Part 10

Placing his coat in the hands of one of the judges, he drew a sash he wore beneath it tighter around his waist, and taking the appointed stand, made, apparently without effort, the bound that was to decide the happiness or misery of Henry and Annette.

"Twenty two feet one inch!" shouted the judge. The announcement was repeated with surprise by the spectators, who crowded around the victor, filling the air with congratulations, not unmingled, however, with loud murmurs from those who were more nearly interested in the happiness of the lovers.

The old man approached, and grasping his hand exultingly, called him his son, and said he felt prouder of him than if he were a prince. Physical

## activity and strength were the old leaper's true patents of nobility.

Resuming his coat, the victor sought with his eye the fair prize he had, although nameless and unknown, so fairly won. She leaned upon her father's arm, pale and distressed.

Her lover stood aloof, gloomy and mortified, admiring the superiority of the stranger in an exercise in which he prided himself as unrivalled, while he hated him for his success.

"Annette, my pretty prize," said the victor, taking her passive hand--"I have won you fairly." Annette's cheek became paler than marble; she trembled like an aspen-leaf, and clung closer to her father, while her drooping eye sought the form of her lover. His brow grew dark at the stranger's language.

"I have won you, my pretty flower, to make you a bride!--tremble not so violently--I mean not for myself, however proud I might be," he added with gallantry, "to wear so fair a gem next my heart. Perhaps," and he cast his eyes around inquiringly, while the current of life leaped joyfully to her brow, and a murmur of surprise run through the crowd--"perhaps there is some favored youth among the competitors, who has a higher claim to this jewel. Young Sir," he continued, turning to the surprised Henry, "methinks you were victor in the lists before me,--I strove not for the maiden, though one could not well strive for a fairer--but from love for the manly sport in which I saw you engaged. You are the victor, and as such, with the permission of this worthy assembly, receive from my hands the prize you have so well and honorably won."

The youth sprung forward and grasped his hand with gratitude; and the next moment, Annette was weeping from pure joy upon his shoulders. The welkin rung with the acclamations of the delighted villagers, and amid the temporary excitement produced by this act, the stranger withdrew from the crowd, mounted his horse, and spurred at a brisk trot through the village.

That night, Henry and Annette were married, and the health of the mysterious and noble-hearted stranger, was drunk in over-flowing bumpers of rustic beverage.

In process of time, there were born unto the married pair, sons and daughters, and Harry Carroll had become Colonel Henry Carroll, of the Revolutionary army.

One evening, having just returned home after a hard campaign, he was sitting with his family on the gallery of his handsome country-house, when an advance courier rode up and announced the approach of General Washington and suite, informing him that he should crave his hospitality for the night. The necessary directions were given in reference to the household preparations, and Col. Carroll, ordering his horse, rode forward to meet and escort to his house the distinguished guest, whom he had never yet seen, although serving in the same widely-extended army.

That evening at the table, Annette, now become the dignified, matronly and still handsome Mrs. Carroll, could not keep her eyes from the face of her illustrious visitor. Every moment or two she would steal a glance at his commanding features, and half-doubtingly, half-assumedly, shake her head and look again and again, to be still more puzzled. Her absence of mind and embarrassment at length became evident to her husband who, inquired affectionately if she were ill?

"I suspect, Colonel," said the General, who had been some time, with a quiet, meaning smile, observing the lady's curious and puzzled survey of his features--"that Mrs. Carroll thinks she recognizes in me an old acquaintance." And he smiled with a mysterious air, as he gazed upon both alternately.

The Colonel stared, and a faint memory of the past seemed to be revived, as he gazed, while the lady rose impulsively from her chair, and bending eagerly forward over the tea-urn, with clasped hands and an eye of intense, eager inquiry, fixed full upon him, stood for a moment with her lips parted as if she would speak.

"Pardon me, my dear madam--pardon me, Colonel, I must put an end to this scene. I have become, by dint of camp-fare and hard usage, too unwieldy to leap again twenty-two feet one inch, even for so fair a bride as one I wot of."

The recognition, with the surprise, delight and happiness that followed, are left to the imagination of the reader.

General Washington was indeed the handsome young "leaper," whose mysterious appearance and disappearance in the native village of the lovers, is still traditionary, and whose claim to a substantial body of _bona fide_ flesh and blood, was stoutly contested by the village story-tellers, until the happy _denouement_ which took place at the hospitable mansion of Col. Carroll.

INDIFFERENCE TO STUDY.

By George W. Light.

We only find out what we have a sincere desire to know. All men have in themselves nearly the same fund of primitive ideas; they have especially the same moral fund; the difference which there is in men, comes from the fact, that some improve this fund, while others neglect it.

_Degerando._

No argument ought to be required at the present day, to prove that all men, however their capacities may differ in kind or degree, possess the natural ability to make considerable progress in some useful study. The principles of our government proceed upon this ground, and place every man under strong moral obligation to make the most of himself, that he may be able to bear the responsibility that rests upon him. The protestant principle, that all men have the right to judge for themselves in matters relating to religion, is founded on the same basis. Even the principles of trade--which every body is supposed to be able to know--call for the exercise of no small amount of intellect, to understand and apply them to their full extent. The intimate connection between the arts and sciences proves conclusively, that those who are engaged in the one, ought to be acquainted with the other. We are aware of the common belief, that the study of the sciences is not necessary with the mass of the community who are engaged in the various active pursuits. But this narrow view is fast going out of date. The progress of _steam_, if nothing else, will ere long convince the most incredulous, by its abridgment of human labor, that the great body of mankind were intended for something besides mere machines. The sciences of law and medicine are no more closely connected with the practice of the lawyer and physician, than mechanical and agricultural science with the business of the mechanic and farmer. The same may be said of other sciences, as, for instance, of Political Economy, in its application to mercantile affairs. In accordance with the spirit of these views, opportunities for instruction are provided, and means of self-education are multiplied, to an unparalleled degree.

Notwithstanding, however, the general admission of the truth under consideration, not a few persons who think the improvement of their minds a matter of little importance, undertake to excuse themselves, by modestly confessing that they have no natural taste for study--that they cannot study. But it is difficult to understand how they can be so blinded to the resources they have within them, under the light which this day of civilization is pouring upon them. Where do they suppose themselves to be? Are they in some dark domain, shut out from all the soul-stirring influences of a boundless universe, dragging out an existence as hopeless as it is degraded?--or do they dwell in the midst of a glorious creation, with no understanding to unravel its divine mysteries, and no heart to be moved by the eloquence of its inspiration? One of these things must be true, if we may reason from their own language. If they do possess the high faculties of the soul, and can do nothing for their cultivation, it cannot be that they have their dwelling-place upon a world belonging to the magnificent empire of God. There can be no sun blazing down upon them, flooding the earth with his glory, and giving fresh life and beauty to every living thing. The evening can reveal to them no myriads of stars, burning with holy lustre beyond the clouds of heaven. They can see no mountains towering to the skies; no green valleys, spangled with the flowers of the earth, smiling around them. They can hear no anthem sounding from the depths of the ocean. They can see no lightnings flashing in the broad expanse,--nor hear the artillery of heaven thundering over the firmament, as if it would shake the very pillars of the universe. If they could see and hear this, with minds awake to the most noble objects of contemplation, and hearts susceptible of the loftiest impulses, they would inquire about the earth they tread upon, the beautiful things scattered in such profusion around them, and the sun and the ever-burning stars above them. And they would not stop here. They would search into the mysteries of their own nature. They would look into the wonders of that upper life, where the sun of an eternal kingdom burns in its lofty arches, where the rivers of life flow from the everlasting mountains, and where the pure spirits of the earth shall shine like the stars forever.

But, however paradoxical it may seem, these men do dwell in the grand universe of God--and they do possess inexhaustible minds: and they have been compelled to quench the brightest flames and to prevent the swelling of the purest fountains of their existence, in order to descend to the condition of which they complain. The Creator doomed them to no such degradation. The truth is, they know nothing of themselves. They do not understand their relations to the creation that surrounds them. They do not comprehend the great purpose to which all their labors should tend. They waste those hours which might be devoted to the elevation of their being, in practices that render them insensible to the glories of the universe in which they dwell, and to the sublime destiny for which they were created. They deny themselves to be the workmanship of God.

THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL.

By Henry W. Longfellow.

The sultry heat of summer always brings with it, to the idler and the man of leisure, a longing for the leafy shade and the green luxuriance of the country. It is pleasant to interchange the din of the city, the movement of the crowd, and the gossip of society, with the silence of the hamlet, the quiet seclusion of the grove, and the gossip of a woodland brook.

It was a feeling of this kind that prompted me, during my residence in the north of France, to pass one of the summer months at Auteuil--the pleasantest of the many little villages that lie in the immediate vicinity of the metropolis. It is situated on the outskirts of the _Bois de Boulogne_--a wood of some extent, in whose green alleys the dusty cit enjoys the luxury of an evening drive, and gentlemen meet in the morning to give each other satisfaction in the usual way. A cross-road, skirted with green hedge-rows, and over-shadowed by tall poplars, leads you from the noisy highway of St. Cloud and Versailles to the still retirement of this suburban hamlet. On either side the eye discovers old chateaux amid the trees, and green parks, whose pleasant shades recall a thousand images of La Fontaine, Racine, and Moliere; and on an eminence, overlooking the windings of the Seine, and giving a beautiful though distant view of the domes and gardens of Paris, rises the village of Passy, long the residence of our countrymen Franklin and Count Rumford.

I took up my abode at a _Maison de Sante_; not that I was a valetudinarian,--but because I there found some one to whom I could whisper, "How sweet is solitude!" Behind the house was a garden filled with fruit-trees of various kinds, and adorned with gravel-walks and green arbours, furnished with tables and rustic seats, for the repose of the invalid and the sleep of the indolent. Here the inmates of the rural hospital met on common ground, to breathe the invigorating air of morning, and while away the lazy noon or vacant evening with tales of the sick chamber.

The establishment was kept by Dr. Dent-de-lion, a dried up little fellow, with red hair, a sandy complexion, and the physiognomy and gestures of a monkey. His character corresponded to his outward lineaments; for he had all a monkey's busy and curious impertinence. Nevertheless, such as he was, the village AEsculapius strutted forth the little great man of Auteuil. The peasants looked up to him as to an oracle,--he contrived to be at the head of every thing, and laid claim to the credit of all public improvements in the village: in fine, he was a great man on a small scale.

It was within the dingy walls of this little potentate's imperial palace that I chose my country residence. I had a chamber in the second story, with a solitary window, which looked upon the street, and gave me a peep into a neighbor's garden. This I esteemed a great privilege; for, as a stranger, I desired to see all that was passing out of doors; and the sight of green trees, though growing on another man's ground, is always a blessing. Within doors--had I been disposed to quarrel with my household gods--I might have taken some objection to my neighborhood; for, on one side of me was a consumptive patient, whose graveyard cough drove me from my chamber by day; and on the other, an English colonel, whose incoherent ravings, in the delirium of a high and obstinate fever, often broke my slumbers by night: but I found ample amends for these inconveniences in the society of those who were so little indisposed as hardly to know what ailed them, and those who, in health themselves, had accompanied a friend or relative to the shades of the country in pursuit of it. To these I am indebted for much courtesy; and particularly to one who, if these pages should ever meet her eye, will not, I hope, be unwilling to accept this slight memorial of a former friendship.

It was, however, to the _Bois de Boulogne_ that I looked for my principal recreation. There I took my solitary walk, morning and evening; or, mounted on a little mouse-colored donkey, paced demurely along the woodland pathway. I had a favorite seat beneath the shadow of a venerable oak, one of the few hoary patriarchs of the wood which had survived the bivouacs of the allied armies. It stood upon the brink of a little glassy pool, whose tranquil bosom was the image of a quiet and secluded life, and stretched its parental arms over a rustic bench, that had been constructed beneath it for the accommodation of the foot-traveller, or, perchance, some idle dreamer like myself. It seemed to look round with a lordly air upon its old hereditary domain, whose stillness was no longer broken by the tap of the martial drum, nor the discordant clang of arms; and, as the breeze whispered among its branches, it seemed to be holding friendly colloquies with a few of its venerable contemporaries, who stooped from the opposite bank of the pool, nodding gravely now and then, and ogling themselves with a sigh in the mirror below.

In this quiet haunt of rural repose I used to sit at noon, hear the birds sing, and "possess myself in much quietness." Just at my feet lay the little silver pool, with the sky and the woods painted in its mimic vault, and occasionally the image of a bird, or the soft watery outline of a cloud, floating silently through its sunny hollows. The water-lily spread its broad green leaves on the surface, and rocked to sleep a little world of insect life in its golden cradle. Sometimes a wandering leaf came floating and wavering downward, and settled on the water; then a vagabond insect would break the smooth surface into a thousand ripples, or a green-coated frog slide from the bank, and plump! dive headlong to the bottom.

I entered, too, with some enthusiasm, into all the rural sports and merrimakes of the village. The holy-days were so many little eras of mirth and good feeling; for the French have that happy and sunshine temperament--that merry-go-mad character--which makes all their social meetings scenes of enjoyment and hilarity. I made it a point never to miss any of the _Fetes Champetres_, or rural dances, at the wood of Boulogne; though I confess it sometimes gave me a momentary uneasiness to see my rustic throne beneath the oak usurped by a noisy group of girls, the silence and decorum of my imaginary realm broken by music and laughter, and, in a word, my whole kingdom turned topsyturvy, with romping, fiddling, and dancing. But I am naturally, and from principle, too, a lover of all those innocent amusements which cheer the laborers' toil, and, as it were, put their shoulders to the wheel of life, and help the poor man along with his load of cares. Hence I saw with no small delight the rustic swain astride the wooden horse of the _carrousal_, and the village maiden whirling round and round in its dizzy car; or took my stand on a rising ground that overlooked the dance, an idle spectator in a busy throng. It was just where the village touched the outward border of the wood. There a little area had been levelled beneath the trees, surrounded by a painted rail, with a row of benches inside. The music was placed in a slight balcony, built around the trunk of a large tree in the centre, and the lamps, hanging from the branches above, gave a gay, fantastic, and fairy look to the scene. How often in such moments did I recall the lines of Goldsmith, describing those "kinder skies," beneath which "France displays her bright domain," and feel how true and masterly the sketch,--

Alike all ages; dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore.

* * * * *

I was one morning called to my window by the sound of rustic music. I looked out, and beheld a procession of villagers advancing along the road, attired in gay dresses, and marching merrily on in the direction of the church. I soon perceived that it was a marriage festival. The procession was led by a long orangoutang of a man, in a straw hat and white dimity bob-coat, playing on an asthmatic clarionet, from which he contrived to blow unearthly sounds, ever and anon squeaking off at right angles from his tune, and winding up with a grand flourish on the guttural notes. Behind him, led by his little boy, came the blind fiddler, his honest features glowing with all the hilarity of a rustic bridal, and, as he stumbled along, sawing away upon his fiddle till he made all crack again. Then came the happy bridegroom, dressed in his Sunday suit of blue, with a large nosegay in his button-hole, and close beside him his blushing bride, with downcast eyes, clad in a white robe and slippers, and wearing a wreath of white roses in her hair. The friends and relatives brought up the procession; and a troop of village urchins came shouting along in the rear, scrambling among themselves for the largess of sous and sugar-plums that now and then issued in large handfuls from the pockets of a lean man in black, who seemed to officiate as master of ceremonies on the occasion. I gazed on the procession till it was out of sight; and when the last wheeze of the clarionet died upon my ear, I could not help thinking how happy were they who were thus to dwell together in the peaceful bosom of their native village, far from the gilded misery and the pestilential vices of the town.

On the evening of the same day, I was sitting by the window, enjoying the freshness of the air and the beauty and stillness of the hour, when I heard the distant and solemn hymn of the Catholic burial-service, at first so faint and indistinct that it seemed an illusion. It rose mournfully on the hush of evening--died gradually away--then ceased. Then it rose again, nearer and more distinct, and soon after a funeral procession appeared, and passed directly beneath my window. It was led by a priest, bearing the banner of the church, and followed by two boys, holding long flambeaux in their hands. Next came a double file of priests in white surplices, with a missal in one hand and a lighted wax taper in the other, chanting the funeral dirge at intervals,--now pausing, and then again taking up the mournful burden of their lamentation, accompanied by others, who played upon a rude kind of horn, with a dismal and wailing sound. Then followed various symbols of the church, and the bier borne on the shoulders of four men. The coffin was covered with a black velvet pall, and a chaplet of white flowers lay upon it, indicating that the deceased was unmarried. A few of the villagers came behind, clad in mourning robes, and bearing lighted tapers. The procession passed slowly along the same street that in the morning had been thronged by the gay bridal company. A melancholy train of thought forced itself home upon my mind. The joys and sorrows of this world are so strikingly mingled! Our mirth and grief are brought so mournfully in contact! We laugh while others weep, and others rejoice when we are sad! The light heart and the heavy walk side by side, and go about together! Beneath the same roof are spread the wedding feast and the funeral pall! The bridal song mingles with the burial hymn! One goes to the marriage bed, another to the grave; and all is mutable, uncertain, and transitory.

THE PAST AND THE NEW YEAR.

By Prentiss Mellen.