The Intelligencer from Anderson, South Carolina • Page 4

TEE TEBEE GALLESS. Horn calleth fondly toja.fair boy straying, 'Mid golden meaddwsy rich 'with clover, dews She he still thinks of naught-save play And so she.sraib33.and' waye3 him an a'dieu Whilst he, stilVmerry with his flowery store, Deems not that Morn, sweet Morn, returns no more. Noon the boy to niat hood growing, Heeds not the time. He sees but one sweet One from bower or jasmine grow? ing, And-all his loving heart with biiiis is warm; -So Noon, unnoticed, seeks the western shore, And man forgets that Noon returns no more. Night tappeth gently at a casement' gleaming, With the thin firelight, flickering faint and'low, By which a gray-haired man is sadly dreaming O'er pleasures gone, as all Life's pleasures go.

Night calls him to he leaves his door Silent and he returns no more. NO HOSE. This is the burden of the heart, The burden that it alwayabore, Wo live to love, we meet to And part to meet on earth no more. We cla3p each other to heart, And pari meet on earth no more. There is a time for tears to start, For dews to fall and larks tu sour.

The time for tears is wh'en we part To meet npon the earth no.more. The time for tears i3 when wepart To meet oh.this wide earth no more. -v. THE HOUSE OPPOSITE, I remember tho day well. It had snow? ed until the dusk of; the- early evening came on.

I was Tather idle and musing in those times, and I used to sit hours by the win? dow of my room, looking down upon the street at the people, and gazing inquisi tively at the quiet house directly "oppo? site. The shutters, wore; always fast closed along the save one, two stories up, on n'level with my room. To this window bent and wittered old man used to come daily and stand looking, iike myself, up and dowh-the street only, I he did notiook with a listless gaze as I did, but with the sharp, eager glance or one who.waits and watches. sometimes in'the forenoon, I was sure-to see a. wan-looking, girl of or thirteen- come and.

dost window, and tend the solitary plant that stood for? lornly there. Thus I had aimlessly watchedTihem ev? ery day tor a month, for I had fallen" into the habit, and did not think to give it up. though I do not know that I received pleasure from.it.. But this I sat with idle pen be? tween my fingers, knowing that the gray of evening was-fast coming and I bad written but saw the front, door of'that house open, the little- girl glance hp at my window, then huddle her shawl about her and splash across the street to my door und ring. ran down thesiaurs myself to open to her.

"Then I -saw that she looked.frightened and was shivering, cold, I thought. miss, will you eome over there? There's nobody there I don't know a thing to do, and he says he won't have a doctor." In common humanity Iconld not refuse the child, and yet I didTriot. to go. I said: up to my.room I put ion my things. You are not in stich a- hurry bttt yotr can do that, are yon She looked unespressively relieved- at my wbrds.ahd followed me as I returned.

I wanted to ask her some questions, to find out, ii' the old I instant? ly understood to a miser who had.denied himself the common ne eeasaries cf life that 'he might keep his gold. "Is there no other servant?" I asked, as I put my writing in the house but he and It's dreadful. And he is fussing for fear somebody will come." Whom does he.expect I asked, with in some way. felt a mystery. "I don't know.

He don't, want any one to come but one. He's muttering and mumbling about it now." And the. child shuddered as she spoke. Apparently, and naturally, she felt a relief in this oppor? tunity of speaking to some one, arid was not loth to answer my questions. "What is his name?" "Mr.

Geralds." "He does not" know you came over here?" no, indeod," with a scared look, would not have let me come." I had my cloak and bonnet on, and saidr "He will probably, then, not receive me verv as he is sick I will so-" There was something very gloomy in the dark, damp hall into which I was ushered. I never felt more disagreeable in my Hie than when I followed the little girl up tho stairs. I had not an idea what I should do, but knew the old man was helpless, and somebody ought to as? sist him. As we reached tho door of his room the rgirl shrank, and said go in- alone there's no need of my going with you." allowing myself a moment's hesitation. I pushed open the door and entered the at whose window I had bo often seen the shrunken face of the The room- was furnished well, almost richly, but had a forlorn air.

I looked at. the figure on the bed; it did -not move'; he thought it was his servant. I two orthree stops; something told him it was not bin' servant. He turned his bead slowly, and with a long stare of-amazement, saw me looking. With a feeling of relief I saw that it was, not a bad face, nor a disagreeable one, thus-itumed towards me: It was shrunk? en, aud worn, and anxious, perhaps a lit? tle from some continual; disap? pointment, but there was something even handsome in the large gray eyes and the broad forehead, from which swept the neglected.white hair.

There'was an imperative question con? cerning my intrusion in his eyes as he looked at me. I'hastened to say: "I learned that you were ill and alone, and I came to see if I might do something for you. You will allow.me to send ior a physician am not ill enough for. a physician. I 'shall do very well without help.

I sup? pose yon mean kindly." Had 1 meant otherwise I should have blanched before his earnest, search.ng look. 1 did not reply to his words save by meeting that glance with the honesty of my purpose in my eyes. "If you will not allow me.to get a doc? I said, at last, "is'there nothing I can do to make you comfortable "I don't know anything. My limbs are paralyzed, and I must fie here." He spoke with an attempt at resigna? tion that had a great deal of impatience in it. Notwithstanding his words, there was something so despondent and weary about his appearance that I-did'hot like to take this as my dismissal.

As I lingered, un? certain what to do, he asked with sudden asperity-: "How did you know I was ill? Maggie has been blabbing." "If Maggie is. the little girl, she did tell me, sir. She was very much frightened, as was natural." I spoke, more boldly than 1 bad inten? ded, for though I fe'lt a strange, weird about the house and its occupants, did not feel afraid of him. "I suppose the child is fidgety, shut up so close," he muttered, with a half groan, and moving his head wearity, "butleant have this, house full or people now." a "But if you are I said. I had seated myself at his bedside, and was looking full at him.

He interrupted my remark by saying quickly: "Do you work for a living?" "Yes, sir." "What do you do "1 write." "What do you write?" with a curious glance at my hands. "Stories, I can." "Arid you get money "A live." "And that is all, of course. You look very honorable. Are you I. was silent, for I did not know-what to say, and I could-not imagine at what be was driving.

"Are you honorable he repeated. ikTry me, if you please," I said, a flush mounting to my cheek at his intense scrutiny. "You have offered to help me; now we will see if you will," he said, and I wait? ed, vividly interested. "How much do you generally earn in a' week?" I named the sum. "I will give, you that and insure you against losing any situation if you will stay here a.few weeks.

I don't want you to work. I expect to be helpless a long while. Will you stay when one whom I expect shall come, will you re? ceive him and keep him secreted in the house until he c(in get away -I hesitated. The proposition was so strange that I could not at first say any 'tbing: I was inclined. he saw it.

"Yon offered to help the sick old' man," he said, ironically," "but when be proposes the only way in which you cafi simple, innocent retreat." "If I retreat, it is-because 1 it not innocent" I exelaimed," indignantly. He smiled for the first time, and in such a 1 knew he did hot think less of me for the exclamation. -But I swear to you that what I ask of you is entirely innocent," he said', "wftli earnestness. "Could I ask a girl to do was not?" looked at him, and felt that he spoke the truth, and there was something in his request so strange as to bo rather attrac? tive. person whom you expect is not a I asked.

"Never 1" he said, with indignant fire flashing in his eyes. "Then I will stay," I replied, rising to return to my lodgings. "And you will be silent?" ho.asked. de? taining me with glance. I promised, and went down btairs, letting myself out alone, and hurried across the- wet street.

It was now dark, and the street lamps were shining in at my room. I thought I had done a very curious thing, but I did not feel that I had done a wrong one. I put my room to rights; conscious of an exhilerating interest very different from the stagnant indifference that had been mine so long. I felt that I was to be surrounded for a while with slightly mysterious influences, but no premonitory fate warned me how completely my destiny was to be chang? the next few weeks were to write on my life characters whose force would be felt in all my after years. The servant, Maggie, had lighted a fire in a room for me when I went back.

She was overjoyed that I was to be there, and seemed to throw off her melancholy at once, though she was very quiet and subdued. My duties, after a day or two, were rather irksome and fatiguing, though there was a peculiar interest in them. There was a rear entrance to the house, which Maggie was not allowed to pene? trate. It was reached by a. narrow pas? sage through a part of the building, and the walk from the house door was pro? tected by a high board fence, with agate always lockod.

It was at this entrance that I should some day find the unknown, and close was the watch I was obliged to keep. There was a bell-wire extending from outer gate to Mr. Gerald's room, but now that he could not move, it was I who was to answer the summons. My room was directly over that of the old man, and I knew the faintest tinkle of that expected ring would reach my 1 a8od t0 read t0 him a good deal, and I sat in my room and wrote, VagUe all the time, I had not been there a week when one night as I sat late to finish an article for i a magazine, for onco forgetting that for which I waited, the bell.below rang faint? but still distinctly. The pen dropped, from my idea of my story fled.

I sped down stairs and tapped at Mr. Gerald's door, and opened it. He raised his head, a white, luminous excitement on his "Do not come here," ho cried; "go down and let him in! Oh, why cannot I move I needed no second bidding. I ran down and through the dark passage, opening the house door, and letting in a soft, white radiance of moonlight as I did so. I walked slower toward the gate, for my heart throbbed very uncomfortably.

I gained an appearance of composure be? fore I undid the bolt. A tall, heavily cloaked figure awaited the opening of the door. I had a glimpse of dark hair and beard. He started somewhat as he saw 'me, and drew back slightly, involuntari? ly touching his hat as he bowed. "It is a mistake, I think, I will go on," he said, in a voice of melodious respect.

"I do not think it is a mistake," I re? plied. "This is the house of Mr. Gerald, but he is ill and could not come down." "My father ill!" he exclaimed, step? ping in quickly, his cloak falling as he did and revealing a swarthy, straight featured face, with eyes of intense dark? ness. He looked at me swiftly, and, though I could not be offended at that glance, yet I felt a-faint blush sweep up and subside. "I will conduct you to said, turning toward the house.

"He has wanted to see me he said, with suppressed eagerness, as we groped through the dark passage. "He has been very impatient," I replied. "He is not very can't be that Hin voice had a tone of anxious pain that called forth a response in my own heart. Whatever this man was, I felt sure he was a good son. "A kind of paralysis, I believe," I said.

We were now at Mr. Gerald's door. "This is your father's room," and I went up stairs, leaving him to enter. For a long time I lay awake, hearing the mur? mur of voices from below, but at last I slept" and dreamed constantly of vague, distressful things. It was very when I awoke, but I felt that I must rise and dress immedi? ately.

I.had hardly done so. before Mr. Gerald's bell rang for me. and I entered his room to find him propped up by pil? lows, his fane radiant, his eyes shining and fixed on his son who sat in an easy chair close by the bed. The 11 blaze of the gas was upon his figure, and, though sustained by some I saw in that form the languor of overwhelming fatigue; his eyes drooped "wearily, his hands hung listlessly by his side.

"Take Randolph to the north room, will you?" said the old man'; "and if you will, be so kind as to carry him some break? fast without Maggie's knowing anjtliing about him. You do not consider it meni? al he asked, almost pleadingly "Certainly not," I replied, with the gaze son upon me, and feeling a desire toi avert my though I conld not. There was something so penetra? ting, and yet so full of a soft splendor in his gaze, that he had a nameless power over while it was marked, it did not repel: He rose, and drew hits cloak to his arm, saying with that gay gallantry which sounded ro strangely in that room "The queon serve her subject; but he could not forget he is still a vassal." The words, the air, the elegant man who uttered them, ift'some magical way seemed, to transform thatsick man's room to some olden hall, some fairy place like that where A thousand lustres shimmering streams, In palace's grand sidoon. And that handsome, tropical face might well suggest a "golden glitterin's tink? ling tune." I took him to the lonesome one in the northern corner of the house. As I stood in the door before going, he suddenly caught my hand, saying, with that peculiar, low tone wliieh is so em? phatic: "The son more than thanks you.

My father may be able to speak his gratitude; I never can." He held my hand for a second with that light clasp which is yet so vibrating and so expressive; a touch tone remembers after many a firmer grasp is forgotten. At least, I did. When an hour' later I softly tapped at his door with a tray on which was spread his breakfast. I received no response, bat, bated to have the break? fast spoil, and I opened his door, and trod softly in and laid it'on the table. He was lying on the lounge, his head upturn? ed to the light, his eyes closed, and deep breaths parting his lips.

He was sleeping the profound sleep of exhaustion. He was so dark and so motionless that he might almost have been a bronze statue of wea? riness. By noon I was commissioned by the eager father to bring. Randolph to his homo to dine with him, but first to sec that Maggie was out of the The child was sent on an errand, and that) 1 told the son he was tree to go into his fa? ther's room, but advised him not to go round the house much if he wished to keep concealed. He paused in his walk through the hall at that last word, and waited until I had come up to him.

"I trust to my intuitions I shall feel that you do not think of me as a criminal," he said; "appearances are against me. Do you be.ieve in me?" "So tar as to think that yon have com? mitted no crime," I said somewhat coldty, huving no mind he should so soon discover that I over thought of him in the wonder? ing way I did. "For that I thank you," he responded, with sudden, icy politeness, the fire of his faco with his words. I felt my position uncomfortable, and I hoped it would, not continue; but I could not desert my post now. Randolph Geralds had been with his father a week, when, anxiously on the alert as I was, I discovered that the house I was watched.

It did not surprise me, but it distressed me beyond words. It proved to me what I had surmised, that young Geralds was suspected of some crime. The trexttime I saw him I bogged him to bo more careful, saying even if Maggie were faithful and discreet, still ho might be discovered. I spoke as to a i stranger, but there was a distressful air about me that made him say quickly: "Are we watched while a haughty flush colored his dark face, and there was that in his. mien which seemed to defy everything.

"Yes, for the last two days I have be? lieved that the house is well guarded on all sides." He looked like a caged lion, st He made a rapid movement of impatient depreca? tions, and said: "And yet I am no cul? prit." His voice sank into something almost pleading; though my face was turned away, 1 knew that those electrical eyes were full me. The impulse was strong to reply. "I know that you are not;" and I yielded to that impulse, saying the words with all the conviction I telt. He advanced a step nearer a vibrant tremor seemed to shake his frame. He bent to speak again to me, when the front door bell rang loudly and decisively.

We were standing in the lower hall, and I put out my hand, rapidly motioning him back up stairs. Instead of instantly obeying me, he caught that hand, detaining it an instant, devouring my face with a glance ot flame. "Go up stairs," I said, endeavoring to withdraw my hand. As I spoke, the door bell rang again, and simultaneously Mag? gie appeared from the kitchen to answer it. So well had I arranged matters that she had not suspected any other person was in the house, and now she stood still, with mouth agape, staring at Geralds, who, having looked at' er with a smile of amusement, was mounting the stairs.

"I will answer the bell, Maggie, I said: "you may go back to your work." She disappeared with a dazed face, and I openod the door and saw one of the men who had been lounging street so constantly. I shivered inwardly, but I was outwardly rather phlegmatic. I knew when I was acting "Is Mr. Geralds in the man, with a business air. "Yes, but he is confined to his room by illness.

Shall I carry up your name to him?" "Young Mr. Geralds, I mean," was the response. "Is he at home this morning?" Why should I lie to screen those who had been strangers to me a few days ago might be grossly deceiving me? At that time ho such thought passed through my mind, but afterwards 1 asked myself that question, though not repent? antly. "Now," I said, unhesitatingly. "You are mistaken in the house.

There is no young Mr. Geralds here." And I waited patiently go away. But this iR the direction. Perhaps the young man has left?" he persisted. "He cannot have left; he has not been here," I 6aid, with polite coldness, won? dering how long I could sustain this.

The man looked at me earnestly. I fancied he was satisfied I knew though by means assured the young man was not there. He muttered a "thank you," and left. As I shut the door a quick faintness came over me, and I leaned weakly against the wall. I trem? bled; I knew the danger was just begun.

I related to' father and son what had happened. The lather's face grew white as he listened, but an indignant lightning leaped into the eye of the son. That even? ing, as I sat alone in the dimly lighted parlor, turning over the few unique books on the table, there was a step on the stairs, then Pmndolph Geralds opened the door, apparently to see if I was there; then he came in, his cap in his hand and his cloak over his- arm. I looked at Lim in surprise. "I have just said adieu to my father," he said "lor I am goingaway to-night." "But the said in alarm.

"I have to run the risk. I shall be des? perate tor I believe an innocent man nates a prison even more than a guilty 1 shrank from that word he saw After a moment's silence he said, with an effort: "1 must tell you that I escaped after being condemned for murder. I never will bo taken again. The evidence was of the strongest circumstantial Shall toll you about it? I do not know why I have Huch an intense desire that you should know all." "Tell me," I said, without looking up. The peculiar circumstances under which I had known this man had seemed to give me more knowledge of him than months of ordinary intercourse would have done.

He told me all the story of his trial. I believed him then as fully, as much with? out doubt, as I did six months afterward when I read thjp confession and apprehen? sion of the real murderer. "And now 1 have confessed and am shriven," he said, rising; "the next word for us to say He stood with both his hands clasping the back of the chair from which he had risen. Had I been an indifferent stranger, the look upon his face would havo moved me much. I sat quiet, appa? rently cold; it was tho only safeguard.

"I am saying an eternal farewell to happiness!" he exclaimed, with a sudden passionate thrill in his voice, "for I shall never see you again. I hoped not to love the star of my destiny has been too clouded." He had not the will to re? fuse to look up at him; at that moment of fata no blush stained my cheeks, but I felt my soul answering his. "Farewell," he said," and left me. I remained sitting very still, my mind hurrying over innumerable changes, and through all there was a strange vein of sweetness that I knew could never wholly leave me. With it all I was conscious of listeniltg intently for any sound outside the house.

Tho moon had risen, only stars shone between hurrying clouds, and a low wind sobbed the shutters. Half an hour before the next minute had gone, I heard two pistol shots close to oach other, and I knew that Geralds had been lurking until now, and that be had started and been discovered, and.then fired upon his pursuers. His shot had been had he been 1 hit I sat utterly immobile. Soon there was a noiso at tho back of the house. I With strangooutward calmuess I went 10 the alloy door in time to see two men 1 1 come through the gate, bringing in their 1 arms a helpless, figure.

They were two detectives, and they laid Geralds on the floor, beneath the gas-jet, over with him now; so we brought him nere." I knelt by his side, and received one deep, sweet glance of his eyes, dne dear, fleeting smile, then, indeed, it was all over with him for this world. Poor fellow he had been shot to death. I staid with his father three months longer, then he victim as much to grief as in what he had lived for. For myself, there is a balm in ray bit? dearer than words can tell. I cannot look upon those few weeks of my life as a do not leave an impress deep as the most vivid realities.

It was not love, it was at least an emotion I can never know again: Trouble Kills. The secret sorrow of the mind, a sor? row that must be kept; how it wilts away the whole man, himself unconscious mean? while of its murderous effect! He cannot feel that he is approaching death, because he is sensible of no pain in fact he has no feeling, but an indescribable sensation perceived about the physical heart. Lord Baglan, commander-in-chief of the British army before Sebastppol, the bosom friend of the Duke of Wellingtonibr forty years; to whom partial friends have often character seemed without a a man died, figuratively of a broken heart. In a moment, almost, trouble came like a whirlwind avalanche followed avalanche in quick succession, so that no time was loft for the torn spirit to riso above its wounds. The British Gov? ernment, quailing before popular clamor, left the brave old man to bear the brunt alone, because it could not afford to recall him, and yet had not the courage to sus? tain him.

While the tone of official com? munications deprived him of his sleep, weighted heavily upon him, and broke his gallant spirit, the failure of the Eedan closely followed. On reaching headquar? ters a letter was in waiting which an? nounced the death of the last surviving of a large family of brothers and sisters the next day the death of a geMeral, his old companion in arms. Next came, the news that the gallant son of Lord Lyons was sinking under his wounds. These things, coming so rapidly one alter another, in the course of a tew honrs as it were, caused such a 'change- in his ap pearance.all.unkn. wn to that his physician had to request him to take to his bed, und within forty-eight hours he died, without supposing himself to be in any danger whatever.

"You are worse than you should be from the fever 3'ou have. Is your mind at ease said a quick-sighted physician to a sleep? less, wasting patient. "No, it is not," was the frank reply, and last recorded words of Oliver Goldsmith, whose Vicar of Wakefield and the Deserted Village will only die with the English language. He died at the age of forty-six of a malady of the mind, from blasted hopes and un: kind speeches of the world8around him! He was a man whose heart was large enough and kind enough to have, made the whole world happy, whose troubles arose from his humanity; yet the base things said of him, so so ma? lignant and untrue, broke his heart. In view of these facts, let parents early impress on the minds of is not what they are charged with but what they are guilty of, that should occasion trouble arid a carping word should not blanche the cheek or break the spirit, so.

long as there is con? scious rectitude within. And let us learn what the commonest humanity dictates, to speak no word, write no line, do no deed which would wound the feelings of any hitman creature, unless under a sense of duty, and even then let it bo wisely and long considered. Josh Billings in his advice to a young lady as to how she shall receive a proposal says: "You ought tew take it kind, look? ing down hill with an expresliun, about half tickled and half scart. After the pop is over if yurc luvver wants tew kiss you rSbn't think I would say yes or no, but let the thing kinder take its ownconrse." "Mr. said a member of a school committee out West.

"I rise to get up, and am not backward to come forward in the cause of edication. Had it not been for edication, I might have been as ignorant as yourself, Mr. President." "Have you like, cheese here!" shouted a wagoner, as be halted his team in front of a store. "Yes, sir-ee l'" replied the keeper, "we have some tallow, very much like it!" The belief that guardian spirits hov? er around the paths of men, covers a migh? ty truth, for every beautiful, pure and good thought which the heart holds, is an angel of mercy, purifi ing and guarding the soul. A priest asked a tipsy fellow, leaning against the fence, where he expected to go when he died.

'If I can't get along any better theti than now," said he, "I can't go no where." Mike, have you settled that affair with Lewis yet Yes, he kicked me off (he stoop last week and since that he has stopped bother? ing me. If you can express yourself so as to be perfectly understood in ten words, nev er use a STEVENS HOUSE, 21. 23, 25 and 27 Broadway, N. York, OPPOSITE BOWLING GREEN, On the European Plan. THE STEVENS HOUSE is well and widely known to tbe traveling public.

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DRUG STORE I CATER WALTERS, Anderson, S. WHOLESALE A5D KETAIL DEALERS I.V Patent Medicines, Paists, OILS, GLASS, PUTTY, ifahot mom, XSf: Orders of Physicians and Country Mer cliants promptly filled on reasonable terms. March 27, 1867 41 CHEAP BOOK STOKE MASON JOSES KEEP 'constantly on hand-a general assortment of School Books, other Stationery of all kinds and Fancy Articles, Bibles, Prayer Books, Hymn Books, ic. They have both the Psalmody and Psalmist "with Supplement, all of which they offer at low Prices. Main Street, between lady Streets, Columbia, S.

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The very best that the mar? kets afford will be found on his table, prepared in excellent style. Charges moderate. ROBERT JOINER. August 10, 1866 17 OHAS. U.

ALBEE. oeo. TV. ALBEE WARREN, imtorters axe- dealers in PAINTS, OILS, GLASS, Kerosine Lamps and Oil, NO, 4.H A YNE SIT RE JET, CHARLESTON, 36 2m SHIVER BEOEHAM, wholesale and. retail dealers in DRY GOODS, Plain Street.

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"May 8, 1867 47 2.