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perty! He had loaned Mr. Henshaw money, he that it was a forgery, and that he and his friend had said-he had been with him in sickness and in death; been hired by Brown to testify and swear to its being and the high-minded Henshaw had made his will on genuine. Here he adduced the affidavit of a deceased his death-bed, and bequeathed Elm Glen to Brown, witness, taken in full before James Johnson, Esq. as a payment for debts. The will was duly drawn, Justice of the Peace, and acknowledged by him. signed with Mr. Henshaw's own signature, and also So far all was clear, and when the testimony closed by two competent witnesses. Every one was as it seemed clear that the case was won. But when it tonished at the claim at the will—at every thing came Mr. Snapall's turn, he demolished all these pertaining to it. It was contested in court, but the hopes by proving that though James Johnson, Esq. had evidence was clear, and the will was set up and signed himself Justice of the Peace, yet he was no established. Poor Mrs. Henshaw was stripped of magistrate, inasmuch as his commission had expired every thing. With a sad heart she packed up her the very day before he signed the paper, and although simple wardrobe, and taking her child, left the village he had been re-appointed, yet he had not been legally and went to a distant State to teach school. For six qualified to act as a magistrate—that he might or years she had been absent, and for six years had might not have supposed himself to be qualified to Brown enjoyed Elm Glen. No, not enjoyed it, for take an affidavit; and that the law, for very wise he enjoyed nothing. He lived in it; but the haggard reasons, demanded that an affidavit should be taken took—the frequent appeal to the bottle—the jealous only by a sworn magistrate. He was most happy, he feelings which were ever uppermost—and his coarse, said, to acknowledge the cool assurance of his young. profane conversation, showed that he was wretched. brother in the law; and the only difficulty was that People talked, too, of his lonely hours, his starting he had proved nothing, except that his tender conup in his sleep, his clenching his fist in his dreams, science permitted him to offer as an affidavit a paper and defying “all hell" 10 prove it, and the like. that was in law not worth a straw, if any better than

Suddenly and privately, Mrs. Henshaw returned a forgery itself. to her once loved village. She had obtained some There was much sympathy felt for poor Loudon, information by which she hoped to bring truth 10 but he took it very coolly and seemed no way cast light, for she had never believed that her husband down. Mr. Snapall then brought forward his other ever made such a will in favor of Brown. To prove surviving witness-a gallows-looking fellow, but that this will was a forgery was what Loudon was his testimony was clear, decided and consistent. If now to attempt. An action was commenced, and he was committing perjury, it was plain that he had Brown soon bad notice of the warfare now to be been well-drilled by Snapall. Loudon kept his eye carried on against him. He raved and swore, but upon him with the keenness of the lynx. And he also laid aside his cups, and went to work to meet while Snapall was commenting upon the case with the storm like a man in the full consciousness of the great power, and while Mrs. Henshaw and Mary gave justice of his cause. There was writing and riding, up all for lost, it was plain that Loudon, as he turned posting and sending writs-for both sides had much over the will, and looked at it again and again, was at stake. It was the last hope for the widow. It thinking of something else besides what Snapall was was the first case for young Loudon. It was victory saying. He acted something as a dog does when he or state's prison for Brown. The community, one feels sure he is near the right track of the game, and all took sides with Mrs. Henshaw. If a bias though he dare not yet bark. could reach a jury, it must have been in her favor. When Snapall was through, Loudon requested tbat Mr. Snapall was engaged for Brown, and was de- the witness might again be called to the stand. But lighted to find that he had only that “white-faced he was so mild, and kind, and timid, that it seemed boy” to contend with; and the good public felt sorry as if he was the one about to commit perjury. ibat the widow had not selected a man of some age " You take your oath that this instrument, purand experience; but then they said, “women will porting to be the will of Henry Ilenshaw, was signed have their own way.”

by him in your presence ?” The day of trial came on. Great was the excite- “I do." ment to hear the great “will case," and every horse “And you signed it with your own band as wil. in the region was hitched somewhere near the court- ness at the time?" house.

" I did.” In rising to open the case, young Loudon was em- "What is the date of the will ?" barrassed; but modesty always meels with encou- " June 18, 1830." ragement. The court gave him patient attention, and " When did Henshaw die ?" soon felt that it was deserved. In a clear, concise, “ June 22, 1830." and masterly manner, he laid open the case just as it “ Were you living in the village where he died at stood in his own mind, and proceeded with the evi- the time ?" dence to prove the will to be a forgery. It was easy "I was." to show the character of Brown to be one of great " How long had you lived there?” iniquity, and that for him to do this was only in keep- About four years, I believe, or somewhere there. ing with that general character. He attempted to abouts." prove that the will could not be genuine, because Here Loudon banded the judge a paper, which the one of its witnesses on his deatb-bed had confessed judge unfolded and laid before him on the bench.

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“Was that village a large or a small one?" imprisonment in the Pennsylvania Penitentiary, and “Not very large-perhaps fifty houses."

dated June 15, 1831, and signed by Mr. Wood, the “You knew all these houses well, I presume?" worthy warden. "I did."

The young advocate now took the paper which “Was the house in which Mr. Henshaw died, one he had handed to the judge, and showed the jury, story or two ?"

that the house in which Mr. Henshaw died was "Two, I believe.”

situated in a street running north and south-that “But you know, don't you ? Was he in the lower it was a one-story house—that it was red, the only story or in the chamber when you went to witness red house in the village, and moreover, that he died ihe deed ?"

in a front room of the lower story. Here the witness tried to catch the eye of Snapall, There was a moment's silence, and then a stifled but Loudon very civilly held him to the point. At murmur of joy all over the room. Brown's eyes length he said, “In the chamber.”

looked blood-shot; the witness looked sullen and “Will you inform the court what was the color dogged, and Mr. Snapall tried to look very indifferent. of the house ?"

He made no defence. The work was done. A very “I think, feel sure, it was n't painted, but didn't brief, decided charge was given by the judge, and, take particular notice.”

without leaving their seats, the jury convicted Brown “But you saw it every day for four years, and of forgery! do n't you know?"

" That young dog is keen, any how!" said Snapall. “It was not painted.”

" When his conscience tells him he is on the side "Which side of the street did it stand ?”

of justice," said Loudon, overhearing the remark. “I can't remember.”

It was rather late in the evening before Loudon "Can you remember which way the street ran?” called on his clients to congratulate them on the “ It ran east and west."

termination of their suit, and the recovery of Elm "The street ran east and west-The house two Glen. He was met by Mary, who frankly gave him story, and unpainted, and Mr. Henshaw was in the her hand, and with tears thanked and praised him, chamber when you witnessed the will. Well, I and felt sure they could never sufficiently reward have but two things more which I will request you him. Loudon colored, and seemed more troubled 10 do. The first is to take that pen and write your than when in the court. At length he said abruptly, name on that piece of paper on the table."

"Miss Henshaw, you and your mother can now aid The witness demurred, and so did Snapall. But me. There is a friend of yours—a young lady, whose Loudon insisted upon it.

hand I wish to obtain. I am alone in the world, poor, “I can't, my hand trembles so," said the witness. and unknown. This is my first law-case, and when

“Indeed! but you wrote bold, powerful band I may have another is more than I know.” when you signed that will. Come, you must try, Mary turned pale, and faintly promised that she just to oblige us."

and her mother would aid him to the extent of their After much haggling and some bravado, it came power. Then there was a pause, and she felt as if out that he could n't write, and never learned, and she, the only one who was supposed to be unagitated that he had requested Mr. Brown to sign the paper and cool, must speak. for him!

“ Who is the fortunate friend of mine ?" “Oh, ho!” said Loudon. “I thought you swore "Don't you suspect ?” that you signed it yourself. Now one thing more, "Indeed, I do not.” and I have done with you. Just let me take the “Well, here is her portrait,” handing her a miniapocket-book in your pocket. I will open it here be ture case. She touched a spring and it flew open, fore the court, and neither steal nor lose a paper.” and in a little mirror, she saw her own face! Now

Again the witness refused, and appealed to Snapall; the crimson came over her beautiful face, and the but that worthy man was grinding his teeth and mul- tears came thick and fast, and she trembled; but I tering something about the witness going to the believe she survived the shock; for the last time I devil!

was that way, I saw the conscientious young lawyer The pocket-book came out, and in it was a regular and his charming wife living at Elm Glen; and I discharge of the bearer, John Ordin, from four years 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 !


BRIGIT 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.

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 fied

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.

But there are paintings hanging yet

In memory's ghostly halls,
And bright young faces looking down

U pon 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, 0, 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.



It 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?

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.

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?





Away with weary cares and themes !
Luring wide the moonlit gate of dreams!
Leave free once more the land which teems

With wonders and romances !

I know that thou wilt judge aright
Of all that makes the heart more light,
Or lends one star-gleam to the night

Of clouded Melancholy! J. G. WHITTIER.

I FANCY, my good reader, that you are about as testimony to the fact, that he had encountered and familiar with the physical appearance of this exalted weathered many a hard storm in the course of his personage, the far-famed Man in the Moon, as is life. A true son of the mountains was he; for three your most obedient. That you have gazed upon him or four generations back his fathers had lived, sbepwith love-kindled eyes many and many a witching herds, in these same wild heigbis, and I doubt much summer night, I have not the shadow of a doubt — if this son of his father could ever have breathed that you have often lamented the provoking imper- the warmer and gentler air of a less elevated home. fectness of your vision, which presents such insur- Occasionally, but at long intervals, he had wandered mountable difficulties and obstructions in the way to away to the world below him, but, like the eagle, your beholding clearly what manner of man he truly his eyry and his affections were fixed amid the tower. is, I cannot have much hesitation in believing; rea- ing heights, the rugged scenes and bracing air of the soning as I do, from my extensive knowledge of mountains—there was the home for which Nature what passes in the minds of other people, and from and a forty years' residence had filled him. the thoughts and feelings I have had myself in regard The shepherd's house was built in what, to an to the peculiar personalities of this mysterious gen- eye unaccustomed to such scenes, would seem a tleman.

most dangerous situation. But it was just to the conUntil recently I never indulged in the hope of being trary. Erected on the side of a deep ravine at the counted among the benefactors of my race, but, my fair bend of the stream, it was sheltered on three sides country women, I hope I do not presume too much, from the rough, wild winds of winter; and in sumwhen I say that I shall hereafter merit this honor at your mer it seemed half buried in the vegetation, which hands, for am I not going to speak to you of events was nowhere on the mountains so abundant as about which, wonderful as they are, have hitherto never this place. Above, beneath, and around the cottage come to the knowledge of our present generation ? , there were hardy bushes and flowering shrubs, and I cannot conscientiously make known to you the towering high above them the pine trees and the mysterious means by which I became cognizant of strong-limbed off-pring of that rugged clime; and the following events, yet do I hold myself clear of higher still above the flowers, and bushes, and pines, any breach of confidence when I lay before you spread the bright deep blue sky, which seemed 10 these wondrous facts, upon the truth of which you rest its mighty arches on the peaks and crags of those may rely, on my veracity as a story-teller!

great heights. Long, long ago there lived in a far country, among Yes, it was a glorious home, a noble dwellingthe mountains, which towered to heaven much in the place, that of young Rose May! The voice of the manner of mountains now, a young maiden, who southern wind, when it crept so sofily up the mounmust certainly have been one of the progenitors of tain, and through the branches of the pines, to kiss

The Sinless Child;" for in personal beauty, and in her brow, and tell her of the wild beauty of the land excellence and purity of mind, this girl was unsur- from which it wandered, that voice was sweet and passed, perbaps unequaled in her day. A“rare and welcome music to her ear; but no less loved and radiant maiden" was she, albeit unaccomplished and welcome was the trumpet-blast of the storm, when unlearned.

it came rushing like a fiend's voice past her home, Kind, generous and affectionate was Rose May, or like the challenge of a giant fresh from the strong having withal such a reasonable amount of spirited fortress where the soldiery of Winter were garrisoned. independence in her nature, as a child born and bred Rose loved the flowers, the gay bright blossoms among the mountain wilds would be like to have. which in midsummer bloomed about her home, but

It was a glorious dwelling-place, that of my hero. more keen was her delight in the grandeur which ine! Grant May, her father, was a shepherd, a rug- made her heart to thrill, and her blood to leap wildly ged man of middle age, whose furrowed face bore through its veins, when on awakening some dreary

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mornings of winter, she saw the pine-trees loaded | a son-each, only sons, too, who regarded Rose May with the wealth of glittering icicles, which glowed with fonder eyes than mere friendly interest would and blazed with a splendor greater than if the treasu- warrant; they both loved her with all the devotion ries of all the kings and princes of earth had been their wild, earnest spirits were capable of—both acmelted and poured over those same stately scions of knowledged her the queen of the mountain flowers, the soil.

and the object of their supreme regard. Nature in all her phases was beautiful, and wel. One of these youths was named Joseph Rancy; come to Rose May; but there was something in the his father was the wealthiest of the shepherds—the heart of the girl which made her sympathize with, son would be the old man's sole heir. This fact and rejoice more keenly in the grand and terrible alone was one calculated to greatly enhance the shapes the great Queen chose during more than eight merits of the young man—to make him a favored months of the year to appear in. Therefore Rose guest-a much sought for friend--and an acceptable May was most truly a daughter, a bright, strong suitor, especially in the eyes of parents who had hearted, noble daughter of the mountains.

a double eye to their daughter's happiness and good They had aptly named this maiden after the queen fortune. of the flowers. For though there were many sons Joseph was a tall, robust, free-spoken youth, with in Grant May's household, Rose was the only daugh a heart whose honesty forbade his lips ever speaking ter, and she was like a rose indeed, the fairest as a word which could not safely be echoed in its rewell as tenderest bud opening beneath the family cesses. But his very bluntness, though it arose from roof-tree. The bloom of health was on the maiden's his honesty of purpose, was not perhaps calculated cheek—the glow of health was in her veins and in to make him a great favorite with that class of people the calm beating of her heart, which told so steadily said to be lovers of soli words and honied speeches. " all 's well."

Joseph was a great favorite with Grant May and While Grant May and his sons were absent from with the young brethren of Rose. They liked him their home all day, tending to their many flocks, for his generosity and daring, and for many noble Rose remained with her mother at home, assisting trails of character he evinced, which I will not now her with willing hand in the domestic toils; and a stop to enumerate. The young man knew he stood steady and invaluable helpmate was she, spinning well in their eyes—but about her whose favor he yarn from the sheep her father called her own, and cared for more than all the rest, he was as yet in a then knitting the proceeds into stout socks and mit state of doubt and perplexity. tens for them who labored out of doors; and inge- The other youth who visited so frequently Grant niously contriving numerous garments, whereby to May's cottage was Rob Horn. To say Rob was keep the ears, necks and feet of her wild, light-handsome as a picture would be rather a doubtful hearted brothers warm in the dreadful winter wea- compliment ; but handsome he was, tall and straight ther. Rose was, in fact, quite a pattern maid; never as an Indian, with a bright, smiling face—which (but complaining, or caring to rest herself even when for a treacherous expression sometimes seen lurking she was aweary, while there was any work left for her about the mouth) seemed to hail every man a brother mother to do—and the last thing she ever would have and friend; then his hair was black as a raven's wing, thought to boast of was ignorance of any part of the eyes dito—a becoming bloom on his brown cheeks, book of domestic economy-which volume, if you, graceful, light-hearted, cheerful and companionable my dear reader, have had any occasion to thumb, — here, you have Rob Horn—is he one you would you know very well is not printed with the most suppose Rose May might love? readable or understandable type.

Rob also was an only son--but the great difference Rose May had not many companions. There were, between him and Joseph Rancy was, that his father it is true, other families, and numbers of them, scat- was far from wealthy, having only managed to keep tered among the mountains, but these lived at long partially “above board,” during all the long years of distances from each other, and were so circumstanced his earthly pilgrimage. as to preclude the possibility of frequent visitings. More than once Rob had roved away from his But when these far-off neighbors did meet, it was mountain home to the low-land villages, for his was with the warm and earnest good feeling which people a restless spirit, and his were roving eyes, that grew so situated would be likely to entertain for each / weary at times of looking always on the same grand other. Perhaps their mutual interest was even more scenes; but still he seemed to retain an unextinsincere and honest, their friendship more generous guishable affection for his native home, for after a and truthful, ihan if they had been able to hold more short absence he always returned to his father's frequent and familiar communication with each humble cot, with his head full of the scenes he had other, partaking, as necessarily they did, each and looked upon in the busy world, but with his curiosity all, of the mundane nature, for they had scarcely satisfied, and his heart all right toward home The time to discover one another’s particular failings reason, however, of his invariable return was, that and short-comings.

up in the old eagle's eyry (that is in Grant May's There were two families, however, whose mem-cottage) there was the little bird whose wild, freebers maintained more familiar intimacy with the gushing songs was the attractive power which household of Grant May than the other mountaineers. always called him back. And for this reason. In both these families there was And among the fairer faced damsels who lived in

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