perty! He had loaned Mr. Henshaw money, he said he had been with him in sickness and in death; and the high-minded Henshaw had made his will on his death-bed, and bequeathed Elm Glen to Brown, as a payment for debts. The will was duly drawn, signed with Mr. Henshaw's own signature, and also by two competent witnesses. Every one was astonished at the claim-at the will-at every thing pertaining to it. It was contested in court, but the evidence was clear, and the will was set up and established. Poor Mrs. Henshaw was stripped of every thing. With a sad heart she packed up her simple wardrobe, and taking her child, left the village and went to a distant State to teach school. For six years she had been absent, and for six years had Brown enjoyed Elm Glen. No, not enjoyed it, for he enjoyed nothing. He lived in it; but the haggard look-the frequent appeal to the bottle-the jealous feelings which were ever uppermost-and his coarse, profane conversation, showed that he was wretched. People talked, too, of his lonely hours, his starting up in his sleep, his clenching his fist in his dreams, and defying "all hell" to prove it, and the like.

Suddenly and privately, Mrs. Henshaw returned to her once loved village. She had obtained some information by which she hoped to bring truth to light, for she had never believed that her husband ever made such a will in favor of Brown. To prove that this will was a forgery was what Loudon was now to attempt. An action was commenced, and Brown soon had notice of the warfare now to be carried on against him. He raved and swore, but he also laid aside his cups, and went to work to meet the storm like a man in the full consciousness of the justice of his cause. There was writing and riding, posting and sending writs-for both sides had much at stake. It was the last hope for the widow. It was the first case for young Loudon. It was victory or state's prison for Brown. The community, one and all took sides with Mrs. Henshaw. If a bias could reach a jury, it must have been in her favor. Mr. Snapall was engaged for Brown, and was delighted to find that he had only that "white-faced boy" to contend with; and the good public felt sorry that the widow had not selected a man of some age and experience; but then they said, "women will have their own way."

The day of trial came on. Great was the excitement to hear the great "will case," and every horse in the region was hitched somewhere near the courthouse.

In rising to open the case, young Loudon was embarrassed; but modesty always meets with encouragement. The court gave him patient attention, and soon felt that it was deserved. In a clear, concise, and masterly manner, he laid open the case just as it stood in his own mind, and proceeded with the evidence to prove the will to be a forgery. It was easy to show the character of Brown to be one of great iniquity, and that for him to do this was only in keeping with that general character. He attempted to prove that the will could not be genuine, because one of its witnesses on his death-bed had confessed

that it was a forgery, and that he and his friend had been hired by Brown to testify and swear to its being genuine. Here he adduced the affidavit of a deceased witness, taken in full before James Johnson, Esq. Justice of the Peace, and acknowledged by him. So far all was clear, and when the testimony closed it seemed clear that the case was won. But when it came Mr. Snapall's turn, he demolished all these hopes by proving that though James Johnson, Esq. had signed himself Justice of the Peace, yet he was no magistrate, inasmuch as his commission had expired the very day before he signed the paper, and although he had been re-appointed, yet he had not been legally qualified to act as a magistrate-that he might or might not have supposed himself to be qualified to take an affidavit; and that the law, for very wise reasons, demanded that an affidavit should be taken only by a sworn magistrate. He was most happy, he said, to acknowledge the cool assurance of his young brother in the law; and the only difficulty was that he had proved nothing, except that his tender conscience permitted him to offer as an affidavit a paper that was in law not worth a straw, if any better than a forgery itself.

There was much sympathy felt for poor Loudon, but he took it very coolly and seemed no way cast down. Mr. Snapall then brought forward his other surviving witness-a gallows-looking fellow, but his testimony was clear, decided and consistent. If he was committing perjury, it was plain that he had been well-drilled by Snapall. Loudon kept his eye upon him with the keenness of the lynx. And while Snapall was commenting upon the case with great power, and while Mrs. Henshaw and Mary gave up all for lost, it was plain that Loudon, as he turned over the will, and looked at it again and again, was thinking of something else besides what Snapall was saying. He acted something as a dog does when he feels sure he is near the right track of the game, though he dare not yet bark.

When Snapall was through, Loudon requested that the witness might again be called to the stand. But he was so mild, and kind, and timid, that it seemed as if he was the one about to commit perjury.

"You take your oath that this instrument, purporting to be the will of Henry Henshaw, was signed by him in your presence?"

"I do."

"And you signed it with your own hand as witness at the time?" "I did."

"What is the date of the will?" "June 18, 1830."

"When did Henshaw die?" "June 22, 1830."

"Were you living in the village where he died at the time?"

"I was."

"How long had you lived there?"

"About four years, I believe, or somewhere thereabouts."

Here Loudon handed the judge a paper, which the judge unfolded and laid before him on the bench.

"Was that village a large or a small one?" "Not very large-perhaps fifty houses." "You knew all these houses well, I presume?" "I did."

"Was the house in which Mr. Henshaw died, one story or two?"

"Two, I believe."

"But you know, don't you? Was he in the lower story or in the chamber when you went to witness the deed?"

Here the witness tried to catch the eye of Snapall, but Loudon very civilly held him to the point. At length he said, "In the chamber."

imprisonment in the Pennsylvania Penitentiary, and dated June 15, 1831, and signed by Mr. Wood, the worthy warden.

The young advocate now took the paper which he had handed to the judge, and showed the jury, that the house in which Mr. Henshaw died was situated in a street running north and south-that it was a one-story house-that it was red, the only red house in the village, and moreover, that he died in a front room of the lower story.

There was a moment's silence, and then a stifled murmur of joy all over the room. Brown's eyes looked blood-shot; the witness looked sullen and

without leaving their seats, the jury convicted Brown

"It was not painted."

"Which side of the street did it stand?"

"I can't remember."

"I can't, my hand trembles so," said the witness. "Indeed! but you wrote a bold, powerful hand when you signed that will. Come, you must try, just to oblige us."

After much haggling and some bravado, it came out that he could n't write, and never learned, and that he had requested Mr. Brown to sign the paper for him!

"Oh, ho!" said Loudon. "I thought you swore that you signed it yourself. Now one thing more, and I have done with you. Just let me take the pocket-book in your pocket. I will open it here before the court, and neither steal nor lose a paper." Again the witness refused, and appealed to Snapall; but that worthy man was grinding his teeth and muttering something about the witness going to the devil!

The pocket-book came out, and in it was a regular discharge of the bearer, John Ordin, from four years

"That young dog is keen, any how!" said Snapall. "When his conscience tells him he is on the side of justice," said Loudon, overhearing the remark. It was rather late in the evening before Loudon called on his clients to congratulate them on the termination of their suit, and the recovery of Elm Glen. He was met by Mary, who frankly gave him her hand, and with tears thanked and praised him, and felt sure they could never sufficiently reward him. Loudon colored, and seemed more troubled than when in the court. At length he said abruptly, "Miss Henshaw, you and your mother can now aid me. There is a friend of yours-a young lady, whose hand I wish to obtain. I am alone in the world, poor, and unknown. This is my first law-case, and when I may have another is more than I know."

Mary turned pale, and faintly promised that she and her mother would aid him to the extent of their power. Then there was a pause, and she felt as if she, the only one who was supposed to be unagitated and cool, must speak.

"Who is the fortunate friend of mine?"
"Don't you suspect?"
"Indeed, I do not."

"Well, here is her portrait," handing her a miniature case. She touched a spring and it flew open, and in a little mirror, she saw her own face! Now the crimson came over her beautiful face, and the tears came thick and fast, and she trembled; but I believe she survived the shock; for the last time I was that way, I saw the conscientious young lawyer and his charming wife living at Elm Glen; and I heard them speak of his first law-suit!

WHAT wiser is the world in this bright age-
What better than in the darkened days of old?
Survey the Past, its blotted scroll unfold;
Compare it with the Present's golden page-
It is no worse; the world was cruel then,

And hearts were trampled on, and spirits bled,
And tears and blood like summer rain were shed,

And men were what they always will be-Men!
Experience teaches naught, man will not heed
And profit by the lessons. Fools can read;
The task is said by rote; we do not learn,
But live in ancient ignorance and crime.
There is no hope-the Future will but turn
The old sands in the failing glass of Time!

BRIGHT dreams were mine in life's young day,

Too bright, too fair to last,

Fresh flow'rets sprung beside my way,

And fragrance round it cast;

And hopes as radiant as the dyes

That angel-artists spread, Upon the western sunset skies,

To my young heart were wed.

Bright days, sweet days, forever gone!
Ye can return no more,

I'm doomed to tread the sands alone
That skirt life's desert shore!

Afar, upon the ocean wide,

My bark of hope went down,
I saw the angel leave my side,
And all things on me frown.

But there are paintings hanging yet
In memory's ghostly halls,

And bright young faces looking down
Upon me from the walls.

The gentle smile that thrilled my soul,

In life's young break-of-day,

The small white hands once clasped in mine, Are pictured there for aye.

There is a form, I see it now,

More radiant far than all,

The full, dark eye, the snowy brow
That held my heart in thrall.

But, O, that voice, so low and sweet!
I ne'er shall hear it more;

The fond, warm heart hath ceased to beat-
My dream of bliss is o'er.

And still another picture there

A being young and bright;

The captive sunbeams in her hair,

A form of love and light;

The deep blue tints that stain the sky,
When summer bids it gleam,
Are mirrored in her laughing eye,

Like violets in the stream.

I deemed those forms forever fled
From time's bleak desert shore,
And that the light upon me shed,
Could visit me no more.
But late I saw a vision bright,
And fair as those of old,

That taught to me this lesson trite-
The heart can ne'er grow cold!

O, charming, charming young Christine!
Long years may pass away,
But cannot seize the love I ween,

Of young life's joyous day!

O, would some gem like thee were mine,
Upon my breast to wear,
Through Sorrow's dreary hour to shine,
And light the night of Care;

My glance upon mankind should fall
Contented, happy, free,

And I should richer feel than all,

My only treasure thee!

But, O, my lot is wild and drear,

And sad the night-winds moan; Upon life's tree the leaves are sear, And I am all alone.

Ir hath been said, "for all who die, There is a tear;

Some pining, bleeding heart to sigh, O'er every bier;"

But in that hour of pain and dread, Who will draw near, Around my humble couch, and shed One farewell tear?

Who watch life's last dim parting ray,
In deep despair,

And soothe my spirit on its way,
With holy prayer?

What mourner round my bier will come,
In weeds of wo,

And follow me to my long home,
Solemn and slow?

When lying on my clayey bed,
In icy sleep,

Who there, by pure affection led,
Will come and weep?

And by the moon implant the rose Upon my breast,

And bid it cheer my dark repose, My lowly rest?

Could I but know when I am sleeping
Low in the ground,

One faithful heart would there be keeping
Watch all night round,

As if some gem lay shrined beneath
That sod's cold gloom,
'T would mitigate the pangs of death,
And light the tomb.

Yes! in that hour, if I could feel,
From halls of glee

And Beauty's presence, one would steal
In secresy,

And come and sit and weep by me
In night's deep noon;
Oh! I would ask of memory
No other boon.

But, ah! a lonelier fate is mine-
A deeper wo;

From all I love in youth's sweet time
I soon must go,

Drawn round me my pale robes of white

In a dark spot,

To sleep through death's long, dreamless night, Lone and forgot.

I FANCY, my good reader, that you are about as familiar with the physical appearance of this exalted personage, the far-famed Man in the Moon, as is your most obedient. That you have gazed upon him with love-kindled eyes many and many a witching summer night, I have not the shadow of a doubt that you have often lamented the provoking imperfectness of your vision, which presents such insurmountable difficulties and obstructions in the way to your beholding clearly what manner of man he truly is, I cannot have much hesitation in believing; reasoning as I do, from my extensive knowledge of what passes in the minds of other people, and from the thoughts and feelings I have had myself in regard to the peculiar personalities of this mysterious gentleman.

Until recently I never indulged in the hope of being counted among the benefactors of my race, but, my fair country women, I hope I do not presume too much, when I say that I shall hereafter merit this honor at your hands, for am I not going to speak to you of events which, wonderful as they are, have hitherto never come to the knowledge of our present generation? I cannot conscientiously make known to you the mysterious means by which I became cognizant of the following events, yet do I hold myself clear of any breach of confidence when I lay before you these wondrous facts, upon the truth of which you may rely, on my veracity as a story-teller !

Long, long ago there lived in a far country, among the mountains, which towered to heaven much in the manner of mountains now, a young maiden, who must certainly have been one of the progenitors of "The Sinless Child;" for in personal beauty, and in excellence and purity of mind, this girl was unsurpassed, perhaps unequaled in her day. A "rare and radiant maiden" was she, albeit unaccomplished and unlearned.

Kind, generous and affectionate was Rose May, having withal such a reasonable amount of spirited independence in her nature, as a child born and bred among the mountain wilds would be like to have.

It was a glorious dwelling-place, that of my heroine! Grant May, her father, was a shepherd, a rugged man of middle age, whose furrowed face bore

testimony to the fact, that he had encountered and weathered many a hard storm in the course of his life. A true son of the mountains was he; for three or four generations back his fathers had lived, shepherds, in these same wild heights, and I doubt much if this son of his father could ever have breathed the warmer and gentler air of a less elevated home. Occasionally, but at long intervals, he had wandered away to the world below him, but, like the eagle, his eyry and his affections were fixed amid the towering heights, the rugged scenes and bracing air of the mountains-there was the home for which Nature and a forty years' residence had fitted him.

The shepherd's house was built in what, to an eye unaccustomed to such scenes, would seem a most dangerous situation. But it was just to the contrary. Erected on the side of a deep ravine at the bend of the stream, it was sheltered on three sides from the rough, wild winds of winter; and in summer it seemed half buried in the vegetation, which was nowhere on the mountains so abundant as about

this place. Above, beneath, and around the cottage there were hardy bushes and flowering shrubs, and towering high above them the pine-trees and the strong-limbed offspring of that rugged clime; and higher still above the flowers, and bushes, and pines, spread the bright deep blue sky, which seemed to rest its mighty arches on the peaks and crags of those great heights.

Yes, it was a glorious home, a noble dwellingplace, that of young Rose May! The voice of the southern wind, when it crept so softly up the mountain, and through the branches of the pines, to kiss her brow, and tell her of the wild beauty of the land from which it wandered, that voice was sweet and welcome music to her ear; but no less loved and welcome was the trumpet-blast of the storm, when it came rushing like a fiend's voice past her home, or like the challenge of a giant fresh from the strong fortress where the soldiery of Winter were garrisoned. Rose loved the flowers, the gay bright blossoms which in midsummer bloomed about her home, but more keen was her delight in the grandeur which made her heart to thrill, and her blood to leap wildly through its veins, when on awakening some dreary

Nature in all her phases was beautiful, and welcome to Rose May; but there was something in the heart of the girl which made her sympathize with, and rejoice more keenly in the grand and terrible shapes the great Queen chose during more than eight months of the year to appear in. Therefore Rose May was most truly a daughter, a bright, stronghearted, noble daughter of the mountains.

They had aptly named this maiden after the queen of the flowers. For though there were many sons in Grant May's household, Rose was the only daughter, and she was like a rose indeed, the fairest as well as tenderest bud opening beneath the family roof-tree. The bloom of health was on the maiden's cheek-the glow of health was in her veins and in the calm beating of her heart, which told so steadily "all's well."

While Grant May and his sons were absent from their home all day, tending to their many flocks, Rose remained with her mother at home, assisting her with willing hand in the domestic toils; and a steady and invaluable helpmate was she, spinning yarn from the sheep her father called her own, and then knitting the proceeds into stout socks and mittens for them who labored out of doors; and ingeniously contriving numerous garments, whereby to keep the ears, necks and feet of her wild, lighthearted brothers warm in the dreadful winter weather. Rose was, in fact, quite a pattern maid; never complaining, or caring to rest herself even when she was aweary, while there was any work left for her mother to do—and the last thing she ever would have thought to boast of was ignorance of any part of the book of domestic economy-which volume, if you, my dear reader, have had any occasion to thumb, you know very well is not printed with the most readable or understandable type.

Rose May had not many companions. There were, it is true, other families, and numbers of them, scattered among the mountains, but these lived at long distances from each other, and were so circumstanced as to preclude the possibility of frequent visitings. But when these far-off neighbors did meet, it was with the warm and earnest good feeling which people so situated would be likely to entertain for each other. Perhaps their mutual interest was even more sincere and honest, their friendship more generous and truthful, than if they had been able to hold more frequent and familiar communication with each other, partaking, as necessarily they did, each and all, of the mundane nature, for they had scarcely time to discover one another's particular failings and short-comings.

There were two families, however, whose members maintained a more familiar intimacy with the household of Grant May than the other mountaineers. And for this reason. In both these families there was

with fonder eyes than mere friendly interest would warrant; they both loved her with all the devotion their wild, earnest spirits were capable of—both acknowledged her the queen of the mountain flowers, and the object of their supreme regard.

One of these youths was named Joseph Rancy; his father was the wealthiest of the shepherds-the son would be the old man's sole heir. This fact alone was one calculated to greatly enhance the merits of the young man-to make him a favored guest-a much sought for friend-and an acceptable suitor, especially in the eyes of parents who had a double eye to their daughter's happiness and good fortune.

Joseph was a tall, robust, free-spoken youth, with a heart whose honesty forbade his lips ever speaking a word which could not safely be echoed in its recesses. But his very bluntness, though it arose from his honesty of purpose, was not perhaps calculated to make him a great favorite with that class of people said to be lovers of soft words and honied speeches. Joseph was a great favorite with Grant May and with the young brethren of Rose. They liked him for his generosity and daring, and for many noble traits of character he evinced, which I will not now stop to enumerate. The young man knew he stood well in their eyes-but about her whose favor he cared for more than all the rest, he was as yet in a state of doubt and perplexity.

The other youth who visited so frequently Grant May's cottage was Rob Horn. To say Rob was handsome as a picture would be rather a doubtful compliment; but handsome he was, tall and straight as an Indian, with a bright, smiling face-which (but for a treacherous expression sometimes seen lurking about the mouth) seemed to hail every man a brother and friend; then his hair was black as a raven's wing, eyes ditto-a becoming bloom on his brown cheeks, graceful, light-hearted, cheerful and companionable

there, you have Rob Horn-is he one you would suppose Rose May might love?

Rob also was an only son-but the great difference between him and Joseph Rancy was, that his father was far from wealthy, having only managed to keep partially "above board," during all the long years of his earthly pilgrimage.

More than once Rob had roved away from his mountain home to the low-land villages, for his was a restless spirit, and his were roving eyes, that grew weary at times of looking always on the same grand scenes; but still he seemed to retain an unextinguishable affection for his native home, for after a short absence he always returned to his father's humble cot, with his head full of the scenes he had looked upon in the busy world, but with his curiosity satisfied, and his heart all right toward home reason, however, of his invariable return was, that up in the old eagle's eyry (that is in Grant May's cottage) there was the little bird whose wild, freegushing songs was the attractive power which always called him back.

The

And among the fairer faced damsels who lived in