Part 9

Truly 'the melancholy days are come'--Death annually lifts up his solemn hymn, and the rustling of the dying leaves and the certainty of their speedy death afford to us all 'eloquent teachings.' The gay and exhilarating spring has long since passed away--the genial and joyous warmth of summer is no more; and the grateful abundance and varied scenes of Autumn are about yielding to the inclemency of hoary winter. The gay variety of nature has at length departed--the countless throng of the gaudy flowerets of summer are all returned to their native dust--the light of the sun himself is often veiled; and the bright livery of earth is hidden from our sight by the gray mantle of the iron-bound surface, or the unbroken whiteness of a snowy covering. Reading thus the language of decay written by the finger of God upon all the works of nature--reminded too of the rapid flight of time by the ceaseless revolution of seasons, we naturally turn our thoughts from the contemplation of external objects to that of the soul, and of unseen worlds. The appearances of other seasons lead our thoughts to the world we inhabit, and by the variety of objects presented to our view rather confine them to sensible things, and matters immediately connected with them. But the buried flowers and the eddying leaves of this season teach us nobler lessons; and the mind expands, while it loses itself in the infinity of being; and the gloom of the natural world shows us the splendors of other worlds, and other states of being;

'As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day.'

They tell us, that in the magnificent system of the government of God there exists no evil; and the mighty resurrections annually accomplished in the multitude of by gone years assure us, that the gloom of the night is but the prelude to the brightness of the day--that the funeral pall of autumnal and wintry days is the harbinger of a glorious, joyous and life-giving spring; and to that man the gates of the dark valley of the shadow of death are designed as the crystal portals of an eternity of bliss.

'Of the innumerable eyes, that open upon nature, none but those of man, see its author and its end.' This solemn privilege is the birth-right of the beings of immortality--of those, who perish not in time, but were formed, in some greater hour, to be companions in eternity. The mighty Being, who watches the revolutions of the material world, opens in this manner to our eyes the laws of his government; and tells us, that it is not the momentary state, but the final issue, which is to disclose its eternal design. Indeed the whole volume of nature is a natural revelation to man, often overlooked--often misused--seldom understood--but plain and solemn in its language, and full of the wisdom, justice and mercy of its author.

While, then, all inferior nature shrinks instinctively from the winds of Autumn and the storms of winter, to the high intellect of man they teach ennobling lessons. To him the inclemency of winter is no less eloquent than the abundance of Autumn, or the joyous promise of Spring. He knows, that the fair and beautiful of nature now buried in an icy covering, have still a principle of life within them; and that the gay tendrils of the vine and the blushing buds of the rose will soon be put forth in the breath of summer. The stiffened earth, he knows, will soon send forth her children in renewed beauty, and he believes, that he himself, leaving the chrysalis form of earthly clay will wing his flight in the regions of eternity.

THE PLAGUE.

By Charles P. Ilsley.

"And they that took the disease died suddenly; and immediately their bodies became covered with spots; and they were hurried away to the grave without delay: And the men who bore the corpse, as they went their way, cried with a loud voice, "_Room for the dead!_" and whosoever heard the cry, fled from the sound thereof with great fear and trembling."

_Anon._

"Room for the dead!"--a cry went forth-- "A grave--a grave prepare!" The solemn words rose fearfully Up through the stilly air: "Room for the dead!"--and a corse was borne And laid within the pit; But a mother's voice was sadly heard-- And a breaking heart was in each word-- "Oh, bury him not yet!"

The mother knelt beside the grave, And prayed to see her son; 'Twas death to stop--but by her prayers The wretched boon was won, And they raised the coffin from the pit, And then afar they fled-- For the once fair face was spotted now-- But the mother pressed her dead child's brow, And in a faint voice said--

"Nor plague nor spots shall hinder me From kissing thee, lost one! For what, alas! is life or death Since thou art gone, my son!" And she bent and kissed the livid brow, While tearless was her eye; Then her voice rang wildly in the air-- "Widow and childless!--God, is there Aught left me but--to die!"

The words were said, and there uprose A low and stifled moan-- Then all was still--The spirit of That stricken one had flown!

* * * * *

They widened the pit, and side by side Mother and son were laid; No mourning train to the grave went forth, Nor prayer was said as they heaped the earth Above the plague-struck dead!

"OH, THIS IS NOT MY HOME!"

By Charles P. Ilsley.

Oh, this is not my home-- I miss the glorious sea, Its white and sparkling foam, And lofty melody.

All things seem strange to me-- I miss the rocky shore, Where broke so sullenly The waves with deaf'ning roar:

The sands that shone like gold Beneath the blazing sun, O'er which the waters roll'd, Soft chanting as they run:

And oh, the glorious sight! Ships moving to and fro, Like birds upon their flight, So silently they go!

I climb the mountain's height, And sadly gaze around, No waters meet my sight, I hear no rushing sound.

Oh, would I were at home, Beside the glorious sea, To bathe within its foam And list its melody!

THE VILLAGE PRIZE.

By Joseph Ingraham.

In one of the loveliest villages of old Virginia there lived, in the year 175- and odd, an old man, whose daughter was declared, by universal consent, to be the loveliest maiden in all the country round. The veteran, in his youth, had been athletic and muscular above all his fellows; and his breast, where he always wore them, could show the adornment of three medals, received for his victories in gymnastic feats when a young man. His daughter was now eighteen, and had been sought in marriage by many suitors. One brought wealth--another, a fine person--another, industry--another, military talents--another this, and another that. But they were all refused by the old man, who became at last a by-word for his obstinacy among the young men of the village and neighborhood. At length, the nineteenth birthday of Annette, his charming daughter, who was as amiable and modest as she was beautiful, arrived. The morning of that day, her father invited all the youth of the country to a hay-making frolic. Seventeen handsome and industrious young men assembled. They came not only to make hay, but also to make love to the fair Annette. In three hours they had filled the father's barns with the newly dried grass, and their own hearts with love. Annette, by her father's command, had brought them malt liquor of her own brewing, which she presented to each enamored swain with her own fair hands.

"Now my boys," said the old keeper of the jewel they all coveted, as leaning on their pitch-forks they assembled around his door in the cool of the evening--"Now my lads, you have nearly all of you made proposals for my Annette. Now you see, I don't care any thing about money nor talents, book larning nor soldier larning--I can do as well by my gal as any man in the county. But I want her to marry a man of my own grit. Now, you know, or ought to know, when I was a youngster, I could beat any thing in all Virginny in the way o' leaping. I got my old woman by beating the smartest man on the Eastern Shore, and I have took the oath and sworn it, that no man shall marry my daughter without jumping for it. You understand me boys. There's the green, and here's Annette," he added, taking his daughter, who stood timidly behind him, by the hand, "Now the one that jumps the furthest on a 'dead level,' shall marry Annette this very night."

This unique address was received by the young men with applause. And 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.