of her love for Connor O'Donovan, though many such she had. She knew that in this the utmost opposition from both her parents must be expected; nor was it the consequence of a consciousness on her part, that in promising him a clandestine meeting, she had taken a step which could not be justified. Of this, too, she had been aware before; but, until the hour of appointment drew near, the heaviness which pressed her down was such as caused her to admit that the sensation, however painful and gloomy, was new to her, and bore a character distinct from anything that could proceed from the various lights in which she had previously considered her attachment. This was, moreover, heightened by the boding aspect of the heavens and the dread repose of the evening, so unlike anything she had ever witnessed before. Notwithstanding all this, she was sustained by the eager and impatient buoyancy of first affection; which, when imagination pictured the handsome form of her young and manly lover, predominated for the time over every reflection and feeling that was opposed to itself. Her mind, indeed, resembled a fair autumn landscape, over which the cloud-shadows may be seen sweeping for a moment, whilst again the sun comes out and turns all into serenity and light.

The place appointed for their interview was a small paddock shaded by alders, behind her father's garden, and thither, with trembling limbs and palpitating heart, did the young and graceful daughter of Bodagh Buie proceed.

For a considerable time, that is to say, for three long years before this delicious appointment, had Connor O'Donovan and Una been wrapped in the elysium of mutual love. At mass, at fair, and at market, had they often and often met, and as frequently did their eyes search each other out, and reveal in long blushing glances the state of their respective hearts. Many a time did he seek an opportunity to disclose what he felt, and as often, with confusion, and fear, and delight, did she afford him what he sought. Thus did one opportunity after another pass away, and as often did he form the towering resolution to reveal his affection if he were ever favored with another. Still would some disheartening reflection, arising from the uncommon gentleness and extreme modesty of his character, throw a damp upon his spirit. He questioned his own penetration; perhaps she was in the habit of glancing as much at others as she glanced at him. Could it be possible that the beautiful daughter of Bodagh Buie, the wealthiest man, and of his wife, the proudest woman, within a large circle of the country, would love the son of Fardorougha Donovan, whose name had, alas, become so odious and unpopular? But then the blushing face, and dark lucid eyes, and the long earnest glance, rose before his imagination, and told him that, let the difference in the character and the station of their parents be what it might, the fair dark daughter of O'Brien was not insensible to him, nor to the anxieties he felt.

The circumstance which produced the first conversation they ever had arose from an incident of a very striking and singular character. About a week before the evening in question, one of Bodagh Buie's bee-skeps hived, and the young colony, though closely watched and pursued, directed their course to Fardorougha's house, and settled in the mouth of the chimney. Connor, having got a clean sheet, secured them, and was about to submit them to the care of the Bodagh's servants, when it was suggested that the duty of bringing them home devolved on himself, inasmuch as he was told they would not remain, unless placed in a new skep by the hands of the person on whose property they had settled. While on his way to the Bodagh's he was accosted in the following words by one of O'Brien's servants:

“Connor, there's good luck before you, or the bees wouldn't pick you out amongst all the rest o' the neighbors. You ought to hould up your head, man. Who knows what mainin's in it?”

“Why, do you b'lieve that bees sittin' wid one is a sign o' good luck?”

“Surely I do. Doesn't every one know it to be thrue? Connor, you're a good-lookin' fellow, an' I need scarcely tell you that we have a purty girl at home; can you lay that an' that together? Arrah, be my sowl, the richest honey ever the same bees'll make, is nothin' but alloways, compared wid that purty mouth of her own! A honey-comb is a fool to it.”

“Why, did you ever thry, Mike?”

“Is it me? Och, och, if I was only high enough in this world, maybe I wouldn't be spakin' sweet to her; no, no, be my word! thry, indeed, for the likes o' me! Faith, but I know a sartin young man that she does be often spakin' about.”

Connor's heart was in a state of instant commotion.

“An' who—who is he—who is that sartin young man, Mike?”

“Faith, the son o' one that can run a shillin' farther than e'er another man in the country. Do you happen to be acquainted wid one Connor O'Donovan, of Lisnamona?”

“Connor O'Donovan—that's good, Mike—in the mane time don't be goin' it on us. No, no;—an' even if she did, it isn't to you she spake about any one, Michael ahagur!”

“No, nor it wasn't to me—sure I didn't say it was—but don't you know my sister's at sarvice in the Bodagh's family? Divil the word o' falsity I'm tellin' you; so, if you haven't the heart to spake for yourself, I wouldn't give knots o' straws for you; and now, there's no harm done I hope—moreover, an' by the same token, you needn't go to the trouble o' puttin' up an advertisement to let the parish know what I've tould you.”

“Hut, tut, Mike, it's all folly. Una Dhun O'Brien to think of me!—nonsense, man; that cock would never fight.”

“Very well; divil a morsel of us is forcin' you to b'lieve it. I suppose the mother o' you has your wooden spoon to the fore still. I'd kiss the Bravery you didn't come into the world wid a silver ladle in your mouth, anyhow. In the mane time, we're at the Bodagh's—an' have an eye about you afther what you've heard—Nabocklish!”

This, indeed, was important intelligence to Connor, and it is probable that, had he not heard it, another opportunity of disclosing his passion might have been lost.

Independently of this, however, he was not proof against the popular superstition of the bees, particularly as it appeared to be an augury to which his enamored heart could cling with all the hope of young and passionate enthusiasm.

Nor was it long till he had an opportunity of perceiving that she whose image had floated in light before his fancy, gave decided manifestations of being struck by the same significant occurrence. On entering the garden, the first person his eye rested upon was Una herself, who, as some of the other hives were expected to swarm, had been engaged watching them during the day. His appearance at any time would have created a tumult in her bosom, but, in addition to this, when she heard that the bees which had rested on Connor's house, had swarmed from her own hive, to use the words of Burns—

She looked—she reddened like the rose,

Syne pale as ony lily,

and, with a shy but expressive glance at Connor, said, in a low hurried voice, “These belong to me.”

Until the moment we are describing, Connor and she, notwithstanding that they frequently met in public places, had never yet spoken; nor could the words now uttered by Una be considered as addressed to him, although from the glance that accompanied them it was sufficiently evident that they were intended for him alone. It was in vain that he attempted to accost her; his confusion, her pleasure, his timidity, seemed to unite in rendering him incapable of speaking at all. His lips moved several times, but the words, as they arose, died away unspoken.

At this moment, Mike, with waggish good-humor, and in a most laudable fit of industry, reminded the other servants, who had been assisting to secure the bees, that as they (the bees) were now safe, no further necessity existed for their presence.

“Come, boys—death-alive, the day's passin'—only think. Miss Una, that we have all the hay in the Long-shot meadow to get into cocks yet, an' here we're idlin' an' ghosther—in' away our time like I dunna what. They're schamin', Miss Una—divil a thing else, an' what'll the masther say if the same meadow's not finished to—night?”

“Indeed, Mike,” replied Una—; “if the meadow is to be finished this night, there's little time to be lost.”

“Come, boys,” exclaimed Mike, “you hear what Miss Una says—if it's to be finished to-night there's but little time to be lost—turn out—march. Miss Una can watch the bees widout our help. Good evenin', Misther Donovan; be my word, but you're entitled to a taste o' honey any way, for bringing back Miss Una's bees to her.”

Mike, after having uttered this significant opinion relative to his sense of justice, drove his fellow-servants out of the garden, and left the lovers together. There was now a dead silence, during the greater part of which, neither dared to look at the other; at length each hazarded a glance; their eyes met, and their embarrassment deepened in a tenfold degree. Una, on withdrawing her gaze, looked with an air of perplexity from one object to another, and at length, with downcast lids, and glowing cheeks, her eyes became fixed on her own white and delicate finger.

“Who would think,” said she, in a voice tremulous with agitation, “that the sting of a bee could be so painful.”

Connor advanced towards her with a beating heart. “Where have you been stung, Miss O'Brien?” said he, in a tone shaken out of it's fulness by what he felt.

“In the finger,” she replied, and she looked closely into the spot as she uttered the words.

“Will you let me see it?” asked Connor.

She held her hand towards him without knowing what she did, nor was it till after a strong effort that Connor mastered himself so far as to ask her in which finger she felt the pain. In fact, both saw at once that their minds were engaged upon far different thoughts, and that their anxiety to pour out the full confession of their love was equally deep and mutual.

As Connor put the foregoing question to her, he took her hand in his.

“In what finger?” she replied, “I don't—indeed—I—I believe in the—the—but what—what is this?—I am very—very weak.”

“Let me support you to the summer—house, where you can sit,” returned Connor, still clasping her soft delicate hand in his; then, circling her slender waist with the other, he helped her to a seat under the thick shade of the osiers.

Una's countenance immediately became pale as death, and her whole frame trembled excessively.

“You are too weak even to sit without support,” said Connor, “your head is droopin'. For God's sake, lean it over on me! Oh! I'd give ten thousand lives to have it on my breast only for one moment!”

Her paleness still continued; she gazed on him, and, as he gently squeezed her hand, a slight pressure was given in return. He then drew her head over upon his shoulder, where it rather fell than leaned; a gush of tears came from her eyes, and the next moment, with sobbing hearts, they were encircled in each other's arms.

From this first intoxicating draught of youthful love, they were startled by the voice of Mrs. O'Brien calling upon her daughter, and, at the same time, to their utter dismay, they observed the portly dame sailing, in her usual state, down towards the arbor, with an immense bunch of keys dangling from her side.

“Oonagh, Miss—Miss Oonagh—where are you, Miss, Ma Colleen?—Here's a litther,” she proceeded, when Una appeared, “from Mrs. Fogarty, your school-misthress, to your fadher—statin' that she wants you to finish your Jiggraphy at the dancin', wid a new dancin'—teacher from Dubling. Why—Eah! what ails you, Miss, Ma Colleen? What the dickens wor you cryin' for?”

“These nasty bees that stung me,” returned the girl. “Oh, for goodness sake, mother dear, don't come any farther, except you wish to have a whole hive upon you!”

“Why, sure, they wouldn't sting any one that won't meddle wid them,” replied the mother in a kind of alarm.

“The sorra pin they care, mother—don't come near them; I'll be in, by an' by. Where's my father?”

“He's in the house, an' wants you to answer Mrs. Fogarty, statin' feder you'll take a month's larnin' on the flure or not.”

“Well, I'll see her letter in a minute or two, but you may tell my father he needn't wait—I won't answer it to-night at all event's.”

“You must answer it on the nail,” replied her mother, “becase the messager's waitin' in the kitchen 'ithin.”

“That alters the case altogether,” returned Una, “and I'll follow you immediately.”

The good woman then withdrew, having once more enjoined the daughter to avoid delay, and not to detain the messenger.

“You must go instantly,” she said to Connor. “Oh, what would happen me if they knew that I lov—that I—” a short pause ensued, and she blushed deeply.

“Say, what you were goin' to say,” returned Connor; “Oh, say that one word, and all the misfortunes that ever happened to man, can't make me unhappy! Oh, God! an' is it possible? Say that word—Oh! say it—say it!”

“Well, then,” she continued, “if they knew that I love the son of Fardorougha Donovan, what would become of me? Now go, for fear my father may come out.”

“But when will I see you again?”

“Go,” said she anxiously; “go, you can easily see me.”

“But when?—when? say on Thursday.”

“Not so soon—not so soon,” and she cast an anxious eye towards the garden gate.

“When then—say this day week.”

“Very well—but go—maybe my father has heard from the servants that you are here.”

“Dusk is the best time.”

“Yes—yes—about dusk; under the alders, in the little green field behind the garden.”

“Show me the wounded finger,” said he with a smile, “before I go.”

“There,” said she, extending her hand; “but for Heaven's sake go.”

“I'll tell you how to cure it,” said he, tenderly; “honey is the medicine; put that sweet finger to your own sweeter lip—and, afterwards, I'll carry home the wound.”

“But not the medicine, now,” said she, and, snatching her hand from his, with light, fearful steps, she fled up the garden and disappeared.

Such, gentle reader, were the circumstances which brought our young and artless lovers together in the black twilight of the singularly awful and ominous evening which we have already described.

Connor, on reaching the appointed spot, sat down; but his impatience soon overcame him; and, while hurrying to and fro, under the alders, he asked himself in what was this wild but rapturous attachment to terminate? That the proud Bodagh, and his prouder wife, would never suffer their beautiful daughter, the heiress of all their wealth, to marry the son of Fardorougha, the miser, was an axiom, the truth of which pressed upon his heart with a deadly weight. On the other hand, would his father, or rather could he, change his nature so far as to establish him in life, provided Una and he were united without the consent of her parents? Alas! he knew his father's parsimony too well; and, on either hand, he was met by difficulties that appeared to him to be insurmountable. But again came the delightful and ecstatic consciousness, that, let their parents act as they might, Una's heart and his were bound to each other by ties which, only to think of, was rapture. In the midst of these reflections, he heard her light foot approach, but with a step more slow and melancholy than he could have expected from the ardor of their love.

When she approached, the twilight was just sufficient to enable him to perceive that her face was pale, and tinged apparently with melancholy, if not with sorrow. After the first salutations were over, he was proceeding to inquire into the cause of her depression, when, to his utter surprise, she placed her hands upon her face, and burst into a fit of grief.

Those who have loved need not be told that the most delightful office of that delightful passion is to dry the tears of the beloved one who is dear to us beyond all else that life contains. Connor literally performed this office, and inquired, in a tone so soothing and full of sympathy, why she wept, that her tears for a while only flowed the faster. At length her grief abated, and she was able to reply to him.

“You ask me why I am raying,” said the fair young creature; “but, indeed, I cannot tell you. There has been a sinking of the heart upon me during the greater part of this day. When I thought of our meeting I was delighted; but again some heaviness would come over me that I can't account for.”

“I know what it is,” replied Connor, “a very simple thing; merely the terrible calm an' blackness of the evenin'. I was sunk myself a little.”

“I ought to cry for a better reason,” she returned. “In meeting you I have done—an' am doing—what I ought to be sorry for—that is, a wrong action that my conscience condemns.”

“There is nobody perfect, my dear Una,” said Connor; “an' none without their failins; they have little to answer for that have no more than you.”

“Don't flatter me,” she replied; “if you love me as you say, never flatter me while you live; I will always speak what I feel, and I hope you'll do the same.”

“If I could spake what I feel,” said he, “you would still say I flattered you—it's not in the power of any words that ever were spoken, to tell how I love you—how much my heart an' soul's fixed upon you. Little you know, my own dear Una, how unhappy I am this minute, to see you in low spirits. What do you think is the occasion of it? Spake now, as you say you will do, that is, as you feel.”

“Except it be that my heart brought me to meet you tonight contrary to my conscience, I do not know. Connor, Connor, that heart is so strongly in your favor, that if you were not to be happy neither could its poor owner.”

Connor for a moment looked into the future, but, like the face of the sky above him, all was either dark or stormy; his heart sank, but the tenderness expressed in Una's last words filled his whole soul with a vehement and burning passion, which he felt must regulate his destiny in life, whether for good or evil. He pulled her to his breast, on which he placed her head; she looked up fondly to him, and, perceiving that he wrought under some deep and powerful struggle, said in a low, confiding voice, whilst the tears once more ran quietly down her cheeks, “Connor, what I said is true.”

“My heart's burnin'—my heart's burnin'!” he exclaimed. “It's not love I feel for you, Una—it's more than love; oh, what is it—Una, Una, this I know, that I cannot live long without you, or from you; if I did, I'd go wild or mad through the world. For the last three years you have never been out of my mind, I may say awake or asleep; for I believe a night never passed during that time that I didn't drame of you—of the beautiful young crature. Oh! God in heaven, can it be thrue that she loves me at last? Say them blessed words again, Una; oh, say them again! But I'm too happy—I can hardly bear this delight.”

“It is true that I love you, and if our parents could think as we do, Connor, how easy it would be for them to make us happy, but—”

“It's too soon, Una; it's too soon to spake of that. Happy! don't we love one another? Isn't that happiness? Who or what can deprive us of that? We are happy without them; we can be happy in spite of them; oh, my own fair girl! sweet, sweet life of my life, and heart of my heart! Heaven—heaven itself would be no heaven to me, if you weren't with me!”

“Don't say that, Connor dear; it's wrong. Let us not forget what is due to religion, if we expect our love to prosper. You may think this strange from one that has acted contrary to religion in coming to meet you against the will and knowledge of her parents; but beyond that, dear Connor, I hope I never will go. But is it true that you've loved me so long?”

“It is,” said he; “the second Sunday in May next was three years, I knelt opposite you at mass. You were on the left hand side of the altar, I was on the right; my eyes were never off you; indeed, you may remember it.”

“I have a good right,” said she, blushing and hiding her face on his shoulder. “I ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it, an' me so young at the time; little more than sixteen. From that day to this, my story has been just your own. Connor, can you tell me how I found it out but I knew you loved me?”

“Many a thing was to tell you that, Una dear. Sure my eyes were never off you, whenever you wor near me; an' wherever you were, there was I certain to be too. I never missed any public place if I thought you would be at it, an' that merely for the sake of seein' you. An', now will you tell me why it was that I could 'a sworn you lov'd me?”

“You have answered for us both,” she replied. “As for me, if I only chance to hear your name mentioned my heart would beat; if the talk was about you I could listen to nothing else, and I often felt the color come and go on my cheek.”

“Una, I never thought I could be born to such happiness. Now that I know that you love me, I can hardly think that it was love I felt for you all along; it's wonderful—it's wonderful!”

“What is so wonderful?” she inquired.

“Why, the change that I feel since knowin' that you love me; since I had it from your own lips, it has overcome me—I'm a child—I'm anything, anything you choose to make me; it was never love—it's only since I found you loved me that my heart's burnin' as it is.”

“I'll make you happyr if I can,” she replied, “and keep you so, I hope.”

“There's one thing that will make me still happier than I am,” said Connor.

“What is it? If it's proper and right I'll do it.”

“Promise me that if I live you'll never marry any one else than me.”

“You wish then to have the promise all on one side,” she replied with a smile and a blush, each as sweet as ever captivated a human heart.

“No, no, no, my darling Una, acushla gra gal machree, no! I will promise the same to you.”

She paused, and a silence of nearly a minute ensued.

“I don't know that it's right, Connor; I have taken one wrong step as it is, but, well as I love you, I won't take another; whatever I do I must feel that it's proper. I'm not sure that this is.”

“Don't you say you love me, Una?”

“I do; you know I do.”

“I have only another question to ask; could you, or would you, love me as you do, and marry another?”

“I could not, Connor, and would not, and will not. I am ready to promise; I may easily do it; for God knows the very thought of marrying another, or being deprived of you, is more than I can bear.”

“Well, then,” returned her lover, seizing her hand, “I take God to witness that, whilst you are alive an' faithful to me, I will never marry any woman but yourself. Now,” he continued, “put your right hand into mine, and say the same words.”

She did so, and was in the act of repeating the form, “I take God to witness——” when a vivid flash of lightning shot from the darkness above them, and a peal of thunder almost immediately followed, with an explosion so loud as nearly to stun both. Una started with terror, and instinctively withdrew her hand from Connor's.

“God preserve us!” she exclaimed; “that's awful. Connor, I feel as if the act I am goin' to do is not right. Let us put it off at all events, till another time.”

“Is it because there comes an accidental brattle of thunder?” he returned. “Why, the thunder would come if we were never to change a promise. You have mine, now, Una dear, an' I'm sure you wouldn't wish me to be bound an' yourself free. Don't be afraid, darling; give me your hand, an' don't tremble so; repeat the words at wanst, an' let it be over.”

He again took her hand, when she repeated the form in a distinct, though feeble voice, observing, when it was concluded,

“Now, Connor, I did this to satisfy you, but I still feel like one who has done a wrong action. I am yours now, but I cannot help praying to God that it may end happily for us both.”

“It must, darling Una—it must end happily for us both. How can it be otherwise? For my part, except to see you my wife, I couldn't be happier than I am this minute; exceptin' that, my heart has all it wished for. Is it possible—Oh! is it possible that this is not a dream, my heart's life? But if it is—if it is—I never more will wish to waken.”

Her young lover was deeply affected as he uttered these words, nor was Una proof against the emotion they produced.

“I could pray to God, this moment, with a purer heart than I ever had before,” he proceeded, “for makin' my lot in life so happy. I feel that I am better and freer from sin than I ever was yet. If we're faithful and true to one another, what can the world do to us?”

“I couldn't be otherwise than faithful to you,” she replied, “without being unhappy myself; an' I trust it's no sin to love each other as we do. Now let us——God bless me, what a flash! and here's the rain beginning. That thunder's dreadful; Heaven preserve us! It's an awful night! Connor, you must see me as far as the corner of the garden; as for you, I wish you were safe at home.”

“Hasten, dear,” said he, “hasten; it's no night for you to be out in, now that the rain's coming. As for me, if it was ten times as dreadful I won't feel it. There's but one thought—one thought in my mind, and that I wouldn't part with for the wealth of the universe.”

Both then proceeded at a quick puce until they reached the corner of Bodagh's garden, where, with brief but earnest reassurances of unalterable attachment, they took a tender and affectionate farewell.

It is not often that the higher ranks can appreciate the moral beauty of love as it is experienced by those humbler classes to whom they deny the power of feeling in its most refined and exalted character. For our parts we differ so much from them in this, that, if we wanted to give an illustration of that passion in its purest and most delicate state, we would not seek for it in the saloon or the drawing—room, but among the green fields and the smiling landscapes of rural life. The simplicity of humble hearts is more accordant with the unity of affection than any mind can be that is distracted by the competition of rival claims upon its gratification. We do not say that the votaries of rank and fashion are insensible to love; because, how much soever they may be conversant with the artificial and unreal, still they are human, and must, to a certain extent, be influenced by a principle that acts wherever it can find a heart on which to operate. We say, however, that their love, when contrasted with that which is felt by the humble peasantry, is languid and sickly; neither so pure, nor so simple, nor so intense. Its associations in high life are unfavorable to the growth of a healthy passion; for what is the glare of a lamp, a twirl through the insipid maze of the ball-room, or the unnatural distortions of the theatre, when compared to the rising of the summer sun, the singing of birds, the music of the streams, the joyous aspect of the varied landscape, the mountain, the valley, the lake, and a thousand other objects, each of which transmits to the peasant's heart silently and imperceptibly that subtle power which at once strengthens and purifies the passion? There is scarcely such a thing as solitude in the upper ranks, nor an opportunity of keeping the feelings unwasted, and the energies of the heart unspent by the many vanities and petty pleasures with which fashion forces a compliance, until the mind falls from its natural dignity, into a habit of coldness and aversion to everything but the circle of empty trifles in which it moves so giddily. But the enamored youth who can retire to the beautiful solitude of the still glen to brood over the image of her he loves, and who, probably, sits under the very tree where his love was avowed and returned; he, we say, exalted with the fulness of his happiness, feels his heart go abroad in gladness upon the delighted objects that surround him, for everything that he looks upon is as a friend; his happy heart expands over the whole landscape; his eye glances to the sky; he thinks of the Almighty Being above him, and though without any capacity to analyze his own feelings—love—the love of some humble, plain but modest girl—kindles by degrees into the sanctity and rapture of religion.

Let not our readers of rank, then, if any such may honor our pages with a perusal, be at all surprised at the expression of Connor O'Donovan when, under the ecstatic power of a love so pure and artless as that which bound his heart and Una's together, he exclaimed, as he did, “Oh! I could pray to God this moment with a purer heart than I ever had before!” Such a state of feeling among the people is neither rare nor anomalous; for, however, the great ones and the wise ones of the world may be startled at our assertion, we beg to assure them that love and religion are more nearly related to each other than those, who have never felt either in its truth and purity, can imagine.

As Connor performed his journey home, the thunder tempest passed fearfully through the sky; and, though the darkness was deep and unbroken by anything but the red flashes of lightning, yet, so strongly absorbed was his heart by the scene we have just related, that he arrived at his father's house scarcely conscious of the roar of elements which surrounded him.

The family had retired to bed when he entered, with the exception of his parents, who, having felt uneasy at his disappearance, were anxiously awaiting his return, and entering into fruitless conjectures concerning the cause of an absence so unusual.

“What,” said the alarmed mother, “what in the wide world could keep him so long out, and on sich a tempest as is in it? God protect my boy from all harm an' danger, this fearful night! Oh, Fardorougha, what 'ud become of us if anything happened him? As for me—my heart's wrapped up in him; wid—out our darlin' it 'ud break, break, Fardorougha.”

“Hut; he's gone to some neighbor's an' can't come out till the storm is over; he'll soon be here now that the thunder an' lightnin's past.”

“But did you never think, Fardorougha, what 'ud become of you, or what you'd do or how you'd live, if anything happened him? which the Almighty forbid this night and forever! Could you live widout him?”

The old man gazed upon her like one who felt displeasure at having a contingency so painful forced upon his consideration. Without making any reply, however, he looked thoughtfully into the fire for some time, after which he rose up, and, with a querulous and impatient voice, said,

“What's the use of thinkin' about sich things? Lose him! why would I lose him? I couldn't lose him—I'd as soon lose my own life—I'd rather be dead at wanst than lose him.”

“God knows your love for him is a quare love, Fardorougha,” rejoined the wife; “you wouldn't give him a guinea if it 'ud save his life, or allow him even a few shillings now an' then, for pocket-money, that he might be aquil to other young boys like him.”

“No use, no use in that, except to bring him into drink an' other bad habits; a bad way, Honora, of showin' one's love for him. If you had your will you'd spoil him; I'm keepin' whatsomever little shillin's we've scraped together to settle him dacently in life; but, indeed, that's time enough yet; he's too young to marry for some years to come, barrin' he got a fortune.”

“Well, one thing, Fardorougha, if ever two people were blessed in a good son, praise be God we are that!”

“We are, Honor, we are; there's not his aquil in the parish—achora machree that he is. When I'm gone he'll know what I've done for him.”

“Whin you're gone; why, Saver of arth, sure you wouldn't keep him out of his—— husth!——here he is, God be thanked! poor boy he's safe. Oh, thin, vich no Hoiah, Connor jewel, were you out undher this terrible night?”

“Connor, avich machree,” added the father, “you're lost! My hand to you, if he's worth three hapuns; sthrip an' throw my Cothamore about you, an' draw in to the fire; you're fairly lost.”

“I'm worth two lost people yet,” said Connor, smiling; “mother, did you ever see a pleasanter night?”

“Pleasant, Connor, darlin'! Oh thin it's you may say so, I'm sure!”

“Father, you're a worthy—only your Cothamore's too scimpt for me. Faith, mother, although you think I'm jokin', the devil a one o' me is; a pleasanter night—a happier night I never spent. Father, you ought to be proud o' me, an' stretch out a bit with the cash; faith, I'm nothin' else than a fine handsome young fellow.”

“Be me soul an' he ought to be proud out of you, Connor, whether you're in arnest or not,” observed the mother, “an' to stretch out wid the arrighad too if you want it.”

“Folly on, Connor, folly on! your mother'll back you, I'll go bail, say what you will; but sure you know all I have must be yours yet, acushla.”

Connor now sat down, and his mother stirred up the fire, on which she placed additional fuel. After a little time his manner changed, and a shade of deep gloom fell upon his manly and handsome features. “I don't know,” he at length proceeded, “that, as we three are here together, I could do betther than ask your advice upon what has happened to me to-night.”

“Why, what has happened you, Connor?” said the mother alarmed; “plase God, no harm, I hope.”

“Who else,” added the father, “would you be guided by, if not by your mother an' myself?”

“No harm, mother, dear,” said Connor in reply to her; “harm! Oh! mother, mother, if you knew it; an' as for what you say, father, it's right; what advice but my mother's an' yours ought I to ask?”

“An' God's too,” added the mother.

“An' my heart was nevir more ris to God than it was', an' is this night,” replied their ingenuous boy.

“Well, but what has happened, Connor?” said his father; “if it's anything where our advice can serve you, of coorse we'll advise you for the best.”

Connor then, with a glowing heart, made them acquainted with the affection which subsisted between himself and Una O'Brien, and ended by informing them of the vow of marriage which they had that night solemnly pledged to each other.

“You both know her by sight,” he added, “an' afther what I've sed, can you blame me for sayin' that I found this a pleasant and a happy night?”

The affectionate mother's eyes filled with tears of pride and delight, on hearing that her handsome son was loved by the beautiful daughter of Bodagh Buie, and she could not help exclaiming, in the enthusiasm of the moment,

“She's a purty girl—the purtiest indeed I ever laid my two livin' eyes upon, and by all accounts as good as she's purty; but I say that, face to face, you're as good, ay, an' as handsome, Fardorougha, as she is. God bless her, any way, an' mark her to grace and happiness, ma colleen dhas dhun.”

“He's no match for her,” said the father, who had listened with an earnest face, and compressed lips, to his son's narrative; “he's no match for her—by four hundred guineas.”

Honora, when he uttered the previous part of his observation, looked upon him with a flash of indignant astonishment; but when he had concluded, her countenance fell back into its original expression. It was evident that, while she, with the feelings of a woman and a mother, instituted a parallel between their personal merits alone, the husband viewed their attachment through that calculating spirit which had regulated his whole life.

“You're thinkin' of her money now,” she added; “but remimber, Fardorougha, that it wasn't born wid her. An' I hope, Connor, it's not for her money that you have any grah for her?”

“You may swear that, mother; I love her little finger betther than all the money in the king's bank.”

“Connor, avich, your mother has made a fool of you, or you wouldn't spake the nonsense you spoke this minute.”

“My word to you, father, I'll take all the money I'll get; but what am I to do? Bodagh Buie an' his wife will never consent to allow her to marry me, I can tell you; an' if she marries me without their consent, you both know I have no way of supportin' her, except you, father, assist me.”

“That won't be needful, Connor; you may manage them; they won't see her want; she's an only daughter; they couldn't see her want.”

“An' isn't he an only son, Fardorougha?” exclaimed the wife. “An' my sowl to happiness but I believe you'd see him want.”

“Any way,” replied her husband, “I'm not for matches against the consint of parents; they're not lucky; or can't you run away wid her, an' thin refuse marryin' her except they come down wid the cash?”

“Oh, father!” exclaimed Connor, “father, father, to become a villain!”

“Connor,” said his mother, rising up in a spirit of calm and mournful solemnity, “never heed; go to bed, achora, go to bed.”

“Of coorse I'll never heed, mother,” he replied; “but I can't help sayin' that, happy as I was awhile agone, my father is sendin' me to bed with a heavy heart. When I asked your advice, father, little I thought it would be to do—but no matter; I'll never be guilty of an act that 'ud disgrace my name.”

“No, avillish,” said his mother, “you never will; God knows it's as much an' more than you an' other people can do, to keep the name we have in decency.”

“It's fine talk,” observed Fardorougha, “but what I advise has been done by hundreds that wor married an' happy afterwards; how—an—iver you needn't get into a passion, either of you; I'm not pressin' you,' Connor, to it.”

“Connor, achree,” said his mother, “go to bed, an' instead of the advice you got, ax God's; go, avillish!”

Connor, without making any further observation, sought his sleeping-room, where, having recommended himself to God, in earnest prayer, he lay revolving all that had occurred that night, until the gentle influence of sleep at length drew him into oblivion.

“Now,” said his mother to Fardorougha, when Connor had gone, “you must sleep by yourself; for, as for me, my side I'll not stretch on the same bed wid you to-night.”

“Very well, I can't help that,” said her husband; “all I can say is this, that I'm not able to put sinse or prudence into you or Connor; so, since you won't be guided by me, take your own coorse. Bodagh Buie's very well able to provide for them—; an' if he won't do so before they marry, why let Connor have nothing to say to her.”

“I'll tell you what, Fardorougha, God wouldn't be in heaven, or you'll get a cut heart yet, either through your son or your money; an' that it may not be through my darlin' boy, O, grant, sweet Saver o' the earth, this night! I'm goin' to sleep wid Biddy Casey, an' you'll find a clane nightcap on the rail o' the bed; an', Fardorougha, afore you put it an, kneel down an' pray to God to change your heart—for it wants it—it wants it.”

In Ireland the first object of a servant man, after entering the employment of his master, is to put himself upon an amicable footing with his fellow-servants of the other sex. Such a step, besides being natural in itself, is often taken in consequence of the esprit du corps which prevails among persons of that class. Bartle Flanagan, although he could not be said to act from any habit previously acquired in service, went to work with all the tact and adroitness of a veteran. The next morning, after having left the barn where he slept, he contrived to throw himself in the way of Biddy Duggan, a girl, who, though vain and simple, was at the same time conscientious and honest. On passing from the barn to the kitchen, he noticed her returning from the well with a pitcher of water in each hand, and as it is considered an act of civil attention for the male servant, if not otherwise employed, to assist the female in small, matters of the kind, so did Flanagan, in his best manner and kindest voice, bid her good-morning and offer to carry home the pitcher.

“It's the least I may do,” said he, “now that I'm your fellow-servant; but before you go farther, lay down your burden, an' let us chat awhile.”

“Indeed,” replied Biddy, “it's little we expected ever to see your father's son goin' to earn his bread undher another man's roof.”

“Pooh! Biddy! there's greater wondhers in the world than that, woman alive! But tell me—pooh—ay, is there a thousand quarer things—but I say, Biddy, how do you like to—live wid this family?”

“Why, troth indeed, only for the withered ould leprechaun himself, divil a dacenter people ever broke bread.”

“Yet, isn't it a wondher that the ould fellow is what he is, an' he so full o' money?”

“Troth, there's one thing myself wondhers at more than that.”

“What, Biddy? let us hear it.”

“Why, that you could be mane an' shabby! enough to come as a sarvint to ate the bread of the man that ruined yees!”

“Biddy,” replied Flanagan, “I'm glad! you've said it; but do you think that I have so bad a heart as too keep revinge in against an inimy? How could I go to my knees at night, if I—no, Biddy, we must be Christians. Well! let us drop that; so you tell me this mother an' son are kind to you.”

“As good-hearted a pair as ever lived.”

“Connor, of course, can't but be very kind to so good-looking a girl as you are, Biddy,” said Bartle, with a knowing smile.

“Very kind! good-looking! ay, indeed, I'm sure o' that, Bartle; behave! an' don't be gettin' an wid any o' your palavers. What 'ud make Connor be kind to the likes of me, that way?”

“I don't see why you oughtn't an' mightn't—you're as good as him, if it goes to that.”

“Oh, yis, indeed!”

“Why, you know you'r handsome.”

“Handsome,” replied the vain girl, tightening her apron-strings, and assuming a sly, coquettish look; “Bartle, go 'an mind your business, and let me bring home my pitchers; it's time the breakwist was down. Sich nonsense!”

“Very well, you're not, thin; you've a bad leg, a bad figure, an' a bad face, an' it would be a terrible thing all out for Connor O'Donovan to fall in consate wid you.”

“Well, about Connor I could tell you something;—me! tut! go to the sarra;—faix, you don't know them that Connor's afther, nor the collogin' they all had about it no longer ago than last night itself. I suppose they thought I was asleep, but it was like the hares, wid my eyes open.”