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HUMAN FRAILTY.

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“Well, we'll get some dinner at Bagnolet.”

No further objection being made, the party set out. It was dark when they reached Bagnolet. This beau- tiful village consists only of one narrow street, almost as long as the Faubourg St. Martin. As they proceed- ed, they heard a dreadful noise which seemed continu- ally to increase. They could not distinguish whether it were caused by strife or by laughter and rejoicing, but to the ladies it seemed of sad augury.

“Well,” exclaimed M. Barbeau, “there is some ap- pearance of a fete here at all events. Do you hear how the inhabitants are amusing themselves.”

“I know not how they are amusing themselves,” Madame Barbeau replied, “but I am frightened at the noise they make.”

“So am I,” said Leonora, pressing closer to her mother.

“If there is fighting going on,” said Grigou, “I had much rather not see the fete; I shall be off”

“Come, come, what nonsense!” cried M. Barbeau. “The people are only laughing and dancing. How can that alarm you? Come along and I'll be answer- able for the consequences.”

They at length reached the village green, where the fete was held. At one of its extremities was a spot well sanded and surrounded with ropes, within which the young people of the place were dancing to the sound of two squeaking fiddles and a tambourine. Opposite were two moveable shops, one for the sale of gingerbread, and the other of sausages. The green was lit up with a few small lamps, and about a dozen candles in paper lanterns.

Qur party arrived during the height of a dispute be- tween some of the peasants, most of whom were in- toxicated. The women had withdrawn to the other side of the green, whence they looked at the glorious feats performed by their husbands, their sons, and their brothers. At length, however, the strife ceased, the two sexes once more mingled in the mazy dance, and the peace seemed a durable one. But appearan- ces are often deceitful.

“You see that there is amusement here,” said M. Barbeau. “These people make a great noise it is true, but peasants are accustomed to speak loud.”

“Is this what you call a village fete?” inquired Grigou.

“Stop, we have not yet seen every thing; but let us find a traiteur, and get something to eat.”

They looked on all sides for this accommodating personage, but could see no more of a traiteur at Bag- nolet than they had seen of a fete at Romainville. They discovered, however, a mean public house, over the door of which was a sign, with these words:

RUSTIC GARDEN AND LANDSCAPE.

“Do you know what that means?” said M. Barbeau to the painter.

“Faith, not I.”

“Nor I either; but no matter, let's go in, and we will ask for a landscape in which there is something to eat.”

They accordingly entered the hovel, but could not remain in the public room, because the smell of garlic was so strong there that it drew tears from their eyes. They therefore went into the rustic garden behind the premises. Here they discovered that the pre- tended landscape consisted of some paper-hangings pasted upon the wall of the garden, and displaying figures of parrots and canary birds perched upon branches of trees.

The party, almost starved, seated themselves round a table facing the landscape, and inquired what they eould have for dinner. There was nothing left but pickled pork and eggs; all the other provisions had been devoured by the peasants who had come to the

fete. Such a dinner, washed down with Bagnolet wine, seemed very rustic to our Parisians, who swallowed it as fast as they conld, and returned to the place where the dance was going on, with great animation.

M. Barbeau, who had stuffed the party with ginger- bread by way of dessert, now insisted upon their dancing. In vain did his wife resist; he made her stand up, and chose to be her partner himself. Belle- feuille led out Leonora. The music began; the peasants had struck off without waiting for it, and the dance joyously proceeded in the sanded arena. On a sudden, other peasants broke into the ring, and fell upon the dancers with the utmost fury, saying, “We forbade you to dance with our women.”

A general battle ensued, for every peasant at the fete took a part in the quarrel, on one side or the other. The women ran off screaming, the children squalled, the dogs barked, and all was in dreadful confusion;— yet the fiddles continued, as if exciting the combatants to deeds of noble daring. In the midst of this tumult Madame Barbeau lost her husband, and her daughter was separated from the artist. It was not without difficulty that the mother and daughter succeeded in getting out of the ring. The one called her husband, the other her little brother—but in vain—their voices were lost among those of the female peasants, who were endeavouring to separate the belligerents. After some time they found Grigou in the corner of the green, dreadfully bruised. Four peasants had been fighting over his body for five minutes, and two men had just lifted him from the ground. Though scarcely able to move, he managed to get beyond the range of the village fete. M. Bellefeuille soon appeared without his hat, but brought back Alexander to his mother— M. Barbeau was still missing; he, however, joined the others at last, minus a cravat, and with his shirt collar torn. He was in perfect good humour, and seemed to enjoy the fun.

“Oh! the devils,” he exclaimed, “how they battered each other.”

“Ah! my dear,” said his wife, “where have you been?”

“T have been fighting.”

“And for whom?”

“Faith, I don’t know. The fact is, every body was fighting, and I thought I might as well do as the others did; so, after I had knocked down two or three, the others made room for me to pass. Ah! what a pleasant excursion! Shall we return home, my love?”

“Yes, indeed, as fast as we can.”

“Well, come along then; but I can’t answer for our finding a coach at the barriere.”

“Ah! friend Barbeau,” sighed Grigou, “you shall never catch me at such a party of pleasure again.”

ee oe aC HUMAN FRAILTY.

Lire is a fountain, fed by a thousand streams which perish if one be dried: it is a silver cord, twisted with a thousand strings, that part asunder if one be broken. Frail and thoughtless mortals are surrounded by innumerable dangers, which make it more strange that they escape so long, than that they almost all perish so suddenly and surely at last. We are encompassed with accidents ever ready to crush the mouldering tenements that we inhabit. The seeds of disease are planted in our constitutions by the hand of Nature. The earth and the atmo- sphere whence we draw our life, are impregnated with death: health is made to operate in its own de- struction. The food that nourishes the body contains the elements of its decay—the soul that animates it by the vivifying fire, tends to wear it out by its ac- tion. Death lurks in ambush along our paths—“in the midst of life we are in death.”