THAT VERY SINGULAR MAN, old Dr.
Heidegger, once invited four venerable friends to meet him in
his study. There were three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel
Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a withered gentlewoman, whose name was
the Widow Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures, who had been
unfortunate in life, and whose greatest misfortune it was that they were
not long ago in their graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had
been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a frantic speculation,
and was now little better than a mendicant. Colonel Killigrew had wasted
his best years, and his health and substance, in the pursuit of sinful
pleasures, which had given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout,
and divers other torments of soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined
politician, a man of evil fame, or at least had been so till time had buried
him from the knowledge of the present generation, and made him obscure
instead of infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that
she was a great beauty in her day; but, for a long while past, she had
lived in deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories which
had prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It is a circumstance
worth mentioning that each of these three old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne,
Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly,
and had once been on the point of cutting each other's throats for her
sake. And, before proceeding further, I will merely hint that Dr. Heidegger
and all his four guests were sometimes thought to be a little beside themselves-
as is not unfrequently the case with old people, when worried either by
present troubles or woful recollections.
"My dear old friends," said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to
be seated, I am desirous of your assistance in one of those little experiments
with which I amuse myself here in my study."
If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must have been
a very curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned chamber, festooned with
cobwebs, and besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood several
oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled with rows of gigantic
folios and black-letter quartos, and the upper with little parchment-covered
duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was a bronze bust of Hippocrates,
with which, according to some authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed
to hold consultations in all difficult cases of his practice. In the obscurest
corner of the room stood a tall and narrow oaken closet, with its door
ajar, within which doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases
hung a looking-glass, presenting its high and dusty plate within a tarnished
gilt frame. Among many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was
fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased patients dwelt within
its verge, and would stare him in the face whenever he looked thitherward.
The opposite side of the chamber was ornamented with the full-length portrait
of a young lady, arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, satin, and
brocade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a century
ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of marriage with this young lady;
but, being affected with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of
her lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal evening. The greatest
curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned; it was a ponderous folio
volume, bound in black leather, with massive silver clasps. There were
no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the title of the book. But
it was well known to be a book of magic; and once, when a chambermaid had
lifted it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had rattled in its
closet, the picture of the young lady had stepped one foot upon the floor,
and several ghastly faces had peeped forth from the mirror; while the brazen
head of Hippocrates frowned, and said- "Forbear!"
Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer afternoon of our
tale a small round table, as black as ebony, stood in the centre of the
room, sustaining a cut-glass vase of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship.
The sunshine came through the window, between the heavy festoons of two
faded damask curtains, and fell directly across this vase; so that a mild
splendor was reflected from it on the ashen visages of the five old people
who sat around. Four champagne glasses were also on the table.
"My dear old friends," repeated Dr. Heidegger, "may I reckon
on your aid in performing an exceedingly curious experiment?"
Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman, whose eccentricity
had become the nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. Some of these
fables, to my shame be it spoken, might possibly be traced back to my own
veracious self; and if any passages of the present tale should startle
the reader's faith, I must be content to bear the stigma of a fiction monger.
When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his proposed
experiment, they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the murder of
a mouse in an air pump, or the examination of a cobweb by the microscope,
or some similar nonsense, with which he was constantly in the habit of
pestering his intimates. But without waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger
hobbled across the chamber, and returned with the same ponderous folio,
bound in black leather, which common report affirmed to be a book of magic.
Undoing the silver clasps, he opened the volume, and took from among its
black-letter pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now the green
leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, and the ancient
flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands.
"This rose, said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, "this same withered
and crumbling flower, blossomed five and fifty years ago. It was given
me by Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant to wear it
in my bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has been treasured
between the leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it possible
that this rose of half a century could ever bloom again?"
"Nonsense!" said the Widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of her
head. "You might as well ask whether an old woman's wrinkled face could
ever bloom again."
"See!" answered Dr. Heidegger.
He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into the water
which it contained. At first, it lay lightly on the surface of the fluid,
appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular change
began to be visible. The crushed and dried petals stirred, and assumed
a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower were reviving from a deathlike
slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became green; and there
was the rose of half a century, looking as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had
first given it to her lover. It was scarcely full blown; for some of its
delicate red leaves curled modestly around its moist bosom, within which
two or three dewdrops were sparkling.
"That is certainly a very pretty deception," said the doctor's
friends; carelessly, however, for they had witnessed greater miracles at
a conjurer's show; "pray how was it effected?"
"Did you never hear of the 'Fountain of Youth'?" asked Dr. Heidegger,
"which Ponce de Leon, the Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or
three centuries ago?"
"But did Ponce de Leon ever find it?" said the Widow Wycherly.
"No, answered Dr. Heidegger, "for he never sought it in the right
place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, is situated
in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake Macaco.
Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias, which, though
numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as violets by the virtues
of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of mine, knowing my curiosity
in such matters, has sent me what you see in the vase."
"Ahem!" said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the
doctor's story: "and what may be the effect of this fluid on the human
"You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel," replied Dr.
Heidegger; "and all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so much
of this admirable fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For my
own part, having had much trouble in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow
young again. With your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the progress
of the experiment."
While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four champagne
glasses with the water of the Fountain of Youth. It was apparently impregnated
with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually ascending
from the depths of the glasses, and bursting in silvery spray at the surface.
As the liquor diffused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not that
it possessed cordial and comfortable properties; and though utter sceptics
as to its rejuvenescent power, they were inclined to swallow it at once.
But Dr. Heidegger besought them to stay a moment.
"Before you drink, my respectable old friends," said he, "it
would be well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, you
should draw up a few general rules for your guidance, in passing a second
time through the perils of youth. Think what a sin and shame it would be,
if, with your peculiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue
and wisdom to all the young people of the age!"
The doctor's four venerable friends made him no answer, except
by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so very ridiculous was the idea that,
knowing how closely repentance treads behind the steps of error, they should
ever go astray again.
"Drink, then," said the doctor, bowing: "I rejoice that I have
so well selected the subjects of my experiment."
With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their lips. The
liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as Dr. Heidegger imputed to
it, could not have been bestowed on four human beings who needed it more
wofully. They looked as if they had never known what youth or pleasure
was, but had been the offspring of Nature's dotage, and always the gray,
decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures, who now sat stooping round the
doctor's table, without life enough in their souls or bodies to be animated
even by the prospect of growing young again. They drank off the water,
and replaced their glasses on the table.
Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement in the aspect
of the party, not unlike what might have been produced by a glass of generous
wine, together with a sudden glow of cheerful sunshine brightening over
all their visages at once. There was a healthful suffusion on their cheeks,
instead of the ashen hue that had made them look so corpse-like. They gazed
at one another, and fancied that some magic power had really begun to smooth
away the deep and sad inscriptions which Father Time had been so long engraving
on their brows. The Widow Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt almost
like a woman again.
"Give us more of this wondrous water!" cried they, eagerly. "We
are younger- but we are still too old! Quick- give us more!"
"Patience, patience!" quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat watching the
experiment with philosophic coolness. "You have been a long time growing
old. Surely, you might be content to grow young in half an hour! But the
water is at your service."
Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough
of which still remained in the vase to turn half the old people in the
city to the age of their own grandchildren. While the bubbles were yet
sparkling on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their glasses
from the table, and swallowed the contents at a single gulp. Was it delusion?
even while the draught was passing down their throats, it seemed to have
wrought a change on their whole systems. Their eyes grew clear and bright;
a dark shade deepened among their silvery locks, they sat around the table,
three gentlemen of middle age, and a woman, hardly beyond her buxom prime.
"My dear widow, you are charming!" cried Colonel Killigrew, whose
eyes had been fixed upon her face, while the shadows of age were flitting
from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak.
The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew's compliments
were not always measured by sober truth; so she started up and ran to the
mirror, still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would meet
her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner as proved
that the water of the Fountain of Youth possessed some intoxicating qualities;
unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits were merely a lightsome dizziness
caused by the sudden removal of the weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's mind
seemed to run on political topics, but whether relating to the past, present,
or future could not easily be determined, since the same ideas and phrases
have been in vogue these fifty years. Now he rattled forth full-throated
sentences about patriotism, national glory, and the people's right; now
he muttered some perilous stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper,
so cautiously that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the secret;
and now, again, he spoke in measured accents, and a deeply deferential
tone, as if a royal ear were listening to his well-turned periods. Colonel
Killigrew all this time had been trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and
ringing his glass in symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered
toward the buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other side of the
table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and cents,
with which was strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East
Indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs.
As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesying
and simpering to her own image, and greeting it as the friend whom she
loved better than all the world beside. She thrust her face close to the
glass, to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or crow's foot had indeed
vanished. She examined whether the snow had so entirely melted from her
hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. At last, turning
briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing step to the table.
"My dear old doctor," cried she, "pray favor me with another
"Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!" replied the complaisant
doctor; "see! I have already filled the glasses."
There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this wonderful
water, the delicate spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface,
resembled the tremulous glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly sunset
that the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild and moonlike splendor
gleamed from within the vase, and rested alike on the four guests and on
the doctor's venerable figure. He sat in a high-backed, elaborately-carved,
oaken arm-chair, with a gray dignity of aspect that might have well befitted
that very Father Time, whose power had never been disputed, save by this
fortunate company. Even while quaffing the third draught of the Fountain
of Youth, they were almost awed by the expression of his mysterious visage.
But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of young life shot
through their veins. They were now in the happy prime of youth. Age, with
its miserable train of cares and sorrows and diseases, was remembered only
as the trouble of a dream, from which they had joyously awoke. The fresh
gloss of the soul, so early lost, and without which the world's successive
scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw its enchantment
over all their prospects. They felt like new-created beings in a new-created
"We are young! We are young!" they cried exultingly.
Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked
characteristics of middle life, and mutually assimilated them all. They
were a group of merry youngsters, almost maddened with the exuberant frolicsomeness
of their years. The most singular effect of their gayety was an impulse
to mock the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had so lately been
the victims. They laughed loudly at their old-fashioned attire, the wide-skirted
coats and flapped waist-coats of the young men, and the ancient cap and
gown of the blooming girl. One limped across the floor like a gouty grandfather;
one set a pair of spectacles astride of his nose, and pretended to pore
over the black-letter pages of the book of magic; a third seated himself
in an arm-chair, and strove to imitate the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger.
Then all shouted mirthfully, and leaped about the room. The Widow Wycherly-
if so fresh a damsel could be called a widow- tripped up to the doctor's
chair, with a mischievous merriment in her rosy face.
"Doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, "get up and dance with
me!" And then the four young people laughed louder than ever, to think
what a queer figure the poor old doctor would cut.
"Pray excuse me," answered the doctor quietly. "I am old and
rheumatic, and my dancing days were over long ago. But either of these
gay young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner."
"Dance with me, Clara!" cried Colonel Killigrew.
"No, no, I will be her partner!" shouted Mr. Gascoigne.
"She promised me her hand, fifty years ago!" exclaimed Mr. Medbourne.
They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his
passionate grasp- another threw his arm about her waist- the third buried
his hand among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the widow's cap.
Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning
each of their faces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet still
remained in their triple embrace. Never was there a livelier picture of
youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty for the prize. Yet, by a strange
deception, owing to the duskiness of the chamber, and the antique dresses
which they still wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures
of the three old, gray, withered grandsires, ridiculously contending for
the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam.
But they were young: their burning passions proved them so. Inflamed
to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither granted nor quite
withheld her favors, the three rivals began to interchange threatening
glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at
one another's throats. As they struggled to and fro, the table was overturned,
and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. The precious Water of Youth
flowed in a bright stream across the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly,
which, grown old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die. The
insect fluttered lightly through the chamber, and settled on the snowy
head of Dr. Heidegger.
"Come, come, gentlemen! come, Madam Wycherly," exclaimed the
doctor, I really must protest against this riot."
They stood still and shivered; for it seemed as if gray Time
were calling them back from their sunny youth, far down into the chill
and darksome vale of years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in
his carved arm-chair, holding the rose of half a century, which he had
rescued from among the fragments of the shattered vase. At the motion of
his hand, the four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily, because
their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful though they were.
"My poor Sylvia's rose!" ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it
in the light of the sunset clouds; "it appears to be fading again."
And so it was. Even while the party were looking at it, the flower
continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as when the
doctor had first thrown it into the vase. He shook off the few drops of
moisture which clung to its petals.
"I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness," observed he,
pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. While he spoke, the butterfly
fluttered down from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the floor.
His guests shivered again. A strange chillness, whether of the
body or spirit they could not tell, was creeping gradually over them all.
They gazed at one another, and fancied that each fleeting moment snatched
away a charm, and left a deepening furrow where none had been before. Was
it an illusion? Had the changes of a lifetime been crowded into so brief
a space, and were they now four aged people, sitting with their old friend,
"Are we grown old again, so soon?" cried they, dolefully.
In truth they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue
more transient than that of wine. The delirium which it created had effervesced
away. Yes! they were old again. With a shuddering impulse, that showed
her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands before her face,
and wished that the coffin lid were over it, since it could be no longer
"Yes, friends, ye are old again," said Dr. Heidegger, "and lo!
the Water of Youth is all lavished on the ground. Well- I bemoan it not;
for if the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe
my lips in it- no, though its delirium were for years instead of moments.
Such is the lesson ye have taught me!"
But the doctor's four friends had taught no such lesson to themselves.
They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to Florida, and quaff at morning,
noon, and night, from the Fountain of Youth. -