The Pickens sentinel. (Pickens, S.C.) 1871-1903, February 01, 1877, Image 1
DEVOTBD TO POLITICS, MORAIATIr, EDUCATION AND .O THE GENERAL INTEREST OF THE COUNTRY
VgQ v1. PIQKENS, S. C., THURSDA'Y EBRUARY 1 N
S ( FOR TWNTY YEARS.
It don't seem much of a story to
tell, though it was a tough one to
livq. You see, it was more than
tW6nty years ago that my twin broth.
or and I sold out our homestead in
ew York, and went to California
to seek our fortune. All the rest of
the family were dead, and we two
were the more attached to each other
for that.
Well, we tried mining, and we
tried trading, and we tried every-%
thing we could think of, but nothing
seemed to prosper with us; we only
-%w peorer and poorer.
Finally, we thought of the idea of
separating, so as to work two fields
at once, before the last of our capi.
tal was gbne. There was a great
tgl4 jgghe:of some new gold. re
gion*,aad - we agreed that one of us
* should go there and try his luck,
while the other stayed in San Franm
qsco and carried on a little business
we,had started there.
Of course, everything was part,
nerlship. I never thought of an in
terest separate from his, and he, I
* .knew, felt the same.
Well, the question arose which of
us should go. It wasn't very ter pt
ing, the mining life, and neither of
us was anxious for it, and so we drew
lots to see who should go.
bM4e16lot fell to me.
noheue, was another reason why I
didn't want to go, besides the uncom,
ful tac lift , but I woulin't tell Bob;
fuMouldn't drive hiin off to the
yand knew his generous heart
so well, that I was sure lie would
idsisabon-going, it he were aware of
But--well, the truth is, in a word,
I was in love, and I couldn't bear to
leave my dainty Suy to fight the
world alone-she was a intusic teach
e gpoor t ing-for other felluws tQ
fifl is.15' with.
4 ' However, I submitted, of course,
to the lot, and made my preparations
to go. It was a sadI heart that I
bore around to Susy's roomns that
night, and I couldn't bear to tell her;
but, bless you! she no sooner saw my
fape than she knew something was
coming, and she braced herself up to
* meet it before she asked me a ques
tion. After we had spoken of the
weather, and the book I had brought
her ibie rday before, at last said qui
etlyi
'.Well, Ralph,- what is it? I know
you have bad news for me."
'It's bad for me, Susy, and I'm
*afraid it will be bad for you; though
you know'
I couldn't go on, and she spoke
again, brave as she always was:
ARalph, you know I'm used to mis
fortunes. Tell me at once.'
So I told her', and she boro it nobly
S-ae' -I knew she0 would-though I
was the only friend she had in San
FFancisco, except her' pupils.
PJ' I had thought of another plan
to maTe. my going a little easier.
That was, to make her' my wife be-'
fojbI left, 8o as to leave her in the
,care of Rob, and relieve her from the
hard ,1/'fq Dhe was living.
A f'tWr''ome persuason, she consen t
ed..to.it.
g a, day or two afteward, we
three-i had told Rob-wont into a
quiet chur'ch, and Susy was given
to rife to cherish and protect till
e deMn6k
'am9elittle woman! ho w trust ingly
she gave me her beart, and how
bMl.L i ber! How ready I was
3df et mue go back. I took her
t4'on* cozy boarding place, which
1N'gd4eed a home to uz, installed
, ba.as:ta-mistre, made every pro
vg'hTMa love.1could suggest for
hew4omfor't, enjoyed the bliss of a
fdaIinr hioneymoon, and then left
I,needri't speak of that. It wias
hard. I toll you.
Ah, welll I'm an old man now
older by sorrow than by years; but I I
shall never forget the fresh, dainty <
look of my darling, as I left her on I
the steps that bitter day-a bride in ]
the morning, a widow at night. And
I never did forget it through all the <
black years, though it seemed ab ]
though the very memory of it would i
drive me mad.
Well, I went to the mines, and E
tried faithfully, eagerly, for my heart i
was longing to get back to her. But I
I could not succeed. Mails were not t
then established, so I did not hear i
from my two dear ones; but all the f
harder I toiled, for never a thought (
of doubt entered my mind. I was
only too glad to have my dear broth- i
r to care for her, and save her
fror1 a'll rongh contact with the i
world.
Finding no luck in the mines., I ]
determined to push on into the In. f
dian country, and try a little hunting f
and trapping-for that was good bu
siness then. I succeeded a little i
better at that, but wandered on, and i
1in1ally, came out at Frazer river, r
where the gold excitement had brok.- f
en out fiercely. f
I don't know now whether it was a
months or years-days and weeks i
were alike to nie for a long time
but at last. It was successful, and c
got five thousand dollars in the yel
low dust. Of course, my only thought i
was of my wife, and I seized the
!first Opportunity to send off the L
A miner, going homo, willingly t
took charge of my little pile, and soon
I begun to look for letters.
Rob's I could easily imagine-no..
ble, manly, like himself, Susy's I
thought of, and tried to fancy, hun- f
dreds of times, for I'd never had a <
letter from her. I knew it would be j
delicate and dainty, and like my
pretty snowdrop.
'Well, well, fancies may do very
well, but they won't feed a hungry
heart.
'Day after day passed by, and no
letters. My soul grew sick. I madeo
all sorts of excuses for them. I im.
agined all sorts of delays. But the
long, dreary days went by with lead- L
en feet, and not a word came to the
wanderer.
I grew morbid and bitter, and at
last I wrote to an acquaintance in San
n cisco, asking for tidings of my
her and wife.
The friend was not so neglectful as
the wife and brother.
Soon-too soon- I got a reply. -I
can see it now, in letters of fire.
'My dear fellow,' it ran, 'I have made
mnquiries, as you requested, about
your wife and brother I can only find
that they disappeared from here a
fewv months ago, telling no one
wheuce they wer'e going, but evident
ly having plenty of money.'
What mn-e the letter contained I
fiever knew; that much of it wase
burned into my brain, and at that
point I lost myself. They do say I
was a r av ing maniac. Perhbaps so, I
don't know.
I only know I found myself an old -
man, blasted before my time, Ii koa S
tree struck by lightning.
Yet, I could not feel angry. IHow ~
could I blame him? Was I not mad
to leave him, with his loving Iear't, I
to care for a tender, young beauty t
like my Susy? How could lhe help C
loving her? Wasn't she all that was I
lovely? IIe was not to blame, poor t
fellow.
And she? Did she not love me,
and was lhe not my twin brother
What so strange that, seeing his love, I
shae should grow to return it?
What should I (do? Should I
search them out, and blast their lives
forever? Should I come with my 6
ignoble revenge an'd tear her from f
his arms? Would she love me for it? i
Should I get back my ifan a
brothet?ywieani
Oh, no! I had been gone long enough
o give her a divorce-she had un
loubtedly got it, and was even now
lis wife. His wifet Oh, God, and
could livel
Weeks, months, years, dragged
mn. I scarcely knew they passed.
gechanically, I worked on. Fortune,
to longer sought, showered gold on
ne. I cared naught for it, but In
tinct prevented me from throwing
t away. Gambling was utterly re
)ugnant to me. No form of desig
iation lured me. I an old, old man
At thirty. I only worked and thought,
Lnd lived over the old days-my
>ne brief day of perfect joy.
I never cursed them. The hurt
ras too deep and too sharp for curs
e. Froin the depths of my torn
ieart I pitied them.
Well, twenty years rolled on, and
had got to be forty five years old,
ecling and looking more like sixty
ive, bent and stiff and gray haired.
One pleaatial Christmas day, in my
randerings, I came on a traveling
)arty of miners, bound to the gold
egions. I joined them, frontier
ashion, and was soon seated at their
ire, exchanging news of the Indians
,nd from the States. I chanced to
ientioni my name.
'We've got a namesake of yours in
amp,'said the fellow.
'Have you?' I said, carelesly. 'It
m1't a common name.'
'No; and that's why it's odd,' said
e. 'Besides, you somehow remind
]a of him, though you're much older
han be. By the way,there te comes!'
I turned-something, I knew not
rbat, ohot through me; I rose, and
:new my brother.
My heart gave one great bound. I
orgot my wrongs. I saw only my
lear other self, ther companion of my
>oyhood. I sprung forward.
'Robert! dear old l'oy! is it you?'
He looked at me eagerly-incre
ulously.
'Ralph! it can't be you!'
'It. is?' I cried, and-well, I don't
now as I'm ashamed of it--I em
raced him like a school girl, and
vept.
And so did he, poor fellow, thonzgh
e could hardly believe the wrecked
ld man was his brother.
B3ut what struck me, eveni thern, ts
trange, he aid not shrink from me
or act as though he had injured mfe.
"Robert," I said, then we were
lone, and calmer, "I've forgiven you
ng ago. We won't speak of the
at-let me only be happy in the
lies of seeing you once more. I'll
ever come around to trouble you.'
'Forgive me?" he said, inquiringly
I don't understand. You'll never
rouble me-and we'll not speak of
be past? Why didn't you write to
s, Ralph! Your poor little wife"
"Don't speak of her!I" I cried in
udden agony. "I can bear anything
Iso-spare me that."
"But Ralph, there's somethinzg
ery strange here. Why didn't yon
at ns hear from you? Whby can't I
peak of her? Sir.ce you are not dead
-as we supposed-why did you de.
ert her?"
"Desert her I My God!1" and I
iirly langhed.
A horrible laugh, I dare say, for'
lobert turned p)ale. I could see ho
bonght I was mad. I resolved to
ontrol myself, and since we must
lave it out, talk it over. So after a
urn or two, I came back, and stood
y him once more.
"Now, Robert, if there is any mis-.
ake here, let us understand it at once.
left you twenty years ago, in charge
4f my wife, ini San Francisco"
"You did, and 1"
"And you," I interrnpted, "Look
;ood care of her, and did not hear
rom me; and she grew tired of wait
ng, and loving a shadow; and you
,d you-loved her!"
"Hold!" he shonteimis u ym. u.Az
ing. "Who told you that infamous I
lie?" t
"And she," I went on, not heeding a
him-"she grew faint and tired; and p
she saw your love, and she-return- b
ed it."
Robert seized my arm as though f
he would naurder me; but I wett on
coolly: 1:
"Hush till I have done. When
you received the money I sent, you v
were too far gone to go back. She ni
got a divorce; you married her, and y
left the city." 0
"And youl-you've believed this
thing for twenty years?" he said y
calmly now.though it was the calm- t
ness of a smothered volcano. I
"I have." n
"You have for twenty long years t
believed that your wife and brother ti
were infamously false to you?" h1
"I have."
"Then hear me, Ralph, while I I
swear, "-and his form seemed to a
fairly dilate, and grow grand as he a
said-"solemnly that the whole story e
is a most infamous falsehoodl That
your wife is as true to you to day as m
she was the day you left her twenty s<
years agol" fi
"What do you mean?" I cried, h
frantically, overwhelmed by his man. a
ner and his words.
"What I do say, Ralph. Oh! there
has been some damnable mistake!-- i
Lear my story. After you left na, I d
struggled on with the business, M
though not succeeding very well.- s
Susy drooped at first but soon grew
cheerful, and begun to plan for your I
return." I
his words brought.the dear little s
creature so plainly before my eyes, 4
that I sunk to the ground and cover- i
ed my face.
"As weeks and months and years
passed on," he went on, slowly, "her
cheeks grew thin and pale, and a
hungry look came into her eyes. I c
saw she was pining, and wrote letter
after letter to you, but no word could
we hear. Then came to mc in a sim- I'
p)le envelope, directed to both of us, a C
draft of five thousand dollars, wvith '
not a word to tell how or from whiomi '
it came. Of course we knew it was
from you, but whether gitt or leg~acy,
who could tell?
We instituted new inquiries.
Sothing that love could suggest wast
left undone. At last we were forced C
to conclude that you were~ dead. By ~
my advice the money was invested C
in a farm some distance from San ~
Francisco, and Susy went to live on
it, while I started out on a sort of'
vagabond, wandering life, in hopes '
at least to find your grave-for we
never believed you could be alive ~
these long years and never let us
hear. That life I have lived for fit-- 3
teen years, returning once ini three or
four years to see to the comfort of
Susy; and now find you"
"You find me," I inIterrup)tedl, "a
wreck- a miserable wreek-who hias
blasted three lives b)y his criminal
weakness his childish credulity, in
believing evil, and who will soon rid
the earth of his presence," and I t
star'ted to go, for varily despair had
seized npon me.
That I should have blieved that
horror for so many years, and find
it all a stupid mistake; that I should
have thrown away my life, the bles
eed love of my true wife, the warm
affection of my brother, for an idle
scanidall It was too much to endure- a
Robert laid a detaining hand on v
my arm.
"But Susy, Ralph! what shall I
say to the loving little woman who
has suffered so muco for you?" U
"Let her still believe mue dead," I (J
said gloomily,.
"liay, brother; let mec rather re- '1
o
st"o you to her. Ralph, go home, ~
and let tus be so happy together as to
p)ar'tly make uiP for these years' ofl I
mnist akua. and error andl grief."
Well, he nursuadeu~d me. and noi 1
was eager enough myself. Now
be gold I had despised was valfable,
a it could add to Susy's comfort. I
1athered it "up and we started for
omO.
Ilome! I 1rud not spoken the word
)r fifteen years.
As we wont, Robert tried to pro
are me for a change in Susy,
"She has had a life of sorrow as
rell as you, Ralph, and you must re
2ember she isn't Ehe girl of eighteen
ou left. She is nearly forty years
Id.
As I drew near, Iseemed to grow
oung again, and I wanted to rush
irough without a moment. But
Lobert refused; and he-wanted to get
le into civilized clothes, and under
ie hands of a barber. Ilie couldn't
ike such a wi'd man of the woods
ome to the little, waiting wito.
So we stopped a few hours in San
'rancisco. I had my long white hair
nd beard trimmed, alid my dreas
rranged to suit Robert, and hasten
d on toward home.
As we approached tile blessed spot
heie my darling lived, I could
arcely breathe, and. I dreaded to
'ighten her to death. In sight of the
ouse, I sent Robert ahead to tell her
nd I basely hid in the 6hrubbery,
,here I could look into -the window.
There she was! the saino Tlainty
gure-the same lovely tace; but
ressed, oh, my Godl in widows
Ceeds, and her bonny rown hai
)rinkled with silver.
I saw ,ber rapid, eager conversation
saw the color come quickly to her
ice, then leave it pale as death. ,
aw her turn to the door, aid fly.
nd I sprang to meet her and
nd
Well, I can't tell about that.
On hearing her story, I found that
tobert bad left out the tale of his
wn griefs. That he had warmly
)ved a gentle girl, but never let her
now it; had sacrificed his own hap
inecss to sp)end life seeking me, and
aring for my wife; that she had
irried another, and Robert was
>rced to see her tihe very unhappy
life of a poor, miserable wvretchi.
And what said the little woman,
Ahen she knew that I had stayed
way all these long years, ha.1 lf
ed her lite, disappointed my brotle
r's life love, muade deep misery for
our, by my stup)id belief of a piece
f gossip that, even to heair repeated,
he shrunk from as though it would
vither her? I always knewv she was
n angel. She said, th oughi with
umivering lips and tearful eyes:
Dear Ral ph, let us not speak of it
gain. It was a dreadful mistake.
~ut us be happy in the years we havi e
'et to live, aind leave it to another
ife to adj ust the errors of this."
A very searchinug inivestigation was
arried on a few years ago in the
{orth of England by two famnilies
vIho were searching up their respc..
ive ancestry. The strife was great
>etweeni them, each oneo determining
o look back inito antiqu it ies further
han the oth er. (Ono of' the families,
vhtose niamen was Spencer, emplloyed
n artis. to pint ant historic scene,
op)reseniting the hbuilding~ of the ark
nid the load ing up of the sip by
{oah and his sons with its nmuhifa
ious and varions cargo. On the
ang-plankl loading to the deck of
he ark two men were seen rolling up
large box, on one side of wt ich
ra painted in large letters, "Relics,
risignia, andl( pap)ers belonginrg to the
penceer familyv." Thtis was conisi
eredl a coup a'etat hard to beat, but
be other family, dletermnined not be
utdone in t lhe antedeluL vian pretences
f their niamet, prlepared at great cost
nid research a rcCordl of their anti
uity. In dlescribinig thweoxploits of
ne of their ancestors, at a v'ery early
ay', who was represenited as a man
f sonme authority, this~ remarkable
assage occurs: '"Durinig this year
WHiRE A DRIER Silo,
One of the anomalies in A.meria",
eustoms is that of a driver of a; --.
on sittihg on th right band idg
while ie always tufns out
right when passing anotber teq46- ..
matterd* not whether &9' is 6:n the'
broad, safe thoroughfare, or on a
narrow lane, or crowded city streets,
his serit is the same. Thus seated' i
is very diffiCult to see the exposed
wheels in passing those which,- rew
quird the eye of the driver. Dubtless
this is a pi-otinent cause of t
many collisions betweei pasig,
teams, and the wonder is that more
do not happen. The custom- w*A
brought over by the Pilgrims, bd
like a Duich sentence the parts
transposed in thd translati6d. A--a
cros the pond the di-ivet- sit- to' the
right, but always turned to thd le#
In copying the practice we re'
the useless part and changed tl)g,
sential for some unexplailled rasqi
Possibly otir fathers thought to. be
consi6tent in the matter, and rathev'
than be right handed in the .riv4do
changed the atter to suit. At, lt
events, the thing as now practiced is'
1very way inconvenient, and is, a
worthy subject of reform in 'his
yQar, when reforips are so uch iW
ftavor. And since it is easier to change
:our p(sition on the seat than , 04;.
tho custom of turning to the> Tgbt
let -us henceforth hand ourfiend,u
to the right side :et the wagon, whIW
we, as driver, take the opposite aid6l
-Scientiffic American. - dli
MASTERING VIcIOUs.HOss.--Yos,
terday afternoon an exhibition was
given at the corner of Ninth and How
.1rdstre6ts 6f a new and very shple
method of taming vicious horsoa, whifh
is lained to be superior to any 11ni
us.- The first triul was with a kiik-41
ing OV bucking mare which, her own*
or atys, has allowed no rider,on heF
back for fi#e years. She became tame'
and gentle in as many minutes, and
allowed herself to be ridden Iaboued
without a sign' of the former wildness.
The nmeans by which this result wa's
aecomplished consists of a piece of
light rope, which is passed around the'
fronat'jaw of the mare, just above the'
upper teeth, orossed in her mouth,
~'ndothen secured back of her neck. It
as dlaimbd that n'o iioi'se will kick or
Jutdup when thus' secured, and 'that a'
bnidhing horse after receiving 'thiw'
treatment a few times 'Will abandon'
his vicious ways forever. A very
simple method was also shown by
which a kicking horse can be shod, 1t
consists in connectinvg the animal'a
head and tail by moans of a rope fast'
oned to the tail and then to the bit,
and drawn tightly enough to incline
tho horse's head to one side. It is
claimed that it is absolutely impossi
blo for tho horse to kick on tho side of
the rope. At the trial yesterday a
horso which for years had to be bound
on the ground to be shod, suffered the
blacksmithu to operate upon him with-'
out attempting to kick while secared
in the manner described.
Judgo Cooke has onjeined thed
County Auditors of Anderson and Ab
bovillo Counties, from entering the
illegal tax levied by the Senate and
Mackey House, on tho tax books.
there will be no levying and collecting
of taxes by auth)ority of the Chamber-'
lain "bobs.talled" concern in the 8th
Circuit sure.
The religious editor of the New
York 11eral mentions a minister who
offered a ehromo to every one who
would be conuverted under his preachd
mng.
A sermon in Barbadoes recent1f
was closed thus: "My obstinaCions
bredren,1I find it no more use to
p)reachl to you dan it is for a grasso
hop)per to wear kntee-breeches."
To make the mrost of the good and
the least of the evil of life is the best
philosopbv of life.