OtrOseii, - . ['The following lines wore written on the death ofEDWARD P,• son of William and Lydia Cook, who died Dec. 23rd, 11357, at Newark, Alegan - Co., Michigan, in the iteth yetu: of his age. That tie \ fatal destroyer, conalimp ' h, that had claimed two of tat b brothers for victs s, was not satisfied, his fatal , dar e ! was aimed at he only. remaining son, one that fond patents leaned' upon to corn. tort them in their - declinibg yelje: - But he too must pass away.] : ~ fle tik , d from home; in a distant land . He yielded up his breath; • - • - No mother was near with a gentle hand, To smooth his pillow itt.death. Anxious he thought of his cherished home, And stove to meet ihat_group; Alas! 'twas vain, the death-angel came, And blasted that fond hope. riiends tame at morn to Ms chamber door, To ask why he did not rise; Bat the death-angel had beets there before . And invited him to the skies. Quickly they gathered-around hia bed ) And tendered Altar sympathy; Mit be colt Id not stay, for the angel fled With his soul to eternity. He could not' die in hls father's hall, . W hete a mother could smooth his I ow; Where the friends of youth could bear his fall, And plant o'er his grave the willow. He died from home; in diStant lands - He obeyed tie stars behest; And was - borne away by stranger's hands - To a grave in the distant West. Why could he not with his parents remain, To sweeten the journey of life; And comfort th'sisters whose lore he'd gain d, Through this sorrowful 'world of strife. The voice of God called EDWARD home, Quick he obeyed the 'command; He! gone, no more on earth to roam; He dwells in the "Spirit Land." Could EDWARD speak, Methinks he'd say, Kind pareits don't weep for me; In heaven, there is unfading day, And there your son is free East Bridgereaier. A Tennessee Squire. Thei s t flourished for many years, in a cer tain village in the good State of Tennessee, an eccentric fellow who rejoiced in the name of Peter haid. 'For many years he filled the important office known in various parts of th'e Union .as Magistrate, Alderman, or Jus tice of the Peace. The following is a sample of Squire Izarci'sinode of pi oceeding. A gentleman by .be natne of MeNfurran was riding through C--. where his horse , lost a shoe. For replacing it, the black smith, whose name-was Enos Bikio, charged , the cool sum of an eagle-.-or, rather, two sovereigns. sNaturally indignant, our- trav eller refused - to pay such an exorbitant de.l mand; and he - was arrested at,the suit of the son of Vulcan. • I • There being no other resource, Sir. AfcMur ree ;was escorted to the Magistrate's o ffi ce, back of the bar. - After being introduced into the most au gust presence of the Squire, And the charge stated, the following xlialogue occurred - '' Weil, sfr t what is your name'!" • " McMurran, sir." "Humph, McMurran—no other name I" Johp McMurran, sir." "No, Mr. McMurran—no alias!" 41 ,0 f course I hive not, sir-r have no need of one." • . s- "Where do you live, Ur. Carrion I" "My name ain't Carrion; told you it is MeMurtau." " Well, Mr. Merton, did you make any bargain fol. shoeing your horse t" "No, sir." . " Then Mr. Burton, you acted, sir—excuse a fool 1" a I don't come here.to be insulted, sir, and no.man shall talk so to me 1" cried poor Mac, I know you did not, Mr. Folton—keep silence, or I'll fine you—you acted; sir, don't contradict roe—like a perfeCt fooldet. his be a•w i ng, sir, never to 'tittsi such 'a scoun drel as Enos Bildo, the , t*nith, farther than you can sling a bull by the tail, sir; (to the plaintiff) I mean you—you. Skunk! You would steal the coppers off your -dead moth= er's eyes, you poor, no-souled bog. • "The sentence of this court is, that Enos 'BildO shall have two dimes for your work, which is- all* it is worth, and if you say an -other word I'll knOck you down. Clear this court." Fatly satisfied with this verdict., and, highly aroused - with this adventuie, Mae went on his war. jam" What are you digging for!" " For motley." . The news spread - wide—the idlers collected "You're digging for money !" ",Well, I'll tell you I ain't digging for any , thing the "First rate lnek—pays-you'd better take bold." All doffed -their coats and went to work vigorously.,_ After throwing out tome cart loads the question arose: 1 " When did you get any money 1" "Saturday night?' , "How much did you get?" ' " Fonr dollars and a halt" , " That is very small." ' - "lee pretty wellr—isix shillinge a day is the regulai price for digging cellars s all ever tewtr.. • The spades dropped, and the loafers van A gar What.are-,.. on doing there Jane r Why, pa, going to dye - my doll's pinafore red." " But - what are yon going 'to dye-it with r "Beer, pa." ' . - " - Beer I Who on earth told you that beer would. dye - red?" " Why, ma, told;-tae yesterday that it was beer that madwyour nose so red, and '1 tho't that--"- . " Susan, take this child to bed !" Ogir.At a faahloaatile city putt',at which 104 neck.iirewes wale a promukeLtesatire.—,-.7 addrewed her cri,u9try'coaiia : "Cousin Sara ; did you ever, see each s igio 'rioae•iiight bek,re "Awe( isitioe vim weaced i i ! eod. BF - n; • blushing, 1.1 AGNES ARNOLD; THE JSVFORY OF A WILL. Joseph Custer wasjust entering his twenty first year. He walla young man of much prom ise, and having received a thurough education, was fitted for any situation or position, in wich circumstances might place him. His mind was enriched with all the knowledge wbich-16g study and cl o se application could bestow; and with highly' cultivated manners, was every. whole received into, the best society, making his niark-among the many who were his as sociates. Matt) , a bright eye glanced pleas antly upon him, and calculating mothers sought to wind him for their daughters, as he was such an :eligible match—so le4trned— so handsome±so rich.. There was magic in the words, and he found himself sought after, looked up to and flattered as the very para gon of his sex. Joseph understood it all, but was not so easily caught. True, sometimes a feeling of pride would swell bis heart as be heard the words of praise, pr endured the witchery of-languishing eyes cast upon him. Yet he did not seek the words of the flatterer, nor covet the smiles which the ladies so lav- ishly showered upon him. With all him, wealth and learning, his life was yet an aimless one; though -4 carefully trained for the practice of the law. He loved knowledge for the pleasure which its posses sion afforded; be courted the delights of 'so. ciety because it served so well to destroy the ennui of a purposeless existence. * Still, though, he presented no real design or 'object in life, yet there was an unspoken mystery about him that none who knew him could solve. He was never sordid in his charities; never cold or distant in his intercourse. Al ways Frank and - gay, full of spiiits, and, al ways ready to adapt himself to whatever were the surroundings of his - present life. = Time welled on,- and Joseph Custar added knowledge to his years and manliness and dignity to his character. - He still grew in favor, and with the continued smiles of for tune at his back, he never lacked friends. Had he been poor, yet with his mind, be would not hive sought their presence. With all his wealth and the clad which met him at every turn; surrounded with the gay and fashionable, and - cousiaott r "pima...a so am fo:lies and excesses of his youthful friends, yet he:never fell into their habits of debauch ery. nor permitted himself to Jose a tithe of his well-earned dignity. He had-an intellect too high to desecrate, a reputation too dear to -cast away; and cherishing these as the jewels of his existence, he never sank to :he common level to which many fall—and oven lower—to their utter ruin:, The fair beings who loved him for his wealth, and who lived only in the sunshine of his presence, wondered that, from among E 0 many fair g irls with' whom he mingled, -none possessed sufficient,attractions to win his heart. He was undecided; but. he did not remain so from any want of effort on the part of the artful and beautiful- beseigers, who sought so often and so unsuccessful- to storm the citadel of his affections. All was . vain. The walls of the fortress were impreg--, nable Itud the enemy were repulsed at every attack. • C. M. C, "Mr. Custer," said the fair Lucy Meadows, "it is very strange that you still remain a bachelor. Why do you not seek out a com panion and settle down happily for life?" "The truth is; Lucy, I do not consider the marrie li ci life adapted to my temperament, be sides to:be - tied down to the whims of- any fickle beauty who makes me a captive, is a bondage I would break. I would be free. The imprisoned bird is robbed of half its of existence."• "Yes, without its• mate, Mr. Custer," re plied Lucy, laughing. "I see you will not turn benedict, butare re.olved to live out the existence of a miserable, crusty, musty bach elor?' "There you are- right, Miss Meadows, save that I shall not be a crusty, musty bachelor. I will be one of the happiest fellows alive; de termined to shame dull care and eschew wrinkles—and be merry while I may." "That will certainly be very,pleasant. But, cannot ace how a gentleman can be really happy living alone without a smiling face to cheer him, and hiving no trusting heart to minister to him when years and cares come up .n him." • • "Believe . me, Miss Meadows, there are plenty who will gladly watch over me in the days of my dcline; and though it may not be a wife; still, I trust some though_ pitying heart; will come forward to sympathize with me, and comfort me, when silver shall visit these locks now so black." -• "Well, upon my word, you are the most intractable gentleman I have ever seen. There is no use trylog to coax you—so I see the only wav is to let you alone to fall into the snare yourself!" "That seems the only plan; but I will keep a sharp lookout for spring guns', traps, and: even the barbed arrows of the sly geld Cupid, which be sometimes shoots at humanity, ha!' ha! Miss Meadows pouted and tried to look displeased, but our hero had- too long studied the hearts-of bewitching nymphs to' be thus deceived by en& coquetry. He was surrounded with a bevy , of young and very beautiful girls in the parlor of Mr. Ashton and the joy and hilarity prevailing, evince - 1i the happy state of mind enjoyed by( the circle. The opera, the concert, the thee-, tre, and the last hwy. ball, ay; the fashions, too, all found . votaries, and each expressed her unbounded delight in having ;witnessed' "Lucia de Lammermoor," another the beau-, tiful play,,of the "Lady of Lyons,", in which Mrs. Mowatt bad so charmingly personated the gentle and , loving Pauline; another lobo bad enjoye4 the - luxury of 'dancing with' a _French Count, at the last Limy ball, spoke in the wildest raptures of her exriuisite ner, and praised his dear, dear moustache, as 'the handsomest, most, recherche article of the kind it bid ever been her satisfaction to look bpon; and Miss Emma LileYwhite was rap. :nook ber description of the last invoice of fasbioas.fion Paris. -Such )oves of-boonets, . ;eachwautillas, such matchless flounces, 1414 obr meet' eltarming of ally, an additional diameter was tolyettltkihehoops. Thai they Mated, and thee ast-our her; listening to theft volubility, 'sad_ asking himself if their Frok the Golden Prize. BY: SAMUEL 'YOUNG CHAPTER I. INTRODUCES OUR ERRO. ts - VVIE AkE ALL EOTALIIEFORE corprnriinmM.9,—James ontarst, Sustintattna otonntg, penia, ilkarsbag -Morning, Sag 27, 1850. little tongues would not soon weary in this rapid description of each wonder they , had see rh He was a true philosopher; and While he smiled at their chatter, like so many mag pies, he wondered if it could be possible that be was destined to wed with any. such °vines- Oent butterflies, *hose life was composed of final conversation; and who . never once thought of the stern realities of life. Well, Mr. Philosopher," said -Miss ,Sallie Ward, addressing our hero, "What is your Opinion of the last fashion!" "Indeed, ladies, to answer that question r ould involve me in much difficulty. The ittudy of that branch of the fine arts is some what out of my line." "Well, I declare," said Miss Susan Walton; ''if you are not the most provoking gentleman ever met. Here, you've-spent your whole life in the fashionable world, and yet you cannot give an opinion on a point so-simple." "That, Miss Walton, is indeed true. My opinion, being crude, might possibly offiend, therefore I hesitate to pronounce Ws CHAPTER II THE ATTORNEY. Will the reader believe iti Can any one who Eva read the initial chapter of this veritable history, not doubt our iil;sertion, when_ we tell them that, well,' it may be that you will doubt it—but we cannot avoid the truth— yos,' true it is, that the fashionable, highly Olmsted Josepb,Custar, the young gentle man so much courted by the ladies and en pied by his male companions—the refined and elegant youth, who, for months was un able to decide; whether it was worth while to 'assume the resposibilities and duties of- the profession -be hid so carefully studied and for which he was theoretically prepared—was pow a lawyer. Yea,' verily! he bad rented an eligible office, bad, in modern parlance, ;stuck up his shingle," in bright gilt letters, Nosarn. CUSTAR, ATTOR.SrEY AT LAW. " '•-• His hitherto aimless life was too barren of vitalizing interest for him, and he resolved 'that his talents should no longer be buried. Je had wealth backed by a fine genius, but he lacked a business reputation in the world, !tad now his highest ambition, was to carve "fo himself a name in the temple of intellect. Be had the will, the energy, the mind to achive it, and be resolved that his advent into professional life should be marked by a ea ieer-of honor and usefulness. The sanctum of our hero was very neatly ; and cozily arranged; his chairs was comforta ble, lounge was the very synonyme of ; same. The bookee l es were filled. whb-excel ;lent works on every subject connected with :his profession; and thus prepared, he only waited for a client that be might merge his ;years of theory into practice. Joheph bad resolved-that his professional career should be pleasant. He was above the 'reach of poverty, and whoa° tv cure hie time brief, no thuught troubled him so Uri as the wants of life were involved. Every place of amusement, every select party, were honored with his presence; and he en. pjoyed the varied scenes through which he ;passed with that real pleasure which only - . :such as be can manifest. He was a happy man. Still, amid all these enjoyments, there were moments of sober re flection. He lived in a mighty city, where were mingled the rich and the poor, the nigh and the humble, the honored and the down trodden:' arch day presented strange con trasts to him, and his philosophy, enabled him to study out the motley characters in his every day life. Here rode the millionaire, and there hobbled the beggar—the one was adding by thoisands tb his wealth, and•the other was craving the coldly given pennies which barely kept life in the broken down frame. Ahl what pictures of misery does the panorama of Philadelphia life present. Such reflections constantly occupied the mind of Our hero while not otherwise engaged, and thus enabled him to while away his hours. But the routine of his life was, to change— new scenes would soon present themselves and he must become a busy actor in many of them. He was comfo - rtably seated in his office reading "James last," and bad just reached the interesting chapter wherein the continued, history of the "two solitary horsemen," is in troduced, when a rep at the door caused him to look up. He paused, as his eyes rested on the door, for he was uncertain whether it was a client or a bore—but a sharp repetition of the impatient visiten's summons instantly de cided him. His face assumed a thorough business look, and his right band rested on a mass of papers, which he had recently been pondering over. "Come in !" The door flew oPen,and s a tall gentleman walked in, bowing, as he entered, and without waiting for an invitation, sat, down on the table near our hero. Joseph. glanced bagily at the intruder,.and in that look, he embrac ed the entire portrait of the individual. He was well-dressed, and displayed corAiderable jewelry, which he involuntarily handled, and surveyed the lawyer and the furniture of the room. "Your name is Custar, eh r asked the gentleman, trying to assume a very pleasant look. wfhat is my name, sir."• 'Ahem—well, happenidg to pass along, I saw your name . on the shingle — thought I had better drop inno harm to Joake ac quaintattce, acquaintance you knowjeadi to business, eb '1" and closing one eye,be placed the index finger °fide right hand against his nose and glanced in; a quizzical manner on the lawyer,in whose mind *as created a train of carious thoughts touching his strange visi- tor, inducing him to scrutinize him more . "Sometimes," responded Joseph slowly, en deavoring to find out the purport of the "My name is Arnold—Luke Arnold, sir. At present in the city, though my place of husiness is in an adjoining county. Come over to spend a few weeks." "A -very pleasant plece'to spend your time in. When do you purpose returning, Mr. Arnold I" _"Ah, well really that is a posii. I suppose I will leave as soon as my business here is concluded. -- Having some spare funds to in vest' thoeght I'd try- my luck among your Philadelphia sharpers." !'And pray, how do you succeed I Which is ahead I" asked Joseph, jocosely. really, I think they rather best me." "lis t hi, ba I. am surprised., I thought you folks were fully up to these gentlemen on 'change:" "We can learn something, though; and I confess that I am•not sorry for the knowledge I have derived from the superior financial abilities of these gentry." Here a pause ocoured. Joseph beth Ought himself that Mr. Arnold had better come at once tc s i theebject of his call ; and besides he had a very) great desire to learn what the gen tleman's bikiiness might be. "Is there anything in my way that you especially desire I" asked Joieph. "Why, yes. I have a little business I should like you to take in band, a mere trifle, I though. bad an idea of calling an one of the older practitioners, but again presumed that a younger lawyer would like to under take the Matter." "The case is not very deep, is it asked Joseph,_ in sort of careless, musing tone. "Well, no, not very deep. But yet, there are some nide points requiring a clear head to comprehend. You see I have many things it the way of business on my bands, and wish to keep everything in k its - proper place." "I sea ; yon wish to do business according to law, and at' the same time render strict justice ,to those with whom you are con nected." "Right, sir; that is my wish, Now, I will tell you precisely what I wish you to under -take." "Proceed," said Joseph, with considerable anxiety. "In the year 1830, my brother, John Ar nold, died, his wife having paid the debt of nature several years before. Be was possess ed of property amounting to' fifty thousand dollars. Before his death he executed a will, ih which he bequeathed the entire bulk of his wealth toil's only living s shild,Agnes.`The girl was only then eight years of age; the will conferred on me the duty of executor; and also guardian over Agnes, until' she. should attain her majority. In a codicil attached 'to the will it was provided that, in case of the death of Agnes, I was to become heir to the entire property. -Two years after her father's 'death, Agnes suddenly disappeared. The mystery which shrouded her departure was so great that neither myself nor any of the neighbors could solve or penetrate it. Ten years. have now elapsed since she was seen ; and after spending time and money in the vain attempt to learn-her fate, I have con cluded that she no longer lives." "Well, sir," said Joseph, drawing n long breath, and looking elowely est the narrator of the strangestory, "you say you have never heard of the lost girl, and that you cannot. account for her mysterious disappearance." ,‘,Tarious surmises were made; some think ing she had been spirited away by a band of gipsies that was strolling the country at that time. Beyond this, nothing definite was ever known.' - • "What course•do You wish to take I D. you desire that this will should be offered for probate ; and this done, place you in, pos• session of the property I" "Exactly so; ab, I see you understand it. That is precisely my wish." And Mr. Arnold evinced great anxiety at, this stage of the conversation, and he rapidly handled • his watch-chain with somewhat of nervousness. - "It 'will require time to accomplish all` this.' When can yon bring the will "In the morning, if that will suit." "That will answer. Call at nine o'clok to. morrow morning, and _I shall undertake your business at once." Mr. Arnold arose. He drew from a capa cious pocket a heavy purse, 'from which he selected a double eagle. The coin he poised in his fingers for a mcment and then passed it to the lawyer. Joseph received the bright coin, and that, too, his Mat fee, with highten ed color in his face. He was now fairly in itiated in the practice, at least the most im portant, part of it, that of taking a fee, to which all other requirements in law are sub servient. ' Mr. Arnold -put on his bat, buttoned his coat, walked to the window and looked forth, as though ho wished to learn who was in that vicinity ; or, in other words, seemed to 'feel as though he would rather leave by a back door. Joseph noted this perturbation, but said nothing, Finally, Mr. Arnold open ed the door and without saying "Adieu," was gone. The lawyer was alone. ills minis instant ly recurred to the scene just passed; he close ly scrutinized and weighed the moral character of his client; carefully canvassed his motives, and finally , concluded that somewhat of mvs -toy invested the case which he had under taken. Lie would not be in a hurry,but keep it in abeyance until "something would turn up" to clear away the doubts which had sud denly agitated his mind. CHAPTER 111- A CURIOUS DEVELOPEMENT Luke Arnold closed the door bastilS , , and Looking up and down,the street, to see if' any person who might re‘grtife him,was in sight, and seeing none, erased over and hastily turned a corner ; passe l rapidly along toward Chesnut street. As he neared- the State House, be was unexpectedly saluted by a rather rough looking character with— "Ah, Luke; how are you I—been,around, eit't Well, I've been around some, too. Though I feel kind out of place—no money and no -rich relations, I— "Ahem I Well, really, I don't know what you mean," said Like Arnold, starting _back from the speaker, "You don't, eh d P'r'aps I might refresh your memory. Ha, ha, ha how short some people's memories do get. Why, bless you, Luke-Arnold, I was your bonier once." "A very poor recommendation by which - to cultivate a further acquaintatice with me,'t replied Arnold, somewhat sharply, and he moved a step or two, as . though be would leave the very questionable company •he was in. "So it is, very poor. Ha, ha - , ha ! very poor, Arnold, .but, for all that I have some claims on your sympathy." And the fellow ►coked at Arnold with an impudent smirk upon his face. "And pray, sir, what claims may you have upon my sympathy ! I do not remember you even; but I suppost jou were discharg ed for "some,bad action.", . - . "Well, that's a fact. It was a bad action— s very bad action—but acripter says that the partaker of a crime is as bad as the thief. 7 • "What do you man, sir, by this lan guage 9 Do you wish me to listen to these insulting words upon the publiu streets I" lq mean," said the man, placing his mouth to the oar of Lvke Arnold, and whispering a few words, "I mead that !" and he stepped baci: to observe the effect of what he said upon Lis' itor. Instantly the face of Luke Ar nold became ashy pale, and Ile could scarcely breathe. - Fear and astonishment armed to overpower his fabulties. Re was unable either to speak or 'to move—ho appeared frozen to the spot. The strange man watched him with fiendish delight and appeared to en joy the agony and terror , of Luke with pecul iar relish: • "Ita, ha ! that's what I mean ! Do you undwtand that / Oh, ho ! ' you remembciy me, ,don't you I Shall I repeat it I' And the man stepped up to Arnold as if be 'would reiterate the iistounding - words. But Luie instantly stretched forth his band to keep him off., "Back—man, devil !—back and this eyes of the speaker glistened with terror. "Ha;Oa 1 but you act it nice. You raft scared, are you ? 'Nothing in it, man. Yonr fancy's only too strong.' ThatZs'all." Luke saw that he was the "observed ex all observers' and he must away from this. .1 "Follow me," be said to his companion; and as Luke spoke ho walked - rapidly along , the street,and entered a hotel a short distance from where be bad been standing. He led the Ray to a private room, where he invited the strange man to takes seat. Being seated, Luke Arnold, his eyes yet wild with recent excitement, gazed for a moment intently on the man's face, and then asked— " Are you Tom Brunton ?" "That's what I was christened—sartain." "Why, I thought you had died five years ago." And Luke again closely scrutinized the man. "That • was the report, but ewa n t-true, though I am still about. 'At the time you mention I had a very narrow escape, for -the ball grazed the. top of my head and left,me senseless." , "Strange—strange !" muttered Luke. "Yes, very strange," said Brunton. "The a-rrangement to get me out of the world. was pretty well planned, but somehow Providence saved my life for some purpose." "What mean you by these insinuations'?" And Luke glanced angrily_ at Tom Brunton. "I mean just this : that you were somewhat interested in that shot. You were afraid I would blow on you, and you thought to get me out of the way." - • • • "Liar 1." "Don't get mad, Luke. And, besides, I ain't lafraid of you. You paid me for acting the villain, and I am now, by your teaching, a ruined man. Ruined, yes, body and soul. I done that for you which the vilest criminal on earth would have refused to do; but it is past now, and I s'pose one life may be charg ed to your account and mine." "Nonsense, Tom !"" And Luke grew un easy , and nervous. "See here, Torn. Are you not satisfied I Did you not get all you asked of ailt - for what you done / And did you not swear to keep the matter profoundly secret ?" "I did that.- But what's the,oath of any man who would do a trick like that. 'Not worth a copper." -. "Then what do you mean to do ? Surely after the iapse of so many years jou will not come forward...and disclose the secret r And Luke trembled in every limb,sas he thus ap-. pealed to Torn. - - "See here, Luke Arnold, I was an honest man once. But through your cursed schem ing to enrich yourself, I am a villain—the daily and nightly companion of thiiies - -an fi l outcast from all that's lon able—a jailbird, and a beggar,' a pimp an A loafer.' And you only have Ito bla for it all. You made me what I am; and while you are rich and proud, I, who aided in your infernal scheme to enrich you, roust grovel in the very dust and cringe to the- , man who now may claim his thousands, beeaulle I was fool enough to perform his- villainouswork." "Toro, y3u judge me harshly, I am not disposed to let you suffer. You shall be,sup pled with all you want for' your comfort. Only keep quiet. Do you need anything now I" ' "No !" And Tom spoke in a voice of ex -1 treme anger. "No, I want no blood money —for as I live, the money you 'hold, is the price of life. And could I now, by any act restore that. innocent, to life,' then would I die in peace, though in poverty and prison." "And will you - not accept some money I 'You need many things. Come, take some gold'und furnish yourself with clothing. Try and forget the past,for it is cursed unpleasant to have one's memory twitted on such a sub ject." • As Luke spoke, he drew forth his purse and offered some to Brunton. Tom arose and drew himself up to his full hight and looking fiercely on Arnold,while his eyes flashed with' rising hatred of the man, again spoke : "Luke Arnold, if you regard your life as worth anything, do ,not offer me your gold. What I once took is still bitroing into my very soul. It is a canker which can never be removed until death calli for me. No, no, keep your glittering stuff, it has no charms foi me how. I leave you—but you will hear of me again—l know Your business here, and—" "ash ! That was you I observed the other day on Sixth street, dogging my steps. I feared as Much and dreamed this meeting "And well might you dream it—for as I live, it is a knell to your infernal par pose.7 "Say not so, Toni. It will overwhelm me in ruin. Do not turn traitor upon me. I will - make you rich--I will do anything you may demand if you but will remain silent ; say what you wish me to do and it shall be. done." "Then hear me ; restore to life the being who has been destroyed through your vil lainy, and when restored, do 'your duty ; as you have promised your brother on his sick bed." "Heavens, Tom, you but mock me by de manding impossibilities; What is done can• not be healed. The only course left, to us is to bury in oblivion. the past and enjoy the present and future. You know, Tom, 'you are so deeply implicated in this matter as I Am, and it will go as hard with you as with me, 'No, Mr. Luke Arnold, you are mistaken. Not so hard with Ino as you. gy character is lost forever . -- - my hopes in this world-have been blotted• • out, but you, *Ye, you'Luke, must fell from your high estate You will yet grOteel•in the very dust of infamy and suffer for the. crime of which you are . the principal. Down, down from your dizzy height of wealth and pride must you come, and oh ! how. terrible will be your fall'. The reward yours, Luke, for you sowed the wind, now reap the whirlwind." "Oh, God, and must this be 4 Ts tbere: no way by which I cadescape the dreadful doom thus spoken r, and Luke Arnold clasped • his hands in agony and turned a pleading look on Tom Brunton. But Torn stood unmoved. He had resolved on his course, and no argument,. no guilt, could change his fixed purpose. "Tom, for heaven's sake hear me. Do not sacrifice me now. Your silence is all I ask. You bare for years kept your promise— break it'tiot now, and all will be well with aou." "Yes, t suppose somebody would make it all right with me,"said Tom,with a sneer. "An other of your hired villains may C - 00143 to help me out of the world with a bullet in my brain. No, sir, Luke, my mind has beeix made up to ibis for some time and no coaxing. or promises can divert Toe from 'my purpose. I leave you now; but remember, your time is brief. Your sun will soon set. Farewells!" And before Arnold could utter a Word, the door was opened and Tom Brunton was gone. Luke Arnold was the very picture of despair and irroselution. Fora long time he pondered on what be had heard and grew fearful for his darling scheme. lie reasoned with himself thus : Thq breath of suspicion has never been whispered against me. The child was al ways treated well—and as for this scoundrel, Brunt , no one 'will credit his story. I think the danger is not so great after all." By such a course, of reasoning he soothed his feelings and in 'a few hours his fear's had entirely subsided; and had-he met with . Brunton, that 'individual would have met with a s very different reception: CHAPTER TV POVERTY -It is a dark night. Not to star is seen in the sky. Even the gaslights impart but a feeble gleam to gUide the pedestrian through the fog•clouded thorougfares of the Quaker City. The Leavy mist which ,hangs - like pall over the hu4hed scene possesses a chill ing influence, creating rather unple-asant sen sations in those exposed to it. The streets are muddy and disagreeable; and as you step Along, the water greets yOur pedal extremities with a rather unsatisfactory. salutation. Splash, splash as you go, drizzle, drizzre as you go, is the tune of. the heavy atmosphere. The watchman feels the misery of such-a night in performing his weary. rounds, and what with guarding against objects obstruct ing his wav, and his efforts to avoid the oF . 4211• y natatota.ll;.B he fedi that-he certainly performs his dtity, at least in watching the _objects we have named. • Yes, it is an unpleasant -night, and none, save those compelled by duty would venture forth, The cry of the watchman is faidtly 'heard; and this deep tones of the State House bell denoting the fleeting hours, sound like a knell amid the solemn stillness of "the night. The lunibering sound. of vehicles and - worn and jaded horses, add a dull leaden flound, while all conspire to add to the drear iness of the scene. The greet city is hushed in profounksstill ness. reigns. „And wicked dreams abuse to courtained sleep.” The bum of business is bushed—the evidences of that city's prosperity are veiled in the over whelming gloom. The artizan and laborer repose from' their toils— , the merchant lays his weary head upon his pillow and dteams of his profit And loss. There is an oppression in this hour ; an op pression that we cannot but feel. The world is asleep and fancy lendi - us wings—we imag- . ine the dreams and phantasies which agitate or sdoth the breast of the slumberers, thus locked in the welcome embrace of "Tired nature'sinrezat restorSm: balmy sleep." The lover dreams of his cho s sen one—the phi. los6pher discovers new wonders in the' uni verse—the miser gloats over his well-filled moneybags and (takes alarm, as he imagines the approach of the burglar—the sad and un fortunge find holie—while the youth, full of high aspirations perceives new honors hang dazzlingly before his enraptured vision. We have presented the city in its hour of gloom, when the midnight hour is ringing from the belfry of the old State House r tint can we not paint the inner life of that city, whose quiet is but the .prosecutor of another day of toil-and activity, in all the branches which go to swell the arteries of its wealth I While we wander amid the gloom 'and. darkness of the city, is there no seene,which our pen-can'frace) Is there no object which we can present and furnish us some concep. tion of the mysteries of lifn.existing I _ Yonder is a low hovel, where Poverty has created her throne; a dim light is burning within, and throwing its gleams out amid the gloOmof this forsaken locality. The tene ment is sadly out of repair, and everything like comfort has find. Let us enter. Per haps the light comes from those who are watching at the bed-side where sickness has put on her manthi of _sadness, or where the black angel of death is spreading his sombre wings, and, waits to convey his departing spirit to another world. The creaking door opens and we glance at theinterior. The room' is small, and void of any 'real comfort. A fire is smouldeying in tle grate, but emit. ting no heat ; a few chairs, a rough table, a• bedstead of questionable 'comfort comprise all the furniture that is visible. But there are two objects besides these. One is an aged woman, whose years count perhaps soy. enty - ; her_ gray hair straggling ercfelesslT itround her. face, while her pinehed features and sunken eyes give evidence'of years of suf fering and,' trial. 'She is - seated beside the table,' her open hands supporting her head, while her eyes are fixed closely upon her younger companion. The second occupant is a girl perhaps twenty years of age, who is buss , sewing - by the light of 'll-he tallow dip, and anonlooking up and answering the re marks of the aged woman. , There, Aggy, dear, it is twelve o'clock, the bell is now striking.; you had bettor cease sewing and let, us to bed,' said the old Woman as she listened' to the tones of the bell. 'Nay, mother, I snurt fieish this vest. It mutt - be returned - in the morning: You Volpe IL Simla 21. know how strict old Elleidecai is, shod work: answered the pale, girl; as etitch•folr -lowed stitch with ceaseless regularity, and she seemed to bend more closely to her task instead of abating . . ' d•• Yes, yes, I know; and more too,- girl, for • I feel the necessity of its beinedone. Our coal and candles` are both nigh exhapstedi and besides, we will soon want a supply of other things. But; dear me, what . is the use (3f toiling, toiling forever, when we only ob tain the bite we eat and the scanty rags Ave wear. If it were not for you, Aggy; labould_ not now be here." And a shade of deaf., melancholy passed over the speaker's %ice. ' ‘ Why, mother, how you talk. It is very true I. have to work late and early-, that we may-linger-out a'miserableexistince ; but it is only adding to that misery to constantly repine at our lot.' • "And can we help it! While ourseleves Oa' • thousands of others in this - great city are struggling for life, how many are there who roll in Nye - 11th and enjoy every comfort! It makes me complain—l feel that we are for.: saken—wholly forsaken. It does=seem as if no hope were left us but to toil on, toil ever, and then.at last to sink into a paupers pare,. Bitter, bitter thonght," And the aged wo4 Man covered bet - face with her hands and wept hot tears of misery—tears that welled up from the inmost,deptlts of her crushed'and sorrowing heart. Tears, too, blinded the eyes - Of- the sewing girl., and she paused to brush them away, and again resumed her toil. "Aggy, what .a hard and cruet world this is, Once I was happy, surrounded with all the comforts of life. Then' visa my life a round of pleasure. These things now are all gone, and Mary pe Vcre, the once young and loved one, the courted and the.flattered, now pines in a miserable hovel 'and must shortly, sink into the grave unknown, and forgotten." A fresh burst of tears and sobbing overcame the foilorn creature as sh; drew this picture of past joys. Aggy as she wae•calledr laid. down , her work and, approaching the old woman en deavored to booth her—but in vain. The memories of the past were thronging' her brain, and she could not banish them as they rapidly passed before her. - "Nay, mother, do not give way thus. It is true, ours is a hard lot, but we Must bear the portion which is laid upon us. God, in his Providence, has seen proper thus to place us, arid let us trust the design is for our good. Come, di s pel this gloom, and brighter days may yet be ours to enjoy."' "Aggy," said the woman looking up thro e , her tears, "you have done Much, for me.— Thus fat you illave supported me and proved yourself more than a child to its parent.— For all this, I thank you ; 'and pray God,' that you may never feel the terrible agony of this heart of mine. My kind girl, you know eM> nr.r . i.,... r hn,y, r a,-,th,g. with Lag..ciat sotia this gray head will be laid' in the grave. What 'then, ray 'child, will you do i What, will he your destiny in this great city tremble for you—for the scenes in your fu.- tu re." ' • ' "I- know that I will be called upon to en dure affliction; still I am reliant. on that mighty power which bas promised me so much. I will throiv my whoWtrust on that God, wlio tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, who`is a shield to the orphan, and a wall of safety to those who rely upon His Word." . And that trusting girl- clasped her thin binds together, turned her blue eyes heavenward, and seemed silently to invoke the protection and comfort which she re• gulled. Let us draisk the ctirtain over this scene\;fot a 'While and turn to another ofinterest.. (TO BE CONTINUED IN OUR NEXT.) . OLD KENTCYCK.-A Kentuckian fit the battle of New Orleans, who disdained the restraints of a soldier's life, with his name on the muster roll,. preferred 'ping in alone,' fighting upon his own _hook. - While the battle was raging fiercest, and the shot flying thick as bail, carrying death wherever they fell,'Kentuckf might havebeen seen stationed_ under a tall maple, loading• and firing his rifle; as perfectly `unconcerned as though he was "pickin g deer." Every time be brought his rifle to hisshoulder a retkost bit the dust.—At last he happened to attract the at• tention of 'Old Hickory,' whO, supposing he had become, separated from his company,rode up to hitt' to bring him behind the redoubts, ' l as he was in a position which exposed his person to the fire of the enemy. • 'Hallohl my man,- what regiment do yen belong to said the General. , 'Regiment V answeeed Kentuck ; 'bold on, yOnder is a other of, 'em,' and bringing his shooting iron to his shoulder, he ran, his eye along the barrel—a ; flash followed, and another Engli,hman came tumbling to the ground. • 'Whose company do you belong to r again inquired the General. • 'Company the d--1; was •the reply of entuck, as he buised himself reloading, 'see-that ar feller with the-gold fixins on his coat and boss., Jiit watch me perforate The Getteral- _gazed . in the direction indi cated by the rifle, and observed a British Col= oriel riding up and down the advancing col umns of the 'foe. Kentnek pulled the trig ger,and the gallant Colonel followed hie' com panions that Kentuck had' laid low in death that dm-. - Turrah for Xentuck 1' shouted- the free fighter; as his victim came toppling from his' horse, then turning to the Geural be contin ued, 'l'm fighting on ray own hook,stranger; and leisurely proceeded to re-load. Our OF OFFIOI=I Lyndhurst tells a good story . apprpos of'lltis surrender of the great seal In 1840. " When I went to the palace," says 141 lordship, " I alighted it the grand stair-case; I was received by the sticks of gold and silv6r, and other Office's s of the household, who l called in sonorous, tones, from landing to lauding, and apartment to apartment, ' Itorem for the Lord sigh Chan• cellor o€_-England l' I entered the presence chamber, .1 gar 4 the seals to ber Majesty; I bad the honor Of kissing ber hand. - I left the apartment by l another. door, and toted. myself on a back staircase, down which I de scended without any one takiiig, notice of me, until, as I was looking for my carriage at the outer door,. when a lackey bustled up, , and with a patronizing air said, Mr. Lyndbtirst, can Ido anything for you!" ,' - • trltjs a curious fact Oat_ the !NAHUM , friend - ships are among persona- of oppoaita - _
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