Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent, I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and towers: You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Tennyson. THE BELLS OF SHANDON. THE church of Shandon is built on the ruins of Shandon Castle, and is a prominent object to the traveler as he approaches the city of Cork from any direction. Father Prout, or the Rev. Francis Mahony which was his true name, was a native of Cork. WITH deep affection and recollection, I often think of those Shandon bells. Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, On this I ponder where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee, With thy bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling "old Adrian's Mole in," But thy sound was sweeter than the dome of Peter O! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosko And loud in air calls men to prayer From the tapering summit of tall minarets. The pleasant waters of the river Lee. BARBARA AND KIT. FROM THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. Father Prout. THE last door shuts behind them. They have passed the outer wall, and stand in the open air in the street he has so often pictured to himself when hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and which has been in all his dreams. It seems wider and more busy than it used to be. The night is bad, and yet how cheerful and gay in his eyes! One of the gentlemen, in taking leave of him, pressed some money into his hand. He has not counted it; but when they had gone a few paces beyond the box for poor prisoners, he hastily returns and drops it in. Mr. Garland has a coach waiting in a neighboring street, and, taking Kit inside with him, bids the man drive home. At first, they can only travel at a footpace, and then with torches going on before, because of the heavy fog. But, as they get farther from the river, and leave the closer portions of the town behind, they are able to dispense with this precaution and to proceed at a brisker rate. On the road, hard galloping would be too slow for Kit; but, when they are drawing near their journey's end, he begs they may go more slowly, and, when the house appears in sight, that they may stop-only for a minute or two- to give him time to breathe. But there is no stopping then, for the old gentleman speaks stoutly to him, the horses mend their pace, and they are already at the garden-gate. Next minute, they are at the door. There is a noise of tongues and tread of feet inside. It opens. Kit rushes in, and finds his mother clinging round his neck. And there, too, is the ever-faithful Barbara's mother, still holding the baby as if she had never put it down since that sad day when they little hoped to have such joy as this there she is, Heaven bless her! crying her eyes out, and sobbing as never woman sobbed before; and there is little Barbara-poor little Barbara, so much thinner and so much paler, and yet so very prettytrembling like a leaf and supporting herself against the wall; and there is Mrs. Garland, neater and nicer than ever, fainting away stone dead with nobody to help her; and there is Mr. Abel, violently blowing his nose, and wanting to embrace everybody; and there is the single gentleman hovering round them all, and constant to nothing for an instant; and there is that good, dear, thoughtful little Jacob, sitting all alone by himself on the bottom stair, with his hands on his knees like an old man, roaring fearfully without giving any trouble to anybody; and each and all of them are for the time clean out of their wits, and do jointly and severally commit all manner of follies. And even when the rest have in some measure come to themselves again, and can find words and smiles, Barbara - that soft-hearted, gentle, foolish little Barbara-is suddenly missed, and found to be in a swoon by herself in the back parlor, from which swoon she falls into hysterics, and from which hysterics into a swoon again, and is, indeed, so bad that, despite a mortal quantity of vinegar and cold water, she is hardly a bit better at last than she was at first. Then Kit's mother comes in and says will he come and speak to her; and Kit says "Yes," and goes; and he says in a kind voice, "Barbara!" and Barbara's mother tells her that "it's only Kit;" and Barbara says (with her eyes closed all the time), "Oh! but is it him, indeed?" and Barbara's mother says, "To be sure it is, my dear; there's nothing the matter now.' And in further assurance that he's safe and sound, Kit speaks to her again; and then Barbara goes off into another fit of laughter, and then into another fit of crying; and then Barbara's mother and Kit's mother nod to each other and pretend to scold her - but only to bring her to herself the faster, bless you! — and being experienced matrons, and acute at perceiving the first dawning symptoms of recovery, they comfort Kit with the assurance that "she'll do now," and so dismiss him to the place from whence he came. There is one friend he has not seen yet, and as he cannot be conveniently introduced into the family circle, by reason of his being an iron-shod quadruped, Kit takes the first opportunity of slipping away and hurrying to the stable. The moment he lays his hand upon the latch, the pony neighs the loudest pony's greeting; before he has crossed the threshold, the pony is capering about his loose box (for he brooks not the indignity of a halter), mad to give him welcome; and when Kit goes up to caress and pat him, the pony rubs his nose against his coat, and fondles him more lovingly than ever pony fondled man. It is the crowning circumstance of his earnest, heartfelt reception; and Kit fairly puts his arm round Whisker's neck and hugs him. But how comes Barbara to trip in there? and how smart she is again! she has been at her glass since she recovered. How comes Barbara in the stable, of all places in the world? Why, since Kit has been away, the pony would take his food from nobody but her; and Barbara, you see, not dreaming Christopher was there, and just looking in to see that everything was right, has come upon him unawares. Blushing little Barbara! It may be that Kit had caressed the pony enough; it may be that there are even better things to caress than ponies. He leaves him for Barbara at any rate, and hopes she is better. Yes. Barbara is a great deal better. She is afraid and here Barbara looks down and blushes more that he must have thought her very foolish. "Not at all," says Kit. Barbara is glad of that, and coughs Hem!—just the slightest cough possible—not more than that. What a discreet pony, when he chooses! He is as quiet now as if he were of marble. He has a very knowing look, but that he always has. "We have hardly had time to shake hands, Barbara," said Kit. Barbara gives him hers. Why, she is trembling now! Barbara! Foolish, fluttering Arm's length? The length of an arm is not much. |