The Southern Intelligencer. (Austin, Tex.), Vol. 1, No. 52, Ed. 1 Thursday, June 28, 1866 Page: 1 of 4
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gftOVVN A FOSTER,
is it Jmt a map of bass life?"
PUBLISHERS.
1.
CITY OF AUSTIN, TEXAS, THURSDAY, JUNE 28, 1866.
NO. 52.
rtiESOUTHERN '.NTELLIGENCER,
' Kill * EVEBV THWWDAY JIOBNIMG.
CURRENCY.
* cRMS-U. S
■ . f0r 52 numbers, $4 OO
L¡¿Poni"-ñ aso
1 - is •< ISO
8 6 OO
7 OO
9 OO
11 (10
12 00
13 50
15 00
^ii^fCopyiOeenU. ^
giTK"* O* ADVBBTIMNK.
__e j! so for the first and 75 cent* for each
¡KSÑ"* *
i „p re, P insertions
' 17 "
. . 20 "
, « 30 "
u 40 "
;. 58 "
hn«or lm. this size type, make one square.
¿J; «rd <"• lesi constitute a square.
The bovf rate are in legal tender. Specie
Wjú Its market value, or at the rate of ■! for
|
gotkbnmeni.
tiecuthe Department.
I i Hamilton Provisional fiovernor. i
i LB¡£ore. Private Secretary.
I' Stain Department.
„ R,u Secretary of State
I Z¿ Spenci"". Chief Clerk.
I Alexander Attorney General.
Treasury Department.
I . o T«lor Comptroller.
Chief (:,erk"
Z,aurii <• Treasurer.
XU Chief Clerk.
H General Laud Office.
I < ^>H White Commissioner.
•?M 1 Chief Clerk.
Lunatic Asylum.
v « Grth«m Superintendent.
Deaf and Dumb Institute.
f~l J. Via Nosirand Superintendent.
' State Penitentiary.
CaniW.Wn - financial Agent.
r^¿u Cirothera. Superintendent.
Arrival and Departure of the Mail .
H0uu' —Leaves Tuesdays, Thursdays and Satur-
mi. it m; closes same days, at 11 a- m. A-urives
ii«lat5,Thur«day8 and Saturdays, at la p. m.
¿mimwí-Leaves Wednesdays, Fridays and
I " &• m. ; closes previous evenings at 9.
IrritesMondaj*iThuridays and Saturdays, at 12p. ra.
!' —Le re> Wednesdays and Saturdays at 8 a.
[ a. - closes prenoos evenings at 7. Arrives Fridays
1 uni iundays at o p. m.
1 an:tla.—Le re* on Wednesdays, Fridays aud
llonJiji it 2 p. in-; closes at 1 p. m. Arrives on
lTedaetdt? , Fridays and Sundays, at 4 a. m.
CHURCH DIRECTORY.
(VistiM.— Ktev. J. Jones. Service every Sun-
¿TjMnúng, St 11 o'clock.
Ciabsrlaad Pre byterian.—Revs. Finis E.
fats.udJ. J. A. Roach, alternately. Service eve-
ir itodtj it 11 o'clock.
fybttaal'—Uev. B- A. Rogers, Rector. Ser-
vice evert Sunday at 10 o'clock.
CadMHb— Rev. N. Feltonand Rev. J. M. Geraud.
[ «irrite evrlj Sunday at-10 o'clock.
■aptiMr-Sev. R. H. Taliaferro. Service every
•torfiy it II o'clock.
JleiMiat.—Kev. J. W. Whipple. Service every
tai ? It U o'clock.
Prtikyterian.—Rev. Thaddeus McRae. Ser-
| «every rmnilay at 11 o'clock.
MECHANICS.
BLUSH fc WALKER,
Iridie and Harness Manufaetorers,
Congress Avenue, Austin, Texes.
[fSUXUUJU for past favors, «re now prepared to
11 em dl work in the above Use, in a superior
isad at re**osaMe figures.
PTe keep constantly on hand, in additiuu to our own
isafaenre, from the Eastern market,
Saddles of all hinds, Buggy
| Trimmings, Saddle-Bags, &c.
9n0 Country Manufacturers can have orders
| fed as ihort notice.
Or Saddle Trees are the best made in Texas, and
M (urintee at work done by us to give satisfac-
I loo. Our term*—
tó* CASH OS DELIVERY.
ST Carriage Trimoifrg attended to.
n t. PITTMAN, Tinner, announces to the public,
Hi tkat he has just received a Urge amount of ma-
aU,ud is prepared to do any kind of work in his
V on very reasonable terms. Bis ahop is on Pe-
xiareet, east of the Ayenue.
iadn, September 1, 1865. 1-9
I MCLAUGHLIN, Tailor. Thankful for past fa-
wn, would moat respectfully inform the public
take hat removed to the room formerly occupied
if Sr. Penrti, where all business in his line will be
¡najdj mended to, and on liberal terms.
latin, July 18, 1865. 1-2
Cabinet
vaina ,
ET MAKING. —We have established our-
i it til® old stand of T. H. Tumey, on Pe-
as ttreet and are prepared to execute every
fci of w> rk in our tine on the shortest notice, in
imager .nrpaaaed by none, for CASH. Orders for
■dertakin? promptly filled, and Hearse always on
«■d. Terasarictly cash.
1* ENGLAND t HANNKÍ.
I C-PETMECKY, takes this method of informing
tae citizens of Austin aud vieinity, that he has
<faad bis Shop on Pecan street, where he is pre-
gred to make and repair all varietiea of fire arms.
"ficita a share of patronage, assuring all
■*1 terms, and the execution of his work, will
|l«Miiftctiou.
íewáf machines cleaned «¡hd repaired. 1-1—ot52
Jft ti. T. BOARDMAN, Dentist Austin, office op-
"gat* Avenue Hotel. Save your teeth by laithiul
to cleanliness; if decayed, by artistic plng-
Wt^f tat, replace them ty life-like artificial repa
*®o?Wtions guaranteed. Examinations without
gg- fttabBshed in Austin in 1851. 32:ot31
W^JJAll STILUS, Dental Surgeon, Austin, Texas.
"Up* 11, 1865. 1-6—otü-5
LAWYERS.
1™?® 1. g. gimm
ÍWEKS ¿ WALKER, Attorneys at Law. Austin,
Jl"1 OBee on Congress Avenue.
F. W., Attorney and Counsellor at
vUw,Ansda. i-i
JWB, BLACK, Attorney at Law, Austin, Texas.
¡i«newar attention given to the collection of
wufc. Ufflc# We* 'ide of the Avenue, Glasscock's
ot2:27
Attorney at Law, No. 1, Ziller's
^ggSjjjUan St. Austin. 1-4
NttTnir.^.:--:" A- vonu-
•taiAttorneyscsLaw, San Anto-
leCg. -,Wd| practice in Bexar, Guadalupe,
!W J"? "Mlsspie counties, and in the Supreme
laia^i*™-. Special attention given to
^"■«•aaadttecollecticn of debts. Office in
9 U® ^ Attorney and Counsellor at
Texas, gy Office No. 1, Ziller's
MOOi* I w* SHBLLBY.
® Jr¿- SHELLEY, Attorneys at Law, Austin,
1-19
Attorney and Counselor at Law,
fct£2Üie**a« Will do a General Law Buainess
ht¿sa2¿«M,Wüld°
Business
Galveston, Fort Bend, Bra-
on, Brazos, Grimes
efferson and Orange. Spe-
to the Collection ot Claims,
Main and Congress streets, up
teC- S 21_
g«¿i.S w- * Vi"'
? a Attorney at Law, Austin, Tex-
fewid at his former office on the
Attorney at Law, Aoitin, Texas.
Avenue 1^6 .
¿?**L'wn?SE'^tlorney " L*w. Galveston,
o^Cota, Poetice in the State and United
l- -ot28
t. n noi
wneya at Law,
.Texas. Prac-
In. t~ Courts ot tot 8tAt6,
Coons at Austin and Trier. otS-U
=^^_8CHQ0LS.
%
[From the New Yurk Atlas.]
TEN YEARS—TEN DAYS.
A TALE OF EXPIATION.
It is the 21st of January, 1858.
I have stopped at this little wayside
inn, not only that I may dine, but
that I may 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
sign of the " Thomas Jefferson," un-
til 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
i house for a drink of water. I was
i then a pardoned criminal, going forth
to find a new name and a new home,
j among new people.
And I have found them. To-day
■ I am returning. It is only ten years,
Í but by the will of Heaven, I return
rich, and with a good position in the
home that I have left.
I look out now from this window,
and below me (for the inn stands
much higher than the town) is my
father's house. It is, perhaps, six
miles away. Farther still, on the
right, there is a low, grey, 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 for-
gery. From that building I was
conveyed to court, where I was con-
victed. In consequence of the re-
spectability of my father, who repaid
all the forged notes himself, and my
former good character, the Governor
granted me a pardon.
I will tell all the circumstances
Qpnnected with it.
My brother, Wilson Amer, and
myself, Robert Amer, were clerks in
the store of Allen & Graham, that
large drab-colored building away on
the wharf, about one mile below my
father's house. That group of ves-
sels in the river belong to Allen &
Graham, and they still continue their
business, I am told, prosperously, on
the same spot.
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 my brother Wil-
son, 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.
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 could
have slain him, but for a fear of dis
covery. 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 speak-
ing with her alone. She would not
walk with me, or indeed, enter into
any lengthened conversation. I be-
lieve Eunice Manly read my heart
and feared me.
Then, one day, as I sat over my
desk, I thought of all this, and look-
ing 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 to 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 stiil
see there was distrust with Eunice.
labored long and diligently to win
some show from her, and at last, be-
lieving 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 determined to avow my-
self, 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 Lombardy
poplars line its banks. I believe
Eunice had a presentiment of some~
thing coming—from my silence, per-
haps. Several times I proposed to
sit, but she said " no." I offered to
take her hand. It was quickly with-
drawn, 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:
"Eunice, Eunice Manly, I would
speak with you."
She turned her pale face round
full in die moonlight—and her face
was white, without the aid of the
moon.
" Well, Robert, I am here. Why
smith. you not speak ?"
l-19ot3-18
It was the first time she had ever
called me Robert, and my heart
caught at the sound as a dying man
clutches at a hope of life."
"Eunice," I faltered, "for along
time back I have acted very badly,
but believe me, Eunice, it was
prompted by no ill feeling, either
toward my brother or yourself."
" It is all forgiven and forgotten,
Robert."
" Yes, Eunice, I confess to you
that I did hate 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, walk-
ing 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 marry me !"
"Oh, Robert Amer!" 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 jthe me-
moirs of a State prisoner v|ho was
confined for seventeen years| during
which time he heard the soun| of hu-
man voice but once, then it Las the
door of the dungeon open and
these words came out of the (airkness
—the speaker he could not s$):
"By order of His Majf|ty, the
Emperor, I am commanded if inform
you that on this day one yiar ago
your wife died." ^
The door had been operad, this
great sorrow had been fiutk in to
him, and again all was silfflhe and
darkness. &
I was that prisoner—Euni<^ Manly
the voice coming out of the <$F.kness.
In that one little moir £ how
many years I lived ! Tho •<> words
rang in my ears, not only as the
doom of my body—they rang as the
doom of my soul! I caught both the
hands of Eunice Manly in my own
I looked into her face. I cannot be-
lieve there was anything in my count-
enance that night less than a demon.
I looked up to the stars, and out
upon the water rippling in the moon-
light, 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 angel, her head sweeping the
sky; and the next I knew, I was ly-
ing on my back on the sand, and I
held my hands up in the moonlight,
and saw they were covered with
blood. Then it all came back, and
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 forehead, as
she drew my head upon her arm.
Oh ! the Heaven of that moment!
The joy in the knowledge that I was
not a murderer ; that I had not kill-
ed her. And there was she, kneeling
beside me, my head resting against
her heart, every beat of which I
could hear. There was but one wish
then in my mind. It was that some
power would so act upon us that we
might remain thus forever. 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 the head—the blood
upon my hands came from this—how
she had called for help, but none
came; and then I arose, and we
walked toward home. Eunice it was
who talked.
" It seemed strange to me, Robert,
that you should not have known
wíiat I have told you this night; but
when I think that yourself and Wil
8$u have not been upon the same
terns of confidence you were once,
of which I am the unhappy cause, I
do not wonder at it, though I blame
Wilson that he should have denied
you this proof of brotherhood."
; Then it was L thought how I had
avoided every opportunity for my
brother Wilson to enter upon any
conversation with me alone—how I
hiid eVen gone so far as to lock the
door of my room and extinguish the
light when I heard his foot upon the
stairs, feigning sleep, and refusing to
ai^wer his knock. By my own pride
had I been wounded. Then it was
I knew but for this I might gradually
have awakened to my error, and not,
by one dreadful blow, had the light
of life crushed out of my heart for-
ever.
I could only answer—" The fault
is mine."
"No," she said, " I take to my-
self all the wrong of this. It was I
that should have healed the breach I
knew was growing between brothers.
And now, Robert, you have said to-
night that you love me. I will not
reject your love ; I will even return
it—freely, truly, 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 the tremor was gone.
" Before Heaven," I answered, I
will love you as no brother ever loved
sister yet!"
As I spoke I drew her to me, and
without her resistance, I pressed one
long kiss upon her pale lips; and so
Vent Eunice Manly into her home,
never to come back again to my heart
in the-same form as before.
That night I walked long upon the
wharf before the store of Allen &
Graham, and tried to peer far into
the future: but all was dark, and I
could discern nothing that carried
away any of the burden that was
upon me;' and then a vision of a
bloated, drowned corse1, lying there
upon the wharf, in 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 ov^r me: T started at
" Poor Robert! Brave Robert!"
Yes, poor Robert, but not brave
Robert. I was a coward, still a cow-
ard in my soul.
Then came the night they were
married. I was my brother's grooms-
man. I stood at the altar and watch-
ed him place the ring on the finger
of his bride. I knew Eunice Manly
was looking at me, looking away
down into the depths of my heart;
but she read me not 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 very
warm one in June—I left the crowd-
ed 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 sudden pressure with the
words : " Brave Robert, brave bro-
ther," 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 extinguished it—with
prayer.
Still it sat upon my soul as a heavy
weight. What could I do to atone
for my crime ?
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
one,
his
so
Pay
that he
for the
every tree, bush and stone b^ the into which I could pour uiy sorrows,
roadside ; something was with me at1 and ask sympathy and advice.
every step, that screamed : j There was not one upon earth J
" Robert Amer, thrice guilty man ; j trust; and with all my prayer.
thrice has thou been * murderer! not yet drawn near enotvh to God. Igivoness, but to plead with her not
who was the guilty
got a prisoner, and
ruin and shame.
What employment can there be on
earth like this, the " Detective Offi-
cer." 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 occupa-
tion. There is nothing sacred to this
man. Death has no terrors, unless
it comes to his own person. The
moans, the tears of the wife, 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 de-
graded of all human kind—"a thief
catcher."
The next hour I saw my father.
Dear old man! I had never seen
him weep before; but I had no tears
to mingle with his—I was cold and
impassable. I had no further con-
fession to make; only that one an-
swer to all his questions—I was guil-
ty. I declined entering into any
particulars.
My brother Wilson was raving
with a brain fevar, next morning.
This I heard from my father, who
came to see me at the prison. I
could only kiss his wrinkled hand
and ask his forgiveness.
Then Eunice came; I had hoped
to have been spared this. She came.
What a change had that single day
wrought—where was the bright eye ?
Gone. The ruddy cheek, the soft
smile ? Gone, gone. She gave me
her hand and I raised it to my lips;
it was as cold as marble, and Eunice's
teeth chattered as she spoke to me.
I remember but one question:
"Brother Robert, are you guilty?"
" I am guilty," I answered ; and
could 1 then I fell in agony upon my knees
I had | before Eunice—not to ask her for-
to the State Prison
Thy brother. Eunice Manly and thy-
self ! Where canst thou look for
pardon?"
• In terrors I fleú. I d¡>i'^ot extin-
to the light this night in'my xooui.
looked at ar* pale face aud white
lips in the ttirror. What Ojula 1 do
•to wipe thi - spcctrO-*: What
near
Three weeks after
my brother and J. walkod together,
one morning, to the store—generally,
as junior clerk, 1 preceded hiirt
we entered, 1 saw the partner?
jfVllcn and Mr. Graham throüál the
sash of the door, in thorr j^ivase
office. & stranger, whom 1 dd not
the marriage, ¡ to come to me or see me again. This
I ^sought her as the only, the last
sacrifice she could make me in this
As j world. With a bursting heart, but
Mr. > wit : out a tear, she yielded—she pro-
misert And Eunice went forth from
jay prison cell, abd since that hour
1 u ¿vie not
'her.
reparation couM 1 make my brother' recognize a a,uy p orsOn belong a-.- to jme tidings fcvery day of my brother
and Eunice, and what to myself and
God? 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 visons 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 be-
fore my face. The hair of my flesh
stood up. It stood still, but I could
not discern the form thereof; an
image 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,
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 break-
fast room from different directions.
I took his hand silently, and pressed
it to my heart, and then I put my
arm about his 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 heart was too fnll for
words. He met my pressure of the
hand warmly, and we passed into the
room where my father set. I could
see all breakfast time, and all that
day, my brother looked inquiringly
at me. It was plain he did not un-
derstand, and it was not my purpose
to explain. I was sincerely penitent.
I wished to show it by every act,
that I might atone to my brother, to
myself, to Eunice Manly, and—to
God.
A month soon passed away. I
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 taken
away from me, that he might give to
Eunice. There can be no equality
on earth; why should not the broth-
er bow to the wife?"
With Eunice I sometimes walked
alone. I never looked at her as I
once had, I never spoke to her
again with the voice of love or pas
sion; 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 sad say: . ;
* 6. o
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 brothe? and
myself. Wilson, I am sure did not
see this. There was something
strangely unpleasant in the man, and
though I have not seen him since
that day, I know I shall always re-
cognize him through life.
In about a quarter of an hour
after this, Mr. Allen came to the
door and called Wilson and myself.
Wilson started quick, locked the safe,
and followed me into the office.
Mr. Allen introduced the stranger
as Mr. Smith, of New York.
What made my brother Wilson
stagger and turn so pale ? He sat
down without looking at the stranger,
and then immediately rising, bowed
distantly, and seemed perfectly at
ease.
Mr. Allen it was that spoke:
" Gentlemen, we have a very un-
pleasant 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 this ?"
What a flood passed over me dur-
ing the utterance of these words—
horror, shame, joy! Yes, joy!
There was the cup, held to my very
lips. I thank Heaven, which gave
me presence of mind that I might
drink. There was not one moment's
hesitation. Looking Mr. Allen in
the eyes, I said:
" 'Twas I."
My brother started toward me. I
put out my hand to keep him away.
I saw he was choking with words.
In a moment, if he spoke, my plan
would be lost. With my hand ex-
tended, I continued:
" I want no sympathy. I alone
am guilty. I exonerate my brother.
He knows nothing of this. Upon
me be the shame." And then turn-
ing to the officer, I said: "I am
your prisoner."
My brother had fallen upon the
floor in a faint, and Mr. Graham was
trying to revive him. I was convin-
ced, then and there, that Smith, the
officer, knew the truth. He looked
through me, and I, cringing fool that
I was, cast an imploring glance at
him, that be might understand, if he
had divined my secret, I was begging
him to keep it. I was yotmg then,
and did not know how little hé cared
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. Now he was quiet—alarm-
ingly so; he never spoke—refused,
by the most piercing cries, to be re-
moved from his bed—did not recog-
nize any one—seemed to have lost all
memory and mental powers. The
physician said it was the reaction
from a great shock, and time and
care would restore him.
Friends came to see me. I knew
curiosity was the motive, and I soon
refused to see them. My father
offered to enter bail for me, and told
me to fly. I would not save myself
by his ruin. I refused counsel—I
knew it could but prolong the end.
There was no hope. I had confessed
myself guilty ; and if I had not, it
could be proved against me, and so
my mind was decided. There was
nothing left but conviction; I ac-
cepted it.
The day of the trial came. It was
rarely the inhabitants of the little
town had an opportunity for any thin,
approaching excitement. The sche<
ule of crime for years had not risen
above petit larceny. It was there-
fore 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 car-
riage, that the town was alive. A
crowd of shouting boys followed us,
and another of men blew their foetid
breathes ihto my face as I passed
from the carriage to the court room.
A confused murmur of voices was
about me—a sea of faces. I could
discern figures flitting about. I knew
ths^t 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 then I heard
him ask:
" Who isifche counsel in this case ?"
And I answered as though I talk-
ed to one far away: " There is no
counsel; there is no defence; the
plea is Guilty." Then I could hear
a murmur of disgust and disapproba-
tion go up from the crowd, who had
been disappointed of their amuse-
ment, and the voice of the crier, call-
ing " Silence," and the order of the
ge, that any of the audience dis-
turbing the court should be ejected,
and then there was silence, death-
like ; I could hear the scratching of
the clerk's pen as he recorded the
plea.
" And the sentence of the court is,
that you, Robert Amer, shall be con-
fined 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. Another buzz and hum, and I
was taken again to my old cell, to
await removal to
next day.
I think I slept better that night
than I had before sinee my arrest.
The trouble was principally over ; I
had only one point to fulfil. I had
charged all that as soon as my broth-
er Wilson had recovered sufficiently
to spsak with any one, a letter I had
written should be given him. In
this fetter I charged him, by every-
thing that was sacred, by all the past,
by jfiis care for my life, and my
hereafter, to come to me, to let me
see |im, and converse with him be-
fore- he breathed a word to any living
sou)(
I jtras stretched upon my pallet the
mortiing after my trial; the padlock
claimed against the door. It was an
unusually early hour for any one to
enter my cell. I only thought it was
the call for my departure, to change
my confinement for one more loath-
some, I sprang to my feet, and re-
ceived in my arms my dear old fath-
er. He could not speak; he only
cried aloud like a child, and held out
a paper to his hand. The keeper
who had opened the door, it was, who
said, " A Pardon."
A pardon from the Governor ! I
was not thankful. No, then I was
not. But God doeth all things well.
Mechanically I went forth into the
pure air of heaven. My father sob-
bed and cried all the way. I shed
not a tear. Why should I weep ? I
had been defrauded of my due; I
had been denied my atonement. My
father wished to carry me home—m\
dear father ! He talked of all hi
plans for the future—-how I was to
be re-instated with Allen & Graham,
who were to forget aH the past and
give me back my position ii)i theii
confidence—how the notes fiad fceer
paid. All would be well. But poor
Wilson was yet speechless, and thi
old man's tears broke out afresh. I
was cold to every word that sai*'
" stay." I only consented under his
tears to go to the old homestead for
a day or two, on condition that no-
body was to see me during that time
—no one save himself and the oi l
housekeeper who had always been t<.
me as a mother. I declared to my
father my unalterable intention to
leave home—to leave the country,
and seek in another land forgetful-
ness of the past.
Two days I stayed in my father's
house. In this time I wrote a lon>
letter to Wilson, telling him all tfce
past—my love for Eunice ? M\
criminal thought against her am!
against himself, ray joy of the heal-
ing the burden of his guilt. I tole
him I was happy, and in conclusion,
8W^re that if ever he betrayed my
se. ret, Í would curse him, and hate
hi% unto death.
ihis letter I left in the hands c f
father, to be given to Wilson
m.,
wl&never he was able to receive it
Aiiother I left for himself, telling
biiii to look upon his son Robert a¿
de*d. And the next morning at day-
light I stole noiselessly into the old
mail's room, kissed his hand, ac *
we|t out to the world to begin my
life*
And now it is 21st of January,
18íj 8, and I sit here by this Inn
wiiidow and look down upon the old
scehe, and oh! with what differer.
thoughts than when I last gaze1'
upon its ever well known locality.
My brother Wilson is dead. H
died in August last. My father sti'
lives. My father is very old; sever;-
he will be in a few weeb
lives ; she has two children ;
the oldest is named after myself.
Robert Amer.
I have been a wanderer in many
lands; I have made no effort to
attain wealth, but it has flown in un-
bidden upon me. I came last from
St. Petersburg, where I have been
now for four years. It was here my
father and Wilson first heard of me,
and wrote. My father's letters im-
plored me to return home, that I
might be with him when he passed
into the silent land; he bade me
come and inherit the old man's sa-
vings ; he said that Wilson had pros-
pered, that he was beginning to be
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 ttis
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The Southern Intelligencer. (Austin, Tex.), Vol. 1, No. 52, Ed. 1 Thursday, June 28, 1866, newspaper, June 28, 1866; Austin, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth180054/m1/1/?rotate=270: accessed July 16, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting The Dolph Briscoe Center for American History.