Locomotive, Volume 46, Number 10, Indianapolis, Marion County, 23 October 1858 — Page 1

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) I-..T-1 1UE LOCOHIOTIVIi , ts PRIPTTEDAND PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY , , ELDER; & HARKNESS, '. j At their Book and Job Printing Office, on Meridian Street, ' 4' " Indianapolis, Ind.. opposite the Post Office., , ,: TERMS One Dollar a your. Twenty-flve Cents for three months. Mix copies to one address for one year, Five Dollars; thirteen copies -one year for Ten Dollars, Tyut advance in at.l CASKs-cdX , No paper will be sent until pvid for, and no paper will be continued after tho time paid for expires, unless renewed. . Look ottt for tiie Ckoss. All mail and county subscribers 1 can k now their time is out w hen they see a large cross marked on their paper, and that is always the last paper sunt until the inscription is renewed. j T ft M S - -O r - A T K K T I S 1 N O i ' ; ' : nesqaare, (8Unes.or leas, 230 ms;) Tor I teefc;.';.... 0.50 . --. for each subsequent Insertion 0.25 v" -for three inotiths. 3.00 , . ... for six months. ... 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AV1XG recently fitted up a large fihop and Warehouse in Masonic Hull, we are now prepared to offer to our friend and customers, and to the public ircnerally, such in ducements as has never before been offered in the West, in regard to prices and quality of luaterialsand workmanship, r We have on hand a large quantity of our celebrated Great Western Cast Steel Plows of all sizes, from a one-horse Corn Plow to the lurgest size iiond Plowv " 1 i We would respectfully invite the attention of Farmers and all who are in want of farming iui piemen ts, to our stock before purchasing elsewhere, as we are confident that we can sell them the best improvements that can be obtained in the country, and as we buy our -material in large quantities from first hands, we are also prepared to offer great inducements in prices. , v i : ' : . 11 r a iiuerai mscouiit muuo ui nie hbuo. janj-.nn . , , ' . BEARD & STNEX. GLASS & STOMEWAKE DEPOT. "-' AT WHO LE8A LE.; ' 100 West Washington Street, opposite the State House. , B,:C. JIIDLEJIASi . decia-ly ; Commission Merchant. i;. J. B4LDWIK & CO., " i . ' i No. 1 Bates lions. '' THAXKFUi. FOR PAST FAVORS, would respectfully beg leave to inform the public that they are still oh hand with their usual full assortment of every thing in tho way of :.;,., . , AVatclies, Jewelry, Silver Hate, i We wish itdistinctlv understood that we do notkeep the low priced, bogus Watches and Jewelry, gotten up for auction sales; bnt will guarantee to sell good, honest articles as low as can posstblv be bad elsewhere in the West. Oar Sliver Wareis warranted equal to Coin; our Hatches bound to go and keep time, and all our goods just what wo represent them to be. For further proof call and examine for yourselves. We have Iho best Wvri hmakkr in the country in our employ; so bring on jour Watches. ' ' ,:' feb2-tf.-. FIKMTIKE WAHEKOOIU. ' JOIIIV VKTT13K, ' :'-y-'';'.',"-'l meridian St., in Keely' Invincible Block, 5 DOORS SOUTH OF POST OFFlA.. . T7"EEPS on hand all kinds of good and solid Furniture, which l he sells at the lowest price.,. As Cabinet-maker and Turner, he is prepared at nnv lirne to promptly execute all orders in his line of business. His factory is opposite the Madison Depot. Everything done is warranted to be in the neatest and most durable st le. . apr!7 ' JOHN VETTER. ; iSEHovi:. Fit. V.UKM has removed his New Store, No. 21, West , Washington street, opposite Browning's Drug Store, where he keeps constantly on hand, the largest and ; , j ,; Best Assorted Mock of Hardware in the City at Iteriueerl Prices. ;!; "' He has Just received a large lot ofGuih Helling, Rope and Blocks: Axes, Sails. Lo ks, Hinge?, Polished Fire Setts, Ames Shovels, Fine Cutlery, etc. dec5 J. BAKU, G3 3 Squares North of Court Hume, on Alabama street. IgTfl . Keeps coustantlv on hand Blind for Dwelling HonfS4 es, and also makes to order Blinds for public or private Kuildiugs. M. LONG, Agent f.,r Vonitinn Blinds, on Meridian St., near fie Posl Oflice, at liis Furniture Wareroom. jan31. TAKES pleasure in returning his thanksto the Ladles and Gentlemen of this place and vicinity lor their yery lib"al patronage, and still hopes to meet the same confidence he in engaged since he commenced the practice or hi. profession VrtiSrre'fili, from one to a full set, inserted on Platina, Gold or Silver - ' Particular attention given to regulating, cleaning, and extracting Teeth. Ether given when requ:rcd. ' . . All work warranted, and charges reasonable. Oflice 2d story Pletclier Woolley's block, No. 8 East Washington street. Oct.24-tf r. BH.L. O. OOLDSMITH. J. B. HUL Fruit ami Oinameiital Nursery. THE undersigned have established themselves in the : Norser, busineM on the well known N nrsery P""""'"" "reupie'd bv Aaron Ablre.lge. a few ';' e"slofV';"T"P, of line, Indi-u'innolis. We have on hand a general assortment or fh.lM S varietiesas are best ";'." 'limat... The tree, are or the very bestqu ality . Also a very ne stock or Ornnmcntal Shr-bberv. IET We Rr" nnw rc ' nil all order promptly. Address, - HILL, GOLDSMITH CO., nov7 Indianapolis, Illd. .7-tf FFICE, Harrison" New Bank Building, 19 Ea.t Washing I ton Street, second floor, front rom. norl-v Jr?Offichourifroi6A M.toiP-M. norl

INDIANAPOLTS;

,, ., ;From the New York Atlas. p TEN YEARS AND TEN DAYsi It is the 21st of January, 1858. ; I have stopped at this little wayside inn, not only that I may dine, but that I niay overlook the town, where I was born, and see my father's house, from which I have been ten years away.' ' I shall stay here at this inn, a very comfortable spot, the sijrn of the "Thomas Jefferson," until to-morrow, and think over all the events which have made me an exile for such a period, and what has occurred since. , . , , , Ten years ago I stopped at this house for a drink of water. I was then a pardoned criminal, going forth to find a new name and a now home, among new people. And I have found them. To-day I am returning. It is only tea years, but by th6'will of Heaven I return rich, and with a good position in the home that I have left. . - ' ' -v- - . I look out now from this window, and below me (for the inn stands much higher than the town) is my fatht er's house. It is, perhaps, six miles away. ' 1 Farther still, on the right, there is a low, gray, stone building, with grated windows ; that is the county jail. In that building, ten years ago, I was confined two months, awaiting my trial for lorgery. From that bflilding I was conveyed to court, where 1 was convicted. Jlu consequence of the respectability of my father, who had repaid all the forged notes himself, and my former good character, the Governor granted me a pardon. I will tell all the circumstances connected wit h it. - My brother, Wilson ' Amer, and myself, Kobert Amer, were clerks in the store of Allen & Graham, that largo drab-colored building away on the wharf, about one mile below my father's house. That group of vessels in the river belong to Allen & Graham, and they still continue their business, I am told, prosperously, Cia-the same spotj ''' ., t : ? wit i: My brother Wilson was four years older than myself. We were my father's only children .' my mother had been dead since I was three years old. ' I loved him better than any other thing upon the earth; until I saw Eunice Manly, and then I loved her beyond all the world, beyond my brother, beyond myself, and I fear, beyond my God. : ' -i i -wo! , Yes; I say this because I soon found that Eunice Manly loved my brother Wilson better than she loved myself, and then I hated my brother Wilson, and for many weeks I eould have slain him, but for a fear of discovery. In all these dark weeks I was a murderer at heart , I wanted only the opportunity to become one in reality. During this period I think Eunice Manly feared me. She never would allow me the chance of speaking with her alonei ' She would not walk with me, or indeed, enter into any lengthened conversation. I believe Eunice Manly read my heart and feared me. . Then, one day, as I sat over my desk, I thought of all this, and looking upon it even in the light of policy, I thought how foolish it was for me to sacrifice my hopes in this way. Then I determined o be as kind and as courteous as I was now spiteful and rude and, perhaps, by this means, I might yet win her affections and displace my brother. Again for weeks I carried out my plan. My brother met my kindness more than half way ; but I could still see there was distrust with my Eunice. I labored long and diligently to win some show from her, and at last, believing I had succeeded in impressing her (more from my observation of the fact that between Eunice and my brother there did not seem to be so much intimacy as there had been, than from any encouragement she gave me,) I deter mined to avow myself, and hear her answer. It was a very beautiful evening in May Eunice would now walk with me and we were walking just down by the river, where the Lonibardy poplars line its banks. I believe Eunice had a presentiment of something coming from my silence, perhaps. Several times I proposed to sit, but she said "no." I offered to take her hand. It was quickly withdrawn, but not so quick but I could feel the tremor. . I had determined to speak that night, and I must speak, or die. At last I stammered : , ' ; v " Eunice Eunice Manly, I would speak with you." She turned her pale face round full in the moonlight and her face was white, without the aid of the moon. , " Well," Robert,Iaru here. Why do you not speak?" It was the first time she had ever called me Ilobert, and my heart caught at the sound as a dying man clutches at a hope of life. .' .'''- " Eunice," I faltered, " for a long time back I have acted very badly, but believe me, Eunice, it was prompted by no ill-feeling, either toward my brother or yourself." ' -; - 1 "" i , ; "" It is all forgiven and forgotten, Robert."' ".' " Yes, Eunice, I confess to you that I did bate my brother Wilson. I hated him, Eunice, because I thought you loved him." " . . - She stopped, and laid her hand in mine. ' - " And why," she said, " should you hate Wilson because I loved him ?" " Eunice, I loved you myself!". How quickly the hand was withdrawn. " Yes, Eunice, loved you better than my life. I have loved, you silently, I have lived upon my love, and now, to-night, Eunice, I have brought you here to declare it." " Let us go home," she said, walking away rapidly. " No, not until you hear me ! Eunice, I love you ; you must tell me that you return my love, or I am lost. You are my first dream of life. Hear me. Say that you love me that you will man y me ?" ' " Oh, Robert Amer 1" she sobbed ; " why is this ? Do you not know that I am to marry your brother ? Do you not know we are to be married in a month ?" I have read somewhere in the memoirs of a State prisoner who was confined for seventeen years, during which time he heard the sound of human voice, but once, then it was the door of the dungeon opened, and these words came out of the darkness the speaker he could not see : " By order of His Majesty, the Emperor, I am commanded to inform you that on this day one year ago your wife died." . The door had been' opened, this great sorrow had been flung in to him, and again all was silence and darkness. ', ' I was that pnsoner Eunice Manly the voice coming out of the darkness. In that one little moment how many veai-s I livd ? Those words rang in my ears, not only as the doom of my soul 1 I caught both the hands of Eunice Manly in my own. I looked into her face. I cannot believe there was anything in my countenance that night less than a demon. I looked up to the stars, and out upon the water tripling in the moonlight, and there came a whisper to me : ':' , : ' ; " Why not why not kill her here, upon the sand ? No eye sees you, Robert Amer ! Will you resign to your brother more than your life ?" And then the stars, and the trees, and the waters danced, and shouted, and blended into one dark mass, and Eunice Manly loomed above all as a great ano-el, her head sweeping the sky ; and the next I knew, I was lying on my back on the sand, and I held my hands tip in the moonlight, and saw they were covered with blood. Then it all came back, and I shrieked, " Eunice," and raised my head, expecting to see her lying dead by my side. She was coming toward me from the water's edge, and sprang as I called quicker and knelt by my side. She had wet her handkerchief, and now pressed it upon my forhead,as she drew my head upon her arm. Oh ! the heaven of that moment 1 The joy in the

A TALK OF EXPIATION. ;,

IND SATURDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1858

knowledge that I was not a murderer ; that J had not killo.d linr. Anrl tlwrA wad alio I-iio.jIImt Kniitn too. my head resting against her heart, every Seat of which I could hear. . There was "but one wish then in my mind. It was then some power would so act upon us that we might remain thus tbr'eVeri I would not speak, lest she might, think :I had recovered, and withdraw her "arm. But soon she addressed me, and told how, I had fainted and fell ; how in falling, I had struck upon a stone, cutting myself on th! head-the blood uKn my hands came from this how she had called for help, but none came ; and then I arose, and w6 walked toward homo Eunice it was who talked. ' " It seemed strange tome-, Robert,- tlmt you should not have known what I have told you this night; but when I think that yourself and Wilson have not been upon the same terms of confidence yon -were once, of which I hm the unhappy cause,-1 do not wonder at it, though I bhime Wilson that he should have denied you this proof of brotherhood." - ' " i ' ' Then it was I thought how I had avoided every opportunity for my brother-Wilson to enter upon any conversation with me alone how I had even gone so far as to lock the door of my room and extinguish the light when I heaVd his foot . upon ihe stairs, feigning sleep, and refusing to answer his knock; ! By my own pride had I been wounded. . Then it was.I knew but for this I might gradually liaveawakcned to my error, and not, by one dreadful, blow, had the light of life crushed out of my heart forever; ,- . i , ; ; 1 I could only answer-'.' The .fault is mine." I: I ' "No, she said, "I take io. myself all the wrong of this. It was I that should .havo healed .the breach I knew was growing between.brothers ind now, Robert, you have said to-night that you love me.: ,1 will not . reject your love; I will ver return it freely, truiy, brother Robert. Love me ; let us love each other. I have no other brother than you. Shall it be so ?" and she placed her hand in mine, as before. ' It was cold, but tho tremor was gone. ' i " Before Heaven," I answered, I will love you as no brother ever loved sister yet " .... As I spoke I drew her to mc; and' without her resistance, I pressed one long-kiss upon' her "pale lips; and so went Eunice Manly into her home, never to come back again to my heart in the- same torm as before. ' ' That night I walked long upon the wharf before the store of Allen & Graham,- and' tried to "peer far into the future J but all was dark, uiid I cpuld discern nothing that carried away any of the burden that was upon me ; and then a vision of a bloated, drowned' corpse, lying there upon the wharf, ia the sunshine, next day, and my dear old father kneeling beside it; flashed before me. No ; I was not brave enough for that so I hastened away home. A shiver ran'overmc ; I started at every tree, bush and stone by the' roadside ; something was with me at every step, that screamed : " Robert Amer, thrice guilty man; thrice hast thou been a murderer ' Thy brother, Eunice Manly and thyself 1 " Where canst thou look for nardon '("' ' In terror I fled. I did not exting iish the light this night in my room. 1 I looked atmy pale face and white lips in the mirror. . 1 What conld I do to wipe away the specter ' ' What reparation could' I make my brother and Eunice, and what to myself and Jod ? ' Oh, that vague groping in the darkness of' life ; that indistinct menace hanging over my head ' I sat by the table, and opened the book of all books. The first passage-on which my eye fell was that from Job: - -'' ' ' ; : " In thought, from the visions' of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me and trembling, which made all my bones' to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face. The hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still, but I could not discern Uie form thereof; an imago was before mine eyes; there was silence ; and I heard a voice : Shall mortal man be more just than God ?" ' Long and earnestly, that night, I prayed. When I met my brother, next morning, I waited for no word from him, nor did I speak.' It was in the hall, as we entered the breakfast room from different directions. I took his hand silently, and pressed it to my heart, and then I put my aim about bis neck and kissed him. My brother Wilson was of a quiet, even temperament I had often heard him say he detested scenes. I say I did not speak. In truth, I could not my he"art was too full for words.' He met my pressure of the hand warmly, and wq passed into the room where my father sat I could see all breakfast-time, and all that day, my brother looked inquiringly at me'. ' It was plain he did not understand, and it was not my purpose to explain. I was sincerely penitent I wished to show it by evcty act, that Trnfght atone tohiy brother, to myself, to Eunice Manly ; ami to God. A month soon passed away. ' 1 was very calm now. Wilson and myself had no unpleasant moments together, but there was something wanting, there had been a link stricken away, never to' be replaced, What it was I could not tell; I sought his confidence, but I withheld my own. " I reasoned with myself: , " Yes, this is right. ' He has tnken away from me, that he might give to Eunice.' ' There can be no equal: ity on earth ; why should not' the brother bow to the wife?" 1 With Eunice I sometimes walked alone. I never spoke to her again with the voice 'of' love or passion, but still, when I walked alone with her, my words choked me, and I cried, in the agony of my heart, and Eunice would wipe away the. tears and say : ' , "Poor Robert ; Brave Robert !" ' .' ' Yes, poor Robert, but . not brave Robert. " I was a coward still a coward in my soul. . Then came the night they were married. I was my brother s groomsman. 1 stoott at the altar and watci cd him place tho ring off the finger of his bride. knew Eunice Manly was looking at me, looking away into the depths of my heart ; but she toad me hot yet I watched him place the ring upon her finger. " With this ring I do thee wed," and Eunice Manly floated away out upon my memory; and soon came the words : "I do pronounce you before God, man and wife." Then I saw only Eunice Amer my sister; Late that evening it was a warm one in June -I left the crowded rooms for a moment, to breathe the air. I walked slowly down the path of the garden, without thought I heard a light step behind me, and before I could turn, an arm was around my neck and Eunice in my embrace. One quick kiss she gave me, one sud den pressure with the words:' "Brave Robert, brave brother," she fled back to the house.' Yes, Eunice, " brave brother." Now I deserve thy praise. The light had gone out. In one moment had I ex tinguished it with prayer. Still it sat upon my soul as a heavy weight What could 1 do to atone Tor my crime r There was no peace-offering I could present my brother. . I was not rich even had I been, it would not satisfy my own heart One dream haunted my mind forever. Oh, that I had but one human ear into which I could pour my sorrows, and ask sympathy and advice.' There was1 not one upon earth I could trust; and with all my prayer, I had not yet drawn near enough to God. Three weeks after the marriage, my brother and I walked together, one morning, to the store generally, as iunior clerk, I preceded him. As we entered, I saw the partners, Mr. Allen and Mr. Graham, through the sash ot the aoor,m ineir private omce. a stranger, whom I did not recognize as ahy 'person belonging to the town, was with them. I saw the stranger come to the door, drop the curtain over the sash, and look above it some minutes at my brother and myself. Wilson, I am sure, did not see this. There was some

thing strangely unpleasant in the man, and though I have not seen him since that day, I know I shall always recognize him through life."'1 ! ' -. :r.' In about a quarter of an hour after this, Mr. Allen came to the floor and called Wilson and myself,, .Wilson started quick, locked the safe, and followed me into the office.'' ' i" " '' ' '. J ' Mr. Allen introduced the stranger as Mr. Smith,' of New; York. v..!i .!: .'! ' , . i ' i ' ' i ! -k i : ' i t ... Wliat mado my brother Wilson stigger and turn so pale ? lie sat down without looking at the stranger, and then immediately rising, bowed distantly, and seemed perfectly at case. : 1 1 ' " " ' ! Mn Allen it was that spoke!,. . ' 1 ' '"':! i ..! '.' Gentlemen, we have a very unpleasant subject to consult you on. Mr. Smith, who is an officer, has this morning arrived from New York, with the notes you see lying on the table. ' They have our names to them, and are forgeries to a large amount ' It is only known that these notes have been sold in New York, and the proceeds transmitted to a Mr. Amer. Which of you gentlemen pleads guilty to tins ?',' , . . What a flood passed over me during the utterance of these words horror, shanie, joy 1 Yes, joy f Thero was the cup, held to my very lips. I thank Heaven, which gave me presence of mind that, might drink. There was not one moment's hesitation., , Looking Mr. Allen in the eyes, I said: ' '" ' ' ' " " "'Twasl."'"'' 'I : '(! "1 "';!.'. I My brother started toward me.' I put out my hand to keep him away. 1 saw he.waa choking with words. In a moment, if he spoke, my plan . would be lost. With my hand extended, I continued : , '.. ' . , ' "I want no sympathy; I aloh6'am guilty .' 'I exonerate my brother. He knows nothing of this. ' Upon mo be tho shame.", . And then turning to the officer, I said: " I am your prisoner." , ,t, , . , . ,., ... , , My brother had fallen upon the floor in.a faint, and Mr. Graham was trying to revive him. I was convinced, then and there, that Smith, the officer, know the truth; : lie looked through me, and I, cringing fool that I was, cast an imploring glance at him; that he might

understand, it he had divined my secret, I was begging him to keep it. I was young then, and did not know how little he cared who was the guilty one, so that he got a prisoner, and his pay for the ruin and shame, i j V hat employment can there be on earth like this, the " Detective Officer." . While there is any labor of mind or body still to be executed upon earth, does it not seem strange that men will take such an occupation. ', iThere is nothinc sacred to this man. Death lias no terrors, unless it comes to his own person.; The moans, the tears ot the wite, mother, sister and child, over the lost, the fallen, have no weight, save as he views them for a benefit to himself. He is at war with all society : a Parian in the midst of his kind ; a weigher of sorrows, who counts them by dollars and cents ; the most degraded of all human kind " a thief-cath-er." . , . . The next hour I saw my father. "Dear old man 1 ' 1 had never seen him weep before : but I had no tears to mingle with his I was cold and impassable. I had no further confession to make ; only that one answer to all his questions I was guilty I declined entering into any particulars. , . My brother Wilson was raving with a brain fever next morning. This I heard from my father, who came to see me at the, prison. X could only kiss his wrinkled hand and ask Ins forgiveness. , ; Then Eunice came ; I had hoped to have been spared this. She came. What a change had that single day wrought-i-where was the bright eye ? Gone. The ruddy cheek, the soft smile ? ,. Gone, gone.- iShe gave me her hand and I raised it to nip lips; it was as cold as marble, and Eunice's teeth chattered as she spoke to me. I remember but one question: "Urother Kobert, are you guilty i "I am guilty," I answered: and then I fell in agony upon my knees before Eunice not to ask her forgiveness, but to plead with her not to come to me or see me again. This I besought her as the only, the last sacrifice she eould make me in this world. With a bursting heart, but without a tear, she ' yielded she promised. And Eunice went forth from my prison cell, and since that hour 1 have not beheld her. . J.hey bore me tidings every day of my brother Wilson for the first week after my arrest He had required continual watching; he had called upon me by name, and struggled to get away from his keepers that he might come to me. JSow he wa3 quiet alarmingly so; he never spoke refused, by the most piercing cries, to be removed from his bed did not recognize any one seemed to have lost all memory and mental powers. JLhe physician said it was the reaction from a great shock, and time and care would restore him. Friends came to see me. I knew cunositv was the motive, and I 6oon refused to see them. My father offered to enter bail for me, and told me to fly. I would not save myself by his rum. 1 refused counsel -r-I knew it could but prolong the end. There was no hope. 1 had confessed myself guilty; and it 1 had not, it could bo proved against me, and so my mind was decided. There was nothing left but conviction; I act cepted it. . .. . . ' 1 The day ot the trial came. It was rarely tne miiaDitants of the little town had an opportunity for any thing approaching excitement. Ihe schedule ot crime for years had not risen above petit larceny. It was therefore made a gala day when the son of Squire Amer was to be arraigned for a heavy crime. . I could see, as I glanced from the windows of the-carriage,' that the town was alive. A crowd ot shouting boys followed us, and another of men blew their foetid breaths into my face as I passed from the carriage to the courtroom. A confused number of voices was about me a sea of faces. I could discern figures flitting about. I knew that many spoke to me but I know not whether they were answered. I could recognize faces that seemed to me familiar in dreams, way off in the forgotten time long, long ago; a century, perhaps, or more. I saw the Judge upon the bench a grave, white-haired man, and for an instant caught his eye. It said to me : "Pity, pity, so young ! But I must do my duty." And them I heard him ask : ,"WTho is the counsel in this case ?" , . And I answered as though I talked to one far away: "There is no counsel; there is no defense; the plea is Guilty." Then I could hear a murmur of disgust and disapprobation go up from the crowd, who had been disappointed of their amusement, and the voice of the crier, calling "Silence," and the order of f.hc Judge, that any of the audience disturbing the court should be ejected, and then there was silence, death-like; I could hear the scratching ot the clerk s pen as he recorded the plea. . , "And the sentence of the court is, that you, Robert Amer, shall be confined in the State Prison for the term of seven years. , . ', ; . Seven years ! it was too short a time. . Why did he not say seventy years ? I could not die in seven years. Let me hope; perhaps I may. Apother buzz and hum; and I was taken again to my old cell, to await removal to the State 1 rison next day. I think I slept better that night than I had before since my arrest. The trouble was principally over ; I had only one point to fulfill. I had charged all that as soon as my brother Wilson had recovered suflicently to speak with any one, a letter I had written should be given hnn. In this letter I charged him, by every. thing that was sacred, by all the past, by his care for my lite, and my hereafter, to come to me, to let me see him, and converse with him before he breathed a word to any living soul. ' I was streached upon my pallet the morning after my trial; the padlock clanked against the .door. It was an unusually early hour for anv one to enter mv celt. 1 only thought it was the call tor my departure

to change my confinement for one more loathsome. I sprang to my feet, and received in my arms my dear old father. He could not speak; he only cried aloud , like a child, and held out a pajier in his" hand. The I keeper wko had opened the door, it was, who said : "A pardon."..: . - y A pardon from the governor! ' I was not thankful. ; No, then I was not. But God docth all things well. Mechanically I went forth into the pure air of heaven. My father sobbed and cried all the wav. I shed not a tear. Why should I weep? I had been defrauded of my due; I had bean denied mv atonement. My father wished to carry me home My dear father! He talked of all his plans for the future how I I was to be reinstated with Allen & Graham, who were to forget all the past and give me back my old position in their confidence how the notes had been !paid. 'All would be well. But poor Wilson was yet speechless, and the old man's tears broke out afresh. ,1 was cold to every one that said "stay." I only consented under his teal's to go to the old homestead for a day or two, on condition that nobody was to see me during . that time? no one, save himself and the old ' housekeecper, who had alwas been to me as a mother. ,1 declared to my father my unalterable intention to leave home to leave the country, and seek in another land forgetfulness of the past. ,.' Two days I stayed in my father's house. In 'this time I wrote a long letter to AVilson, telling him all .the past my love for Eunice; my criminal -thought against her and' against himself, my joy of the bearing the burden of his guilt I told him I was happy, and' in Conclusion,, swore that if ever he betrayed my , secret, I would curse him, and hate him unto death.:. 1 This letter I left in the hands of my father, to be jjiveri to Wilson whenever he was able to receive it. Another I left for himself, telling him to look upon his son Robert as dead. And the next morning at daylight I stole noiselessly into the old man's room, kissed his hand,, and went out to the world to begin my life. "' And now it is the 21st of January 1858, and I sit

nere vy me inn winnow ana iook down upon tne old scene, and oh! with what different thoughts than when I last gazed upon its ever well known locality. . ! , ;My brother Wilson is dead. He died in : August last. . My father still lives. My father is very old; seventy-eight he will be in a few weeks. Eunice lives; she has two children; the oldest is named after myself, Robert Amer. . . i i - - , . I have been ; a wanderer in many lands; I have made, no efforts to attain wealth, but it has flown in unbidden upon me. I came hist from St Petersburg, where I have been now for four years. It was here my father and AVilson first heard of me, and wrote. My father's letters implored me to return home, that 1 might be with him when he passed into the silent land; he bade me come and inherit the old man's savings; he said that Wilson had prospered, that he was beginning to bo thought the wealthiest man in the town; Wilson wanted nothing from his father, it was all reserved for me. Wilson also wrote me, to the same' end. ' He was, he said, in bad health; he had never entirely recovered his shock; he asked that I would return; he was "only living until he could throw hinself at my feet, thank me, confess all and die. 1 ! My answer to my father was my blessing and promise that I would see him at some future time, in this world or the next, and the remittance of a very large sum, which I begged he would invest as he saw fit, and usei the income in any way he pleased if he had no use for it himself, let it be bestowed in charity. ..- ,-..'..:. .. ' - -1 To Wilson I did not write: I sent through my father words of love and affection to him and to Eu7 nice. ' I determined in my own mind never to retun home while AVilson lived. ; In October of last year I received the intelligence of his death. I had, from his declinig health, been expecting it; still, when it came, I was shocked, and could not, for a iong time, recover. AVith it came several letters from my father and from Eunice. On. his death-bed AVilson had told all; all but mv criminal ity. He had produced my parting letter, and died 1 ! -111- 1 J l.iicaviug an ins property in my nana, to oe aisposeu oi as I saw fit Eunice's letter was very short; every word was written with a trembling hand, but it still said, "Come, come, come." I I must go home. I am here ; to-morrow I shall see my dear old father, and Eunice. I stay here to-night that I may look upon the town and collect myself. , I have thoroughly examined my heart, and know that all the past is blotted out where it touches my first love for Eunice. I shall only look upon her as a darling sister, and I sincerely pray I may never think of her in any other light. To-morrow I shall see them all, including my two nephews, Robert and AVilson, whom I am prepared to lovf? in advance. Goodnight First of February I open this paper again to say that I have been at home ten days, to-day. In that -time I have lived ten years. I have seen all, and it seems scarcely possible that ten yars have passed away. My dear father looks younger than when I went from home, There is nothing altereed in the, town. The old house has been a public place for that ten days. Everybody has insisted on calling to see me whether I wished to be at home or not. They have pressed upon me all sorts of rough and kind congratulations. I have received bushels of potatoes, apples and turnips, in presents, to say nothing of cab-' bages and other delicacies. Mr. Alien and Mr. Gra-. ham have been to see me. " Old Mr. Allen cried a little bit, but made no reference to the past. All is known, for which I grieve deeply. I would far rather tho secret had been kept, and I left to die abroad in the midst of all my happiness. I still doubt myself.., They are fine boys, my nephews. Robert is nine , years old, AVilson seven. I shall make a soldier of Rcfeert. That I sounds presumptuous, but I speak as one who is left sole guardian of the boys, and I see a ; decided leaning in the temperament of Robert for , such a calling. He deelared to me yesterday his in-1 tense admiration for the character of Napoleon; who knows but he" may be a second Napoleon. AVilson will make a merchant My dear old father behaves ' like one demented. He cannot seem to be disgusted !

with my society. His strongest ambition is to carry me triumphantly through the surrounding country, . introducing me to those who already know me, " My son, sir. Only thirty-two years old," and then solto voce, "Has been ten years abroad, sir, and made a ; quarter of a million." I am indeed happy to think my ; good fortune is a source of pleasure to him, though his , simple wants will not call for its use. , " And I have seen Eunice. . ' i Eunice is still more beautiful than when I loved her. She is twenty-eight this day; it is her birthday. So young to have passed through so much. Everybody admits her to be the most beautiful woman in the county. I have made over to Eunice all my brother's ; property for herself; and the boys I will attend to in , good time. ' My first interview with Eunice was yery painful; I ' was not prepared for anything like it I may as well i tell how. The first day I returned, aftey seeing my father, I had some difficulty in getting his consent to go alone , to see Eunice. The old gentleman seemed to fear I would never return that I would slip of for another ' ten years. After some trouble, I got a furlough of a ' couple of hours. ,. , I opened the door of the house, as in the old timo, and walked directly into the parlor, where sat Eunice. CONCLUDED OX THE FOURTH PAGE. -1 J-'M

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