Listen, and the old will speak a chronicle for the young. Ah, youth!
thou art one day coming to be old, too. And let me tell thee how thou
mayest get a useful lesson. For an hour, _dream thyself old_. Realize,
in thy thoughts and consciousness, that vigor and strength are subdued
in thy sinews--that the color of the shroud is liken'd in thy very
hairs--that all those leaping desires, luxurious hopes, beautiful
aspirations, and proud confidences, of thy younger life, have long been
buried (a funeral for the better part of thee) in that grave which must
soon close over thy tottering limbs. Look back, then, through the long
track of the past years. How has it been with thee? Are there bright
beacons of happiness enjoy'd, and of good done by the way? Glimmer
gentle rays of what was scatter'd from a holy heart? Have benevolence,
and love, and undeviating honesty left tokens on which thy eyes can rest
sweetly? Is it well with thee, thus? Answerest thou, it is? Or answerest
thou, I see nothing but gloom and shatter'd hours, and the wreck of good
resolves, and a broken heart, filled with sickness, and troubled among
its ruined chambers with the phantoms of many follies?
O, youth! youth! this dream will one day be a _reality_--a reality,
either of heavenly peace or agonizing sorrow.
And yet not for all is it decreed to attain the neighborhood of the
three-score and ten years--the span of life. I am to speak of one
who died young. Very awkward was his childhood--but most fragile and
sensitive! So delicate a nature may exist in a rough, unnoticed plant!
Let the boy rest;--he was not beautiful, and dropp'd away betimes. But
for the cause--it is a singular story, to which let crusted worldlings
pay the tribute of a light laugh--light and empty as their own hollow
hearts.
Love! which with its cankerseed of decay within, has sent young men
and maidens to a long'd-for, but too premature burial. Love! the
child-monarch that Death itself cannot conquer; that has its tokens on
slabs at the head of grass-cover'd tombs--tokens more visible to the
eye of the stranger, yet not so deeply graven as the face and the
remembrances cut upon the heart of the living. Love! the sweet, the
pure, the innocent; yet the causer of fierce hate, of wishes for deadly
revenge, of bloody deeds, and madness, and the horrors of hell. Love!
that wanders over battlefields, turning up mangled human trunks, and
parting back the hair from gory faces, and daring the points of swords
and the thunder of artillery, without a fear or a thought of danger.
Words! words! I begin to see I am, indeed, an old man, and garrulous!
Let me go back--yes, I see it must be many years!
It was at the close of the last century. I was at that time studying
law, the profession my father follow'd. One of his clients was an
elderly widow, a foreigner, who kept a little ale-house, on the banks of
the North River, at about two miles from what is now the centre of the
city. Then the spot was quite out of town and surrounded by fields and
green trees. The widow often invited me to come and pay her a visit,
when I had a leisure afternoon--including also in the invitation my
brother and two other students who were in my father's office. Matthew,
the brother I mention, was a boy of sixteen; he was troubled with an
inward illness--though it had no power over his temper, which ever
retain' d the most admirable placidity and gentleness.
He was cheerful, but never boisterous, and everybody loved him; his mind
seem'd more develop'd than is usual for his age, though his personal
appearance was exceedingly plain. Wheaton and Brown, the names of the
other students, were spirited, clever young fellows, with most of the
traits that those in their position of life generally possess. The
first was as generous and brave as any man I ever knew. He was very
passionate, too, but the whirlwind soon blew over, and left everything
quiet again. Frank Brown was slim, graceful, and handsome. He profess'd
to be fond of sentiment, and used to fall regularly in love once a
month.
The half of every Wednesday we four youths had to ourselves, and were
in the habit of taking a sail, a ride, or a walk together. One of these
afternoons, of a pleasant day in April, the sun shining, and the air
clear, I bethought myself of the widow and her beer--about which latter
article I had made inquiries, and heard it spoken of in terms of
high commendation. I mention'd the matter to Matthew and to my
fellow-students, and we agreed to fill up our holiday by a jaunt to the
ale-house. Accordingly, we set forth, and, after a fine walk, arrived in
glorious spirits at our destination.
Ah! how shall I describe the quiet beauties of the spot, with its long,
low piazza looking out upon the river, and its clean homely tables,
and the tankards of real silver in which the ale was given us, and the
flavor of that excellent liquor itself. There was the widow; and there
was a sober, stately old woman, half companion, half servant, Margery
by name; and there was (good God! my fingers quiver yet as I write the
word!) young Ninon, the daughter of the widow.
O, through the years that live no more, my memory strays back, and that
whole scene comes up before me once again-and the brightest part of
the picture is the strange ethereal beauty of that young girl! She
was apparently about the age of my brother Matthew, and the most
fascinating, artless creature I had ever beheld. She had blue eyes and
light hair, and an expression of childish simplicity which was charming
indeed. I have no doubt that ere half an hour had elapsed from the time
we enter'd the tavern and saw Ninon, every one of the four of us loved
the girl to the very depth of passion.
We neither spent so much money, nor drank as much beer, as we had
intended before starting from home. The widow was very civil, being
pleased to see us, and Margery served our wants with a deal of
politeness--but it was to Ninon that the afternoon's pleasure was
attributable; for though we were strangers, we became acquainted at
once--the manners of the girl, merry as she was, putting entirely out of
view the most distant imputation of indecorum--and the presence of the
widow and Margery, (for we were all in the common room together, there
being no other company,) serving to make us all disembarrass'd, and at
ease.
It was not until quite a while after sunset that we started on our
return to the city. We made several attempts to revive the mirth and
lively talk that usually signalized our rambles, but they seem'd forced
and discordant, like laughter in a sick-room. My brother was the only
one who preserved his usual tenor of temper and conduct.
I need hardly say that thenceforward every Wednesday afternoon was spent
at the widow's tavern. Strangely, neither Matthew or my two friends, or
myself, spoke to each other of the sentiment that filled us in reference
to Ninon. Yet we all knew the thoughts and feelings of the others; and
each, perhaps, felt confident that his love alone was unsuspected by his
companions.
The story of the widow was a touching yet simple one. She was by birth
a Swiss. In one of the cantons of her native land, she had grown up, and
married, and lived for a time in happy comfort. A son was born to her,
and a daughter, the beautiful Ninon. By some reverse of fortune, the
father and head of the family had the greater portion of his possessions
swept from him. He struggled for a time against the evil influence, but
it press'd upon him harder and harder. He had heard of a people in the
western world--a new and swarming land--where the stranger was welcom'd,
and peace and the protection of the strong arm thrown around him. He had
not heart to stay and struggle amid the scenes of his former prosperity,
and he determin'd to go and make his home in that distant republic of
the west. So with his wife and children, and the proceeds of what little
property was left, he took passage for New York. He was never to reach
his journey's end. Either the cares that weigh' d upon his mind, or some
other cause, consign'd him to a sick hammock, from which he only found
relief through the Great Dismisser. He was buried in the sea, and in due
time his family arrived at the American emporium. But there, the son too
sicken'd--died, ere long, and was buried likewise. They would not bury
him in the city, but away--by the solitary banks of the Hudson; on which
the widow soon afterwards took up her abode.
Ninon was too young to feel much grief at these sad occurrences; and the
mother, whatever she might have suffer'd inwardly, had a good deal of
phlegm and patience, and set about making herself and her remaining
child as comfortable as might be. They had still a respectable sum in
cash, and after due deliberation, the widow purchas'd the little quiet
tavern, not far from the grave of her boy; and of Sundays and holidays
she took in considerable money--enough to make a decent support for
them in their humble way of living. French and Germans visited the house
frequently, and quite a number of young Americans too. Probably the
greatest attraction to the latter was the sweet face of Ninon.
Spring passed, and summer crept in and wasted away, and autumn had
arrived. Every New Yorker knows what delicious weather we have, in these
regions, of the early October days; how calm, clear, and divested of
sultriness, is the air, and how decently nature seems preparing for her
winter sleep.
Thus it was the last Wednesday we started on our accustomed excursion.
Six months had elapsed since our first visit, and, as then, we were full
of the exuberance of young and joyful hearts. Frequent and hearty were
our jokes, by no means particular about the theme or the method, and
long and loud the peals of laughter that rang over the fields or along
the shore.
We took our seats round the same clean, white table, and received our
favorite beverage in the same bright tankards. They were set before us
by the sober Margery, no one else being visible. As frequently happen'd,
we were the only company. Walking and breathing the keen, fine air had
made us dry, and we soon drain'd the foaming vessels, and call'd for
more. I remember well an animated chat we had about some poems that
had just made their appearance from a great British author, and were
creating quite a public stir. There was one, a tale of passion and
despair, which Wheaton had read, and of which he gave us a transcript.
Wild, startling, and dreamy, perhaps it threw over our minds its
peculiar cast. An hour moved off, and we began to think it strange that
neither Ninon or the widow came into the room. One of us gave a hint to
that effect to Margery; but she made no answer, and went on in her usual
way as before.
"The grim old thing," said Wheaton, "if she were in Spain, they'd make
her a premier duenna!"
I ask'd the woman about Ninon and the widow. She seemed disturb'd, I
thought; but, making no reply to the first part of my question, said
that her mistress was in another part of the house, and did not wish to
be with company.
"Then be kind enough, Mrs. Vinegar," resumed Wheaton, good-naturedly,
"be kind enough to go and ask the widow if we can see Ninon."
Our attendant's face turn'd as pale as ashes, and she precipitately left
the apartment. We laugh'd at her agitation, which Frank Brown assigned
to our merry ridicule.
Quite a quarter of an hour elaps'd before Margery's return. When she
appear'd she told us briefly that the widow had bidden her obey our
behest, and now, if we desired, she would conduct us to the daughter's
presence. There was a singular expression in the woman's eyes, and
the whole affair began to strike us as somewhat odd; but we arose, and
taking our caps, follow'd her as she stepp'd through the door. Back of
the house were some fields, and a path leading into clumps of trees. At
some thirty rods distant from the tavern, nigh one of those clumps, the
larger tree whereof was a willow, Margery stopp'd, and pausing a minute,
while we came up, spoke in tones calm and low:
"Ninon is there!"
She pointed downward with her finger. Great God! There was a _grave_,
new made, and with the sods loosely join'd, and a rough brown stone at
each extremity! Some earth yet lay upon the grass near by. If we had
look'd, we might have seen the resting-place of the widow's son, Ninon's
brother--for it was close at hand. But amid the whole scene our eyes
took in nothing except that horrible covering of death--the oven-shaped
mound. My sight seemed to waver, my head felt dizzy, and a feeling of
deadly sickness came over me. I heard a stifled exclamation, and looking
round, saw Frank Brown leaning against the nearest tree, great sweat
upon his forehead, and his cheeks bloodless as chalk. Wheaton gave
way to his agony more fully than ever I had known a man before; he had
fallen--sobbing like a child, and wringing his hands. It is impossible
to describe the suddenness and fearfulness of the sickening truth that
came upon us like a stroke of thunder.
Of all of us, my brother Matthew neither shed tears, or turned pale,
or fainted, or exposed any other evidence of inward depth of pain. His
quiet, pleasant voice was indeed a tone lower, but it was that which
recall'd us, after the lapse of many long minutes, to ourselves.
So the girl had died and been buried. We were told of an illness that
had seized her the very day after our last preceding visit; but we
inquired not into the particulars.
And now come I to the conclusion of my story, and to the most singular
part of it. The evening of the third day afterward, Wheaton, who had
wept scalding tears, and Brown, whose cheeks had recovered their color,
and myself, that for an hour thought my heart would never rebound again
from the fearful shock--that evening, I say, we three were seated around
a table in another tavern, drinking other beer, and laughing but a
little less cheerfully, and as though we had never known the widow or
her daughter--neither of whom, I venture to affirm, came into our minds
once the whole night, or but to be dismiss'd again, carelessly, like the
remembrance of faces seen in a crowd.
Strange are the contradictions of the things of life! The seventh day
after that dreadful visit saw my brother Matthew--the delicate one, who,
while bold men writhed in torture, had kept the same placid face, and
the same untrembling fingers--him that seventh day saw a clay-cold
corpse, carried to the repose of the churchyard. The shaft, rankling
far down and within, wrought a poison too great for show, and the youth
died.