Complete Prose Works

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It was a calm scene, and a pleasant. There was no rude sound--hardly
even a chirping insect--to break the sleepy silence of the place. The
atmosphere had a dim, hazy cast, and was impregnated with overpowering
heat. The young man lay there minute after minute, as time glided away
unnoticed; for he was very tired, and his repose was sweet to him.
Occasionally he raised himself and cast a listless look at the distant
landscape, veil'd as it was by the slight mist. At length his repose
was without such interruptions. His eyes closed, and though at first
they open'd languidly again at intervals, after a while they shut
altogether. Could it be that he slept? It was so indeed. Yielding to
the drowsy influences about him, and to his prolong'd weariness of
travel, he had fallen into a deep, sound slumber. Thus he lay; and
Black Nell, the original cause of his departure from his home--by a
singular chance, the companion of his return--quietly cropp'd the
grass at his side.

An hour nearly pass'd away, and yet the young man slept on. The light
and heat were not glaring now; a change had come over earth and
heaven. There were signs of one of those thunderstorms that in our
climate spring up and pass over so quickly and so terribly. Masses
of vapor loom' d up in the horizon, and a dark shadow settled on the
woods and fields. The leaves of the great oak rustled together over
the youth's head. Clouds flitted swiftly in the sky, like bodies of
armed men coming up to battle at the call of their leader's trumpet.
A thick rain-drop fell now and then, while occasionally hoarse
mutterings of thunder sounded in the distance; yet the slumberer was
not arous'd. It was strange that Wild Frank did not awake. Perhaps
his ocean life had taught him to rest undisturbed amid the jarring of
elements. Though the storm was now coming on in its fury, he slept
like a babe in its cradle.

Black Nell had ceased grazing, and stood by her sleeping master with
ears erect, and her long mane and tail waving in the wind. It seem'd
quite dark, so heavy were the clouds. The blast blew sweepingly, the
lightning flash'd, and the rain fell in torrents. Crash after crash
of thunder seem'd to shake the solid earth. And Black Nell, she stood
now, an image of beautiful terror, with her fore feet thrust out, her
neck 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 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.

THE CHILD AND THE PROFLIGATE

Just after sunset, one evening in summer--that pleasant hour when the
air is balmy, the light loses its glare, and all around is imbued with
soothing quiet--on the door-step of a house there sat an elderly woman
waiting the arrival of her son. The house was in a straggling village
some fifty miles from New York city. She who sat on the door-step was
a widow; her white cap cover'd locks of gray, and her dress, though
clean, was exceedingly homely. Her house--for the tenement she
occupied was her own--was very little and very old. Trees clustered
around it so thickly as almost to hide its color--that blackish gray
color which belongs to old wooden houses that have never been painted;
and to get in it you had to enter a little rickety gate and walk
through a short path, border'd by carrot beds and beets and other
vegetables. The son whom she was expecting was her only child. About
a year before he had been bound apprentice to a rich farmer in the
place, and after finishing his daily task he was in the habit of
spending half an hour at his mother's. On the present occasion the
shadows of night had settled heavily before the youth made his
appearance. When he did, his walk was slow and dragging, and all his
motions were languid, as if from great weariness. He open'd the gate,
came through the path, and sat down by his mother in silence.

"You are sullen to-night, Charley," said the widow, after a moment's
pause, when she found that he return' d no answer to her greeting.

As she spoke she put her hand fondly on his head; it seem'd moist as
if it had been dipp'd in the water. His shirt, too, was soak'd; and as
she pass'd her fingers down his shoulder she left a sharp twinge in
her heart, for she knew that moisture to be the hard wrung sweat of
severe toil, exacted from her young child (he was but thirteen years
old) by an unyielding taskmaster.

"You have work'd hard to-day, my son."

"I've been mowing."

The widow's heart felt another pang.

"Not _all day_, Charley?" she said, in a low voice; and there was a
slight quiver in it.

"Yes, mother, all day," replied the boy; "Mr. Ellis said he couldn't
afford to hire men, for wages are so high. I've swung the scythe ever
since an hour before sunrise. Feel of my hands."

There were blisters on them like great lumps. Tears started in the
widow's eyes. She dared not trust herself with a reply, though her
heart was bursting with the thought that she could not better his
condition. There was no earthly means of support on which she had
dependence enough to encourage her child in the wish she knew he was
forming--the wish not utter'd for the first time--to be freed from his
bondage. "Mother," at length said the boy, "I can stand it no longer.
I cannot and will not stay at Mr. Ellis's. Ever since the day I first
went into his house I've been a slave; and if I have to work so much
longer I know I shall run off and go to sea or somewhere else. I'd as
leave be in my grave as there." And the child burst into a passionate
fit of weeping.

His mother was silent, for she was in deep grief herself. After some
minutes had flown, however, she gather'd sufficient self-possession to
speak to her son in a soothing tone, endeavoring to win him from his
sorrows and cheer up his heart. She told him that time was swift--that
in the course of a few years he would be his own master.--that all
people have their troubles--with many other ready arguments which,
though they had little effect in calming her own distress, she hoped
would act as a solace to the disturb'd temper of the boy. And as the
half hour to which he was limited had now elaps'd, she took him by the
hand and led him to the gate, to set forth on his return. The youth
seemed pacified, though occasionally one of those convulsive sighs
that remain after a fit of weeping, would break from his throat. At
the gate he threw his arms about his mother's neck; each press'd a
long kiss on the lips of the other, and the youngster bent his steps
towards his master's house.

As her child pass'd out of sight the widow return'd, shut the gate and
enter'd her lonely room. There was no light in the old cottage that
night--the heart of its occupant was dark and cheerless. Love, agony,
and grief, and tears and convulsive wrestlings were there. The thought
of a beloved son condemned to labor--labor that would break down a
man--struggling from day to day under the hard rule of a soulless
gold-worshipper; the knowledge that years must pass thus; the
sickening idea of her own poverty, and of living mainly on the grudged
charity of neighbors--thoughts, too, of former happy days--these
rack'd the widow's heart, and made her bed a sleepless one without
repose.

The boy bent his steps to his employer's, as has been said. In his way
down the village street he had to pass a public house, the only one
the place contain'd; and when he came off against it he heard the
sound of a fiddle--drown'd, however, at intervals, by much laughter
and talking. The windows were up, and, the house standing close to the
road, Charles thought it no harm to take a look and see what was going
on within. Half a dozen footsteps brought him to the low casement, on
which he lean'd his elbow, and where he had a full view of the room
and its occupants. In one corner was an old man, known in the village
as Black Dave--he it was whose musical performances had a moment
before drawn Charles's attention to the tavern; and he it was who now
exerted himself in a violent manner to give, with divers flourishes
and extra twangs, a tune very popular among that thick-lipp'd race
whose fondness for melody is so well known. In the middle of the room
were five or six sailors, some of them quite drunk, and others in the
earlier stages of that process, while on benches around were more
sailors, and here and there a person dress'd in landsman's attire. The
men in the middle of the room were dancing; that is, they were going
through certain contortions and shufflings, varied occasionally by
exceeding hearty stamps upon the sanded floor. In short the whole
party were engaged in a drunken frolic, which was in no respect
different from a thousand other drunken frolics, except, perhaps,
that there was less than the ordinary amount of anger and quarreling.
Indeed everyone seem' d in remarkably good humor.