AN INTERVIEW WITH LAURA BRIDGMAN.

e presume most of our readers will have read of Laura Bridgman, who is without any perfect sense except that of touch. A correspondent of the "Christian Union" gives an interesting account of an afternoon spent with her, from which we make the following abstract:—

If any one supposes that by reason of her deprivation she is queer or awkward in person or manners, he is altogether in error. There is nothing at all singular in her appearance. When I entered the parlour, a member of the family with whom she lives was playing on the piano, and close behind her, on a low seat, there was a very slight, very erect, quiet, self-possessed looking person, who seemed to be listening to the music, while her hands were busy over some crocheting or some similar work. She would have been taken for a guest who was fashioning some pretty article whilst being entertained with music. The expression of her face was bright and interested; and one watching her satisfied look would have been slow to believe that she did not hear. The green shade over her eyes indicated that she was one of the blind. She had on a brown dress, a blue ribbon at the neck, a gold ring and chain, and a watch or locket in her belt—a neatly attired, genteel, lady-like person, looking about thirty-five (though her age is not far from forty-four), with soft, brown hair, smooth and fine, a well shaped head, fair complexion, and handsome features. That was Laura. As soon as she learned that she had a visitor who knew people in the town where her nearest kindred live, she came swiftly across the room, leaving her work on the centre table as she passed it, and grasped my hand, laughing with the eagerness of a child. Then she sat down face to face with the lady who has charge of her, and commenced an animated conversation, by the manual alphabet, easily understood by one who has practised it; but the slight-of-hand by which the fingers of the friendly hostess, manipulating on Laura's slender wrists, communicated with that living consciousness shut in there without one perfect sense except of taste and touch, was something mysterious, inscrutable to my duller sense. Yet that the communication was definite, quick, missive, so to speak, manifest enough, for Laura's face beamed, and she was all alert. Partly by the letters and partly by signs she said a great deal to me. She "ought to be at home to be company for mother," she said; and, once or twice, she fashioned the word "Mamma" very distinctly with her lips. She asked if I knew a member of her family now dead, and said "that was a long year after Carl died." She seemed brimming over once with things to tell me, and wanted me to know about her teaching some of the blind girls to sew, which she takes great pride in, threading the needle, and making her pupils pick out their work if it is not done nicely. She is a good seamstress herself, does fancy work, and can run a sewing machine. Next, she caught hold of my hand and led me up two flights of stairs to her room to shew me her things; but the first movement was to take me to the window, where she patted on the glass and signified that I should see what a pleasant prospect there was from it. And there she, who had never seen or heard, waited by my side in great content while I looked and listened. Yet her face was radiant, and she stood there as if she both saw and heard. I wish I could bring before all those who are discontented with their lot, repining because God has withheld something from them or taken something away, the cheerful face of this lady, who has so little, but who accepts it as though she had all, who has never seen a human countenance or heard a human voice, who in the infinite glory and beauty of this outward world has no part, shut in by herself in that silent, dark, unchanging, awful loneliness. Next she showed me how springy her bed was. Then she took off my shawl, and showed me all the pretty things and conveniences she had in her room, opening every box and drawer, and displaying the contents. Her jet chain she laid against her neck, her bows and collars and embroidered hand-kerchiefs were taken up one by one, and deftly replaced in their proper receptacles. Her writing materials, sewing implements, little statuettes, trinkets, large Bible—I had to see them all. Lastly she took out a sheet of paper, pressed it down on a French writing-board, examined the point of the pencil, and wrote her autograph, "God is love and truth. S. N. Bridgman." And then from her needle-case and spool-box produced a cambric needle and fine cotton, and showed me how to thread a needle, which was done by holding the eye against the tip of her tongue, the exquisite nicety of touch in it guiding her to pass the thread through. It was done in an instant, though it seemed impossible to do it at all, and then she presented me the threaded needle triumphantly, having secured it by slipping a knot. Going down to the parlour again, she told me how kind it was in Dr. Howe to fit her up such a pretty room; and then I must go into the school room, whither she led me by the hand, and introduced me to several of her friends among the pupils, and when I took my departure she would have the teacher go with me to the door to tell me which car to take.