Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

“Never, Joseph Rancy,” answered Rose, speaking rapidly, but kindly, though so firm. “I _have_ always thought of you as a dear friend, that is true, but I can never be any more than that.”

“Will you not say any thing more, Rose? Think again; you call me your dear friend, oh, be my wife, my best and dearest friend. Your home is so happy, think of mine, lonely and dreary as it is now; what a paradise it _might_ be were you there! Rose, dear Rose May, I pray you only to think again.”

“I have thought, Joseph; do not speak to me so any more, it pains me; there are many others who might make your home as happy, far happier than I; forget that you have had such thoughts about me, my friend.”

“How can I forget,” said Joseph, sadly, while for a moment longer he retained her to hear his words, for she was hastening away. “Tell me, Rose,” he said, falteringly, “is there any other—do you love any body better than me?”

“Yes, my father and mother.”

“Not them—I don’t mean them; the love I ask is not the kind you give to them—but is there another—”

“It is not right in you to ask me such questions, you know it is not. Don’t make me think the less of you as a friend by going too far now.”

“Forgive me dear, dear Rose—I’m going. Don’t let what I’ve said trouble you; I’d let my tongue be burned with hot iron before speaking what I have to you to-day, if I thought ’twould make you less happy.”

“Good-by, Joseph, now you are what you always have been, generous and good; and if I don’t love you as you could wish, I honor you from my heart—good-by.”

There was a lingering sadness in the maiden’s voice as she spoke, that convinced Joseph she was honest in her words, and that she did sincerely grieve to have been the cause of disappointment to him; yet that knowledge did not soothe nor allay the heart-wound she had given him; and he went back to his home, feeling, as I suppose many a poor mortal has felt before, disconsolate and unhappy. Still Joseph was a young man of sound mind, and he loved Rose May even better than ever he had before; her very firmness made him respect her for it, though that firmness was all directed against his suit.

Often as he thought over the unmeasurable distance there must forever be, even in thought, between them, so often came the soothing remembrance that it was not lack of worth on his part that made her reject him. Had she not said she honored him? And was not such respect and kindly feeling, indeed, the highest and the purest kind of love? Might he not some day convince her that it was also the best love, and the one most conducive to happiness in wedded life? But, alas! close upon this thought came the death-blow to all hope, for Joseph was convinced that she would wed another.

Yes, and there _was_ one she had promised to wed—one for whom she had more than respect—one whom she more than honored—and he none other than Rob Horn! He was the fortunate youth whose telegraph-dispatch was successful in receiving a speedy and satisfactory reply. Fortune favored him; does she favor only the good, and the deserving, and true?

The home of one of the most powerful of the spirits was in these mountains—a spirit loving justice and equity, who watched the scales wherein the good and evil were weighed with jealous eye. This being of power took much interest in the affairs of the shepherds; sometimes she had even deigned to speak with them in her quiet, unostentatious way; and when she taught them, it was generally on some subject of domestic good or household economy. Almost all her instructions had been of this nature, for they were a quiet, religious people among whom she lived, giving away very rarely to the temptations of vice; but once or twice the spirit had spoken in rather strong and understandable language, to an offender who rarely in his sinful life had any “compunctious visitings.” No one had ever seen her bodily, and yet there was but one person who dared to disbelieve in the spirit’s existence, but one who would not recognize her power; and who should this reckless one be but the wild youth, Rob Horn? _He_ dared to say, and say openly, too, that there was never any such being in existence, and that from the very nature of things there never could be. Some people will never believe in any thing out of the ordinary range of facts, more especially if they be in a state of partial ignorance—and of this very class of persons was Rob; the spirit had never manifested herself in any shape to him, and he, poor mortal! fancied she never could.

It was the only point in her lover’s nature that Rose May feared—this skepticism; for Rose was a firm believer in all spiritual existences; and often, but unavailingly, she had besought Rob to at least speak in a manner more respectful of the powerful agent, who would, she knew, work him wo if he continued obdurate in his unbelief. But there was nothing in the natural world the young man feared, there was no danger he dared not brave—why then tremble at the unseen, unknown, unheard? Why give heed to the superstitious fears of old women and maidens? Instead of being able in this case to convince her lover, Rose, after all, was herself almost persuaded by his jests and ridicule to doubt the existence of the power, which she also had never seen or heard. She began to give place in her mind to Rob’s words, that it was the idlest thing in the world to believe in such romantic impossible existences. But as yet Rose had kept her growing infidelity to herself; she would not have dared to breathe to her mother even, who was firm in the faith, her strengthening doubts; perhaps it was well for her she did not dare.

It was night—the night previous to his bridal day—and at a late hour Rob left the home of Rose, and bent his steps through the rough path that led to his own dwelling-place. The happy fellow, if we may judge from facts, was in a most delightful state of mind, well-pleased with himself and his bride-to-be, and with all the world beside. “To-morrow” was his wedding-day, and ever thereafter Rose May, the brightest flower of the mountains, was his own! And well might he rejoice.

Grant May had yielded to the youth’s solicitations with a good grace when he found his child’s hope and love were directed toward Rob; and it was no difficult thing to win the consent of the mother, for he had always been in high favor with her, since he brought her from his wanderings in the valley, the inestimable gift of a few bright pieces of useful furniture, which occupied the most honorable places and positions in her household.

In a few days after the festivities following the great occasion were over, Rob, with his bride, were to make the journey to the nearest large town, which plan was of itself half enough to make young Rose wild with joy, for the greatest multitude she had ever seen gathered, was on the Sabbath days, when twenty or thirty of the mountain people met in the little church to worship.

It was a bright moonlit night, the soft light streamed over the path he was to tread, as Rob returned home. The parting kiss of Rose was warm on his forehead; he fancied she was beside him, walking in the same path, and nearly all the way he talked soft words of love as though she were by to hear. When the young man had nearly reached his home, he encountered Joseph Rancy. These two had been far from cordial in their greetings of late, and with good reason, for Rob’s manner to Joseph had been that of triumph, and Joseph’s that of a man heart-sore and jealous of the success of his rival.

This night, however, Joseph Rancy had come out with the express purpose of meeting his friend of other days, and to speak with him in the manner of by-gone time, as kindly and as generously. When he had come up directly in front of Rob, he was still unobserved; he paused then, and holding out his hand, said,

“I came out on purpose to meet you, Rob.”

Horn took the proffered hand in his own, and said,

“I am glad to see you, truly, Rancy; we have not met of late.”

“No; we haven’t been the friends we once were, Rob. I have shunned you because—because you seemed to triumph over me, my old friend. You who have been so successful where I failed so bitterly.”

“Was it my _fault_ that I succeeded in winning Rose May, tell me that,” replied Horn, sharply. “Where’s the blame, then, if I did rejoice?”

“No _blame_, none, none,” said Joseph, mildly, “you have been fortunate indeed, I wish you and yours much joy Rob, now and ever.”

“Hold,” cried Rob as Joseph turned away, “you will come to the church to-morrow, will you not. You will wish to see Rose married?”

“Rob!” exclaimed Joseph, in a tone of deep reproach, “no—I can bear to know you are going to marry her—I can hope for you, and pray for you both—but to see her married to another! You will not need me there.”

When he finished speaking Joseph went off quickly on his way, and Rob Horn pursued his path home; the only answer he returned to Joseph’s grief was a smothered laugh, which stifled as it was in the stillness of the night, the disappointed seeker of peace heard distinctly.

All that night Joseph Rancy sat on the opposite bank of the ravine where he might look on the dwelling-place of Rose May, and all that night he prayed for her happiness, and strove hard to banish all unfriendly thoughts toward Rob Horn from his mind. But when the morning came, long before the sun rose he wandered away among the mountains, that he might be far off from the place where _she_ would be given to another.

Rob went on to his home—the cot was still as sleep, for his father and mother had hours before retired to their rest. He went to his chamber, and soon upon the easy couch he slept. And then Rob dreamed; of course there was but one he could dream of all that night, his young and beautiful bride, the girl he would be so proud to hear the old priest pronounce his wife. But though he could only dream of _her_, it does not follow that his night visions were pleasant—far enough from pleasant was the truth in this case.

He fancied that the spirit of the mountain, (the same in whose existence he had doubted for so long,) came to him with an angry frown on her spirit countenance. He trembled, yes he, the strong iron-willed youth trembled when he looked on her; he had never feared or quailed before. When she had come quite close to his bedside, and rested her hand upon his shoulder, where it lay like lead, and gazed so sternly upon him, Rob said to her:

“Why dost thou come here to disturb me, and trouble my dreams, thou terrible shape?”

And the spirit answered:

“Tell me instead, what is it thou art about to do?”

“That is quickly told,” said Horn, “to-morrow I shall marry Rose May, the loveliest maid the sun ever shone upon.”

“Ah, Rob Horn, Rob Horn,” said the spirit sternly, interrupting him, “bethink thee what it is thou wilt do! bethink thee what has become of thy betrothed in the distant village? does she wear thy ring? does she remember thy kiss, and thy love vows? what of _her_ Rob Horn?”

When the spirit spoke thus Rob was amazed, and he could not hide his amazement; his face became suddenly very red—was it the confusion of guilt? and for a moment he was completely abashed. But soon he rallied again, and said,

“I cannot marry two wives. I have loved Rose May all my life—I _must_ marry her; the maiden in the village can find another bridegroom.”

“Thou art not worthy to wed one like Rose May, but there _is_ one worthy of her whom thou hast triumphed over many a time, and even this very night, because thou hast been more successful than he—beware, thou may’st go too far.”

“Too far! She will be mine to-morrow—what power in heaven or earth can separate us? She is mine—mine—mine!”

“Thou mayest deceive thyself. I ask thee, wilt thou not give up Rose May and betake thee to the pale and sorrowing maid who has awaited thy coming so long?”

“Give her up? My Rose! never! Thou fool to ask it of me!”

“And yet I do ask thee again, wilt thou not be just? Do that which thine honor and truth require of thee—the girl thou hast deserted will die.”

“Be death her bridegroom then! Who art thou to take my Rose from me? She is mine, I will wed no other!”

“Why so sure? Did ever such wickedness as is in thee prosper? Thou hast a bad heart Rob Horn, and a thousand things may come between thee and her, even after the priest proclaims her thine. There is nothing sure or stable for one like thee! give her up now, or beware—a fate more terrible than thou canst think may be in store for thee.”

“Begone thou prating fool! rather will I give my life up than my Rose, my bride, my beautiful!”

So firmly was this third repetition of his determination spoken that Rob awoke, and as might be supposed he found himself alone, and the sunlight streaming brightly through his little window. Heartily congratulating himself that it was all a dream, the young man arose, and ere long had tastefully adorned himself with the new raiment prepared for the momentous occasion.

The morning was verging toward noon, when in the simple church the wedding party gathered before the altar.

There was beautiful Rose May and her handsome bridegroom, and after the manner of things, of necessity, the twain never in their lives looked so charmingly as then. And there were the parents of the bridegroom and the bride, happy as parents might be, who believed they were about to witness the consummation of their children’s joy. And there also were all the young brothers of Rose, bright and smiling, as such little folks on such occasions invariably are. These were all gathered about the altar; the body of the church was nearly filled with the young friends of the to-be-married ones, and the sturdy old mountaineers with their wives.

It would not be strictly cleaving to truth to say that Rob Horn was wholly at ease that morning—far otherwise, for that strange dream of his tormented him. It was foremost in his mind, claiming even in that holy hour more of his thought than the gentle, excited girl who leaned in trusting fondness on his arm. Why should a merely ugly dream annoy him so? Was the young skeptic’s disbelief in spirits shaken? Had he in reality a promised bride awaiting him in the far-off village? Have patience with me, by the _dénoument_ you will know it all.

They were kneeling before the altar. The consecrated hands of the old priest were raised in blessing above them, he was about pronouncing the uniting words, and Rob, the bridegroom, was thinking even then if there were in reality spirits he had overpowered his visitant, at least, by his boldness and firmness, when suddenly there came a shape of light floating through the open door of the church. It moved on noiselessly through the holy edifice above the heads of the astonished and alarmed congregation, until it came to the altar, and there it paused. And then a voice soft and thrilling as the voice of the summer breeze, yet distinctly audible to every soul gathered there, said—

“Rise, Robert Horn, thou _shalt not_ speak the marriage vows!”

And pale as death, Rob, unable to resist these words, lifted up himself.

Then distinctly as before, the voice said—

“Did I not tell thee to beware? Did I not forbid thee to wed this maid, thou, who hast another plighted to thee, one who waits and watches for thee, wondering at thy long delay? Did I not bid beware—didst thou not laugh at my words? Answer me, Robert Horn?”

The bridegroom lifted up his eyes to the shape before him and said, but with a voice that trembled—

“Thou didst bid me beware, but I _am_ here notwithstanding—here to take this woman for my wife, and Rose is here, she is mine, and thou, whatsoever thou art, canst not and shalt not part us.”

“Thou hast sealed thy fate,” answered the Spirit of the Mountain, “for thy wickedness, thy falseness, and thy unbelief, thou shalt be banished away from the earth for ever! And it shall be a part of the misery of thy banishment, that once in every month from thy prison-house thou shalt look down upon this lower world. Thou shalt see, and know, and feel, all the pangs, and the bliss, and the glory of love, and yet hereafter never share it with any mortal! The water-brooks, the oceans, and the seas, shall reflect thy image, and thou shalt know the bitterness of seeing even these unconscious soulless things unknowing thee, uncaring for thee. Thou shalt live on for years till they are counted by centuries, long after she thou hast so shamefully deserted sleeps the quiet, blessed sleep of death; thou shalt live to mourn and to lament over a fate thou canst not change. Thy doom is more dreadful than thou canst yet conceive of! Come, wait not even for _her_ last embrace, come—come—come!”

Swiftly away they passed, the spirit and the wifeless bridegroom, without one parting look, or kiss, or word with the trembling girl forever separated from the forever exiled youth. In an instant the little church was vacant, and without its walls might be seen gathered a group of terrified people, and foremost among them the widowed Rose, gazing on the far upper flight of poor Rob Horn.

The new moon that night came up in all her glorious beauty, and sailed on calmly as she was wont to do over the broad blue upper sea; and night after night she glided over the vast expanse, unfurling gradually wider and wider her sails, till in full and perfect splendor she at last appeared. And then, yes then Rose May beheld her lover once more; but oh that shadowy glimpse she caught of him was worse to her than had she looked on utter vacancy. She _knew_ that he was gazing on her home, that he looked in despair on her, but, alas! she saw no more the tender light that filled once his beautiful, dark eyes; she heard no words from his silenced lips, and it was like a torturing dream to her to look upon him thus, and fancy all the horrors of his banishment.

And what of Rob? He dwells in moon-land yet! among the elevated “mountains of the moon,” instead of those dear, wild heights his dwelling place on earth. Who ever could have dreamed that the wretched Wandering Jew had an unknown companion in yon bright sphere, whose lot was yet more miserable than his own? Who ever thought a “breach of promise” might be visited on unfaithful man, in quite another and more effectual way, than by laying strong hold on his most precious purse-strings?

Oh, ye soft-hearted maidens, I pray you henceforth bear in mind _who_ is the captive knight to whom so oft your fond eyes are directed, “oft in the stilly night,” when he doth stand on the brink of the “moon mountains” and gazeth down so sadly on the world, remember ye this story I have told, and turn away and leave him quite alone. Sing not in pensive strains the praise he loves to hear, laud not the beauty of the exile’s home, for oh his strained ear is strong to catch your words, his eye is quick to note your admiration. Let him not gladden in one word from thee.

And ye, gay-hearted knights, so strong to promise, and so slow to do; ye who do count it pastime to win woman’s love, and then fling it away as ye would cast aside the flower of lost fragrance, but be ye warned in time, for spirits _are_, and moon-land yet may find room in its borders for thy feet!

And now what more remains for me to tell. You have guessed, I know, how the warm-hearted spirit taught Rose May that Joseph Rancy possessed all the good and attractive qualities of the lost lover, with none of his sins and follies! You have guessed that one gay morning the old church doors were opened for another bridal party—that young Rose stood again in marriage garments before the altar, and Joseph by her side. You have guessed how the Spirit once more glided through the “place of prayer,” to add her blessing to that which the priest pronounced over the bridegroom and the bride.

Why speak of the happy home where Joseph Rancy dwelt with his beautiful lady-love? Why tell of all that wedded bliss which people for the most part in our world have heard of already, or else desire in an especial manner to hear of, and to know. And why say that all the teachings and advice which the Spirit deigned to administer to these two blest mortals, was ever received and heeded by them with the utmost care and gratitude?

Do you believe in dreams? No! Why not? Have you, indeed, yet to learn, that through them the good spirits whisper to us advice, and peace, and warning, and consolation! Are you so cold and dull as to believe there are no ministering spirits, no guiding guardian angels? Do you, _can_ you scornfully repel the idea that the forests and mountains, the oceans and the plains, have their myriad viewless _intellectual_ inhabitants? Ah, foolishly unwise, may these powerful agents have mercy on you, and charitably bear with your shameful, willful blindness!

What then—must I set you down as more ignorant and unlearned than even simple Joseph Rancy? Fling all your book-learning aside and be a very child in all knowledge, I beseech you, if that will give you faith in these surrounding millions, to believe in them, and a keen mental eyesight to behold them. And do not, above all things, dare to brave the possible malignance of Rob Horn, that is, if you regard the preservation of your worldly wealth. Gather not in your harvests, and your winter stores, while he is gazing full upon you, rather follow honest Joseph’s example, shear all shearable sheep, reap in the wealth of your apple-trees, and massacre your swine while Rob is sleeping in the shade of the mountains, just before he awakens from his slumber to gaze openly upon your doings. And if you manifest your faith in my story in no other way than in doing this, I shall be satisfied, and feel, whether you admit it or not, that I have for once “well done.”

* * * * *

_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine_

_BY W. A. WILMER FROM A PICTURE BY W. A. CONORROE_

* * * * *

THE MIRROR OF LIFE.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Sweet child, whose gentle eyes upon
The mirror’s polished surface rest,
Thy heart no grief has ever known,
No anxious care disturbs thy breast.

O, may the coming time, to thee
Calm as the present ever prove;
And she who guards thy infancy
Live years of rapture in thy love.
—ANNA.

* * * * *

TO THE THAMES, AT NORWICH, CONN.

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

Hail, Father Thames! ’Tis joy to me
Once more thy face and haunts to see;
For lingering verdure, soft and rare,
Makes thine autumnal carpet fair;
And ’mid thy bordering heights is seen
The strong and patient evergreen,
While checkering sunbeams gild thy way,
And lightly with thy ripples play.
Spare not to give me smile of cheer,
And kindly bid me welcome here;
For some, who erst my hand would take,
And love me for affection’s sake,
Sleep the cold sleep that may not break;
And though to fill their vacant place
Are blooming brows and forms of grace,
Who still a favoring glance extend,
And greet their parent’s cherished friend,
Yet mingling with that welcome dear,
Are voices that they may not hear;
For visioned forms around me glide,
And tender memories throng my side,
Till tears, like pearl-drops, all apart,
Swell in the silence of the heart.

———

Methinks thou speak’st of change. ’Tis true;
What hand may hold the morning dew
All unexhaled through lengthened day,
To sparkle ’neath the westering ray?
Who dreams his flowing curls to keep,
While years roll on, in eddies deep?
The elastic feet, that sprung untired,
Where cliffs o’er towering cliffs aspired;
The heart, untaught a pang to bear,
The cheek that ne’er had paled with care,
The eye, undimmed by sorrow’s rain—
How could I bring these back again?
Change hath a part in every loan
And gift that youth doth call its own,
Nor grants old Earth a bond or claim,
Without the endorsement of his name;
So, that’s the tenure, father dear,
By which we hold possession here,
And be not strict to mark with shame,
Unless thyself wert free from blame,
For, in thy presence be it told,
That even thou art changed and old.
Methinks, with wild resentment’s flash,
I hear thy rising currents dash—
But still my charge I’ll deftly prove;
Where are the healthful flowers that wove
Fresh garlands here, in copse and grove?
The golden-rod, of sunny hue,
Heart’s-ease and violets deeply blue,
The lustrous laurel, richly drest,
That through the sober alders prest;
These blossomed when I saw thee last,
Yet now, dismantled branches cast
Keen challenge to the mocking blast,
And fallen leaves, in eddies dank,
Reproachful strew thy mottled bank.
Thy shrouded dells, where lovers stole,
Or poets mused with raptured soul—
Where are they now? I ask in vain;
Strange iron steeds that scorn the rein,
With shriek, and tramp, and nostrils bright,
The herds amid thy pastures fright;
And clashing wheel, and spindle’s force,
Oft drain thy faithful allies’ source,
Shetucket, with his roughened breast,
And Yantic, that I love the best;
While granite walls, and roofs of grace,
Usurp the moping owlet’s place.
Yes, thou art changed, the world hath made
High inroad on thy hermit shade.
But, say’st thou, that with spirit true
Thou keep’st a glorious goal in view;
Heaven speed thee on, with feet of glee,
And bless thy bridal with the sea;
Dear River! that doth lingering stay,
Laving the sandals, on thy way;
Of the fair city of my birth,
Perchance, the loveliest spot on earth.
Be thou our guide. Thy steadfast eye
Might teach us our own goal to spy;
For to that goal, through smile and tear,
Each winged moment brings us near;
Oh! may it be that blissful shore,
Where chance and change are known no more.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE AXE.

BY C. L. WHELER.

Let the poet-lord bepraise the sword
That gleams on Conquest’s track;
Be’t mine to prolong a humbler song—
The song of the woodman’s axe!
’Tis meet to sing of th’ lowliest thing
That graces the reign of Peace,
And add our praise, in hearty lays,
Or prayers for bright increase.

In the ruddy flood of battle’s blood
Its splendor ne’er was dimmed,
For a gentler fame awaits its name
Than e’er the soldier hymned.
Like a pioneer, with voice of cheer,
It breaks the forest’s gloom,
And maketh the earth give joyous birth,
And like a garden bloom!

And the palace dome, or peasant’s home,
It rears with brave command;
For no towering oak its lusty stroke
Could ever yet withstand.
Ho! the axe is king of the wildwood ring,
And of the lordly trees,
For before his blow they bow them low
That laugh at the mountain breeze.

And his trophies bright are truth and light,
And Plenty’s golden store;
For no drop of teen e’er dims the sheen
That flashed in days of yore!
Then praise to the king of the wildwood ring,
The woodman’s shining axe;
For a gentler fame awaits its name
Than the sword or Conquest’s tracks.

* * * * *

THE WAGER OF BATTLE.

A TALE OF THE FEUDAL AGES.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD
HURDIS,” &c.