Complete Prose Works
arch'd, and her eyes glaring balls of fear. At length, after a dazzling
and lurid glare, there came a peal--a deafening crash--as if the great
axle was rent. God of Spirits! the startled mare sprang off like a ship
in an ocean-storm! Her eyes were blinded with light; she dashed madly
down the hill, and plunge after plunge--far, far away--swift as an
arrow--dragging the hapless body of the youth behind her!
In the low, old-fashion'd dwelling of the farmer there was a large
family group. The men and boys had gather'd under shelter at the
approach of the storm; and the subject of their talk was the return
of the long absent son. The mother spoke of him, too, and her eyes
brighten'd with pleasure as she spoke. She made all the little domestic
preparations--cook'd his favorite dishes--and arranged for him his
own bed, in its own old place. As the tempest mounted to its fury they
discuss'd the probability of his getting soak'd by it; and the provident
dame had already selected some dry garments for a change. But the rain
was soon over, and nature smiled again in her invigorated beauty. The
sun shone out as it was dipping in the west. Drops sparkled on the
leaf-tips--coolness and clearness were in the air.
The clattering of a horse's hoofs came to the ears of those who were
gather'd there. It was on the other side of the house that the wagon
road lead; and they open'd the door and rush'd in a tumult of glad
anticipations, through the adjoining room to the porch. What a sight it
was that met them there! Black Nell stood a few feet from the door, with
her neck crouch'd down; she drew her breath long and deep, and vapor
rose from every part of her reeking body. And with eyes starting from
their sockets, and mouths agape with stupefying terror, they beheld on
the ground near her a mangled, hideous mass--the rough semblance of a
human form--all batter'd, and cut, and bloody. Attach'd to it was the
fatal cord, dabbled over with gore. And as the mother gazed--for she
could not withdraw her eyes--and the appalling truth came upon her mind,
she sank down without shriek or utterance, into a deep, deathly swoon.
THE BOY LOVER
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