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
- _