many a youth as he bounded gaily forward to the arena of trial, cast a
glance of anticipated victory back upon the lovely object of village
chivalry. The maidens left their looms and quilting frames, the children
their noisy sports, the slaves their labors, and the old men their
arm-chairs and long pipes, to witness and triumph in the success of the
victor. All prophesied and many wished that it would be young Carroll.
He was the handsomest and best-humored youth in the county, and all knew
that a strong and mutual attachment existed between him and the fair
Annette. Carroll had won the reputation of being the "best leaper," and
in a country where such athletic achievements were the _sine qua non_
of a man's cleverness, this was no ordinary honor. In a contest like the
present, he had therefore every advantage over his fellow _athletæ_.
The arena allotted for this hymeneal contest, was a level space in front
of the village-inn, and near the centre of a grass-plat, reserved in the
midst of the village denominated "the green." The verdure was quite worn
off at this place by previous exercises of a similar kind, and a hard
surface of sand more befittingly for the purpose to which it was to be
used, supplied its place.
The father of the lovely, blushing, and withal _happy_ prize, (for she
well knew who would win,) with three other patriarchal villagers were
the judges appointed to decide upon the claims of the several
competitors. The last time Carroll tried his skill in this exercise, he
"cleared"--to use the leaper's phraseology--twenty-one feet and one
inch.
The signal was given, and by lot the young men stepped into the arena.
"Edward Grayson, seventeen feet," cried one of the judges. The youth had
done his utmost. He was a pale, intellectual student. But what had
intellect to do in such an arena? Without looking at the maiden he
slowly left the ground.
"Dick Boulden, nineteen feet." Dick with a laugh turned away, and
replaced his coat.
"Harry Preston, nineteen feet and three inches." "Well done Harry
Preston," shouted the spectators, "you have tried hard for the acres and
homestead."
Harry also laughed and swore he only "jumped for the fun of the thing."
Harry was a rattle-brained fellow, but never thought of matrimony. He
loved to walk and talk, and laugh and romp with Annette, but sober
marriage never came into his head. He only jumped "for the fun of the
thing." He would not have said so, if sure of winning.
"Charley Simms, fifteen feet and a half." "Hurrah for Charley!
Charley'll win!" cried the crowd good-humoredly. Charley Simms was the
cleverest fellow in the world. His mother had advised him to stay at
home, and told him if he ever won a wife, she would fall in love with
his good temper, rather than his legs. Charley however made the trial of
the latter's capabilities and lost. Many refused to enter the lists
altogether. Others made the trial, and only one of the leapers had yet
cleared twenty feet.
"Now," cried the villagers, "let's see Henry Carroll. He ought to beat
this," and every one appeared, as they called to mind the mutual love of
the last competitor and the sweet Annette, as if they heartily wished
his success.
Henry stepped to his post with a firm tread. His eye glanced with
confidence around upon the villagers and rested, before he bounded
forward, upon the face of Annette, as if to catch therefrom that spirit
and assurance which the occasion called for. Returning the encouraging
glance with which she met his own, with a proud smile upon his lip, he
bounded forward.
"Twenty-one feet and a half!" shouted the multitude, repeating the
announcement of one of the judges, "twenty-one feet and a half. Harry
Carroll forever. Annette and Harry." Hands, caps, and kerchiefs waved
over the heads of the spectators, and the eyes of the delighted Annette
sparkled with joy.
When Harry Carroll moved to his station to strive for the prize, a tall,
gentlemanly young man in a military undress frock-coat, who had rode up
to the inn, dismounted and joined the spectators, unperceived, while the
contest was going on, stepped suddenly forward, and with a "knowing
eye," measured deliberately the space accomplished by the last leaper.
He was a stranger in the village. His handsome face and easy address
attracted the eyes of the village maidens, and his manly and sinewy
frame, in which symmetry and strength were happily united, called forth
the admiration of the young men.
"Mayhap, sir stranger, you think you can beat that," said one of the
by-standers, remarking the manner in which the eye of the stranger
scanned the area. "If you can leap beyond Harry Carroll, you'll beat the
best man in the colonies." The truth of this observation was assented to
by a general murmur.
"Is it for mere amusement you are pursuing this pastime?" inquired the
youthful stranger, "or is there a prize for the winner?"
"Annette, the loveliest and wealthiest of our village-maidens, is to be
the reward of the victor," cried one of the judges.
"Are the lists open to all?"
"All, young sir!" replied the father of Annette, with interest,--his
youthful ardour rising as he surveyed the proportions of the
straight-limbed young stranger. "She is the bride of him who out-leaps
Henry Carroll. If you will try, you are free to do so. But let me tell
you, Harry Carroll has no rival in Virginny. Here is my daughter, sir,
look at her and make your trial."
The young officer glanced upon the trembling maiden about to be offered
on the altar of her father's unconquerable monomania, with an admiring
eye. The poor girl looked at Harry, who stood near with a troubled brow
and angry eye, and then cast upon the new competitor an imploring
glance.
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 Æsculapius 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.
* * * * *