Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 April 1885 — Page 6

SPINNING. Like a blind spinner in the sun, I tread my days; 1 know that all the threads will run Appointed ways; I know each day will bring its task. And, being blind, no more I ask. I do not know the use or name Oi that I spin; I only know that some one came. And laid within My hand the thread, and said: “Since yon Are blind but one thing you can do." Sometimes the threads so rough and fast And tangled tiy, 1 know wild storms are sweeping past, And fear that I Shall fall, but dare not try to find A safe place, since I am blind. I know not why, but lam sure That tint and place In some great fabric to%ndure Past time and race My threads will have; so from the first, Tuough blind, I never feel accurst. I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung From < ne short word Said over me wh»n I was young— So young, I heard It. knowing not that God’s name signed My'brow, and sealed me His, though blind. But whether this be seal or sign ■Within, without. It matters not. The bond divine I never doubt. I know He set me here, and still. And glad, and blind, I wait His ■will; But listen, listen, day by day. To hear them tread Who bear the finished web away, '■ And cut the thread. And bring God’s message in the sun, "Thou poor blind spinner, work is done.”

Doux Souvenir.

The room was one of those harmonious little bowers often seen in these aesthetic days. Nora had fallen in love with the description of a violet boudoir, and when her taste was consulted about her own boudoir she unhesitatingly declared it should be hung and furnished in shades of purple from the deepest to the palest, and it was done. Cn this afternoon her own dress harmonized with the room. Violet silk and velvet trained over the purple carpet, and a band of sparkling amethyst violets bound her golden hair. Even the air was laden with faint fragrance of the fresh flowers. Nora was seated at the piano playing, while Philip Leighton leaned his fair head against the dark damask of an easy chair, and listened with half-closed eyes. His violin lay lovingly against his liqart, and his long, slender “violin hand’’ still carelessly held the bow. “Play No. 1 of the Lieder,” he said, ■as she paused, with a faint, inquiring chord; “the one which they call ‘Sweet Remembrance.’ ” She shivered slightly, and opened her lips to refuse, then resolutely turning, she began to play. Philip s eyes were open now, and he watched her closely, as, with tight-shut mouth and sad, strained eyes, she played it through with rare feeling, but evident pain. Like a flash, there passed through his mind the thought of a cruel wind driving before it two forms with fapes he knew. As the last note died away Nora rose so pale and wan that Philip started to his feet, looking at her in surprise; but almost instantly her color returned, and she laughed lightly. “I once read,” he said, quietly, as he reseated himself in his purple chair, "a very strange story about every one Graving a key-note. A certain note in the scale dominated over them in some mysterious fashion, and every one who discovered this possessed a singular power over the person who responded to it. The story pretended that this was universal. I think it fanciful myself, though I have never tried toprove it. lam certain, however, that 1 have found a combination of sounds which has a strange effect upon you, Nora. Why do you never play that piece without evident suffering?” Again a slight shudder passed over (her, but after a moment’s hesitation she replied: “I don’t know. That it is so is true, •nd although I am unconscious of -changing color, I know that, too, is so; lor, after playing it, people have sometimes come up and offered me a fan or vinaigrette, as if they thought me faint.” “What does it make you think of ?” he asked. “Of the wind. Whoever named it ‘ Doux Souvenir ’ must have had different ears from mine. It also makes me think of or see a picture.” “Representing— T — ?” “Two shadowy figures driven by the "wind. Such sad, sad looks they turn one to the other; but sadness full of longing, lingering love.” This time he, too, turned pale. He rose. « “My dear Nora,” he said, “this is growing absurd. Absolutely, I begin myself to shiver. Come, accompany me; let us play it together.” Complying at once, she went to the piano. Once or twice she raised her ■eyes to his face beseechingly, as if im{doring him to stop; but he was merciessly determined to fight away this "something,” and he held her to the very last. Softly, faintly, the murmuring wind-sounds died away, until they blended into silence; but as he turned to chide her playfully, her eyes looked dimly into his, then closed as she fainted in his arms. Neither had noticed her father, who, drawn by the music, had been standing in the curtained doorway. He hurried in as his daughter fell, and, taking her somewhat abruptly from Philip’s arms, •aid a word to him, and the young man retired. A moment after, Nora opened her eyes in fague wonder, and, seeing her father’s face could recall nothing of what had Jmssed. He gently explained. % “I was ;S |ust going to call your mother,” he added; “but since you are better —come, take a turn up and down with me; there, now, your color is

coming. Nora, 1 will take this oppor tunity to say that I do not wish you to see so much of Philip.” “Oh, papa, he had nothing to do with my fainting—nothing at all.” “Do you know,” said her father, slowly, “all the circumstances of Philip’s life?” “No,” she answered frankly, “I do not. I only know there is something painful in his past, about which no one speaks. ” “It concerns a woman,” began her father, then he hesitated. “Papa,” said Nora, “if you wish to tell me anything, whatever it may be, do not be afraid of agitating me. Philip has never made love to me—is nothing to me, as you seem to fear.” “Ah, then,” in a tone of relief, “you ought to know the story. Philip is married, and his wife is supposed to be living.” In spite of herself Nora shivered and turned pale. “Well, when did this happen ? Please tell me all,” she said, as quietly as she could. “It isn’t a long story, and it’s not a very romantic one. He was drawn into the thing when a college youth. He married his landlady’s daughter privately ; and six weeks after she ran away with his most intimate friend. All this before his college course was ended. He took no steps to trace his wife, and there the matter rested.” “I am glad you told me this, papa,” Nora said, simply. “One ought to be posted upon these matters.” Her manner then and after was so calm that her father congratulated himself on his timely revelation. “I might have been too late,” he said to himself. Days passed. Philip did not appear. Then one day a package came to Nora, containing a very small copy of “Doux Souvenir,” exquisitely bound in violet. From the pages dropped a note: “Noba—l have seen your father, who tells me you know all/this has brought me to a sense of my own peril, and I feel I dare not meet you again. “Philip.” Nora told herself she should not, would not, care, and she forced herself to be brave; but she did care for all that, and she laid away “Doux Souvenir”—ah! “Triste Souvenir,” and never played it now. Still her life went on the same; and one evening she found herself in the artists’ reception in company with some friends. Exquisitely dressed groups passed up and down before the beautiful pictures, the air was filled with sweet sounds and the scent of rare flowers, and Nora was almost forgetting to feel sad. There was a pause in the music, and her friends were chatting gayly around her, when softly, sweetly from an adjoining room came the sounds of “Doux Souvenir.” Turning quickly, Nora met Philip’s eyes. He stepped forward. “I must speak to you this once,” he said. With a word of excuse to her friends she took his offered arm and walked with him up and down, always within sound of the song. “Nora,” he whispered passionately, “I can not keep away from you—l can not live without you. Speak one word to strengthen me, to comfort me.” But the same set look was on her face, and she stopped suddenly. Her eyes were on a picture hanging near. Two shadowy forms driven by a terrible, cruel wind, and the low, sad moaning of the song might have been the sound of its passing. His sad eyes followed hers, his face, too, grew deathly white. “I accept the portent,” he sighed; “I take warning. Come away, Nora, come away. Oh, come!” “No,” she answered, dreamily, “I would rather stay. ” “Nora,” he pleaded, “won’t you listen to me ? I implore you, for my sake, if you will not for your own.” “I can not move,” she whispered; “something holds me to the spot.” A look of torture passed over his face, followed by one of sudden relief, as a young artist passed close to him. “Ernest!” he said, addressing him. “quick! stop thaft music. I will explain later—only be quick!” An exclamation of surprise and pain escaped the artist’s lips; but the next moment he dashed forward, saying. “The lady has fainted! Here, this way, I will show you. ” He threw wide a small door beside them, which had been concealed by a heavy curtain, and opened into a quiet room. Philip carried in Nora and laid her on a lounge, while the other hastened to admit the air. Then while she lay restored, but white and still, too weak to open her eyes, she heard the stranger say, “Philip, old friend, forgive me if you can. I loved her; you did not.” Philip only answered, quietly, “Where is she now ?” “Dead,” groaned the artist; “dead two months since. You never cared for her, and I would have given my life to save her. Do not excuse my sin. I only ask your pardon. ” Nora opened her eyes to see Philip lay his hand in that of the man who had so hearlessly betrayed him. “I forgive you now,” she heard him say. “I once thought I never should. You painted the Francesca da Rimini?” “Yes. You noticed the likeness? And did you read the repentance and misery that could only paint such anguish?” “I think I did,” he answered. Nora rose. “Did you paint that lovely, beautiful picture ?” she asked turning to the artist. He bowed. “I cannot think,” she sighed, passing her hand over her brow, “how it is possible; but that is what has haunted me for years when I played ‘Doux Souvenir,’ until the notes have come to sound like storm winds, and I could flee so plainly those weary forms drifting

| hither and thither—one, ah I one was i like you, only a shadow, and the i other * “She is dead now,” he said, hoarsely “let her rest.” N ora turned gently and gave him hei . hand. “I am sorry for you,” she said. < Then Philip drew her away. Withi out a word he took her back to her ; friends, made his adieux and left. She I did not see him again for months. Then one day, when she was in her violet j room, he came. “I want to try an experiment,” he [ said, after greeting her. “Have you ever played ‘ Dioux Souvenir’ since that night?” “Never,” she replied. “Do so now.” Nora shrank and shivered. “I am certain the spell is gone,” he said. “You have seen the picture in reality. You will not fear it now,” Then she obeyed. First came the hushed prelude, then the sighing, tender song, then the wailing sadness of the closing phrase; but her face no longer paled, a bright flush covered her cheeks, perhaps because Philip’s arm was held round her, while hea happy head leaned on his breast.

HISTORICAL.

The Mazarin Bible was so called from having been found in the Cardinal’s library. It was the first book printed with metal types, and cost $2,500. The old north of England phrase, “to carry coals to Newcastle,” finds its parallel in the Persian taunt of “carring pepper to Hindostan,” and in the Hebrew, “to carry oil to the City of Olives.” At one time the Finlanders and Lap landers drove a profitable trade by tiff sale of winds. After being paid the} knotted three magical knots and told the buyer that when he untied the first he would have a good gale, when the second a strong wind, and when the third a severe tempest. Some Frenchmen who landed on the coast of Guinea many years ago, found a negro prince seated under a tree on a block of wood for his throne, and three or four negroes armed with wooden spears for his guard. His sable majesty anxiously inquired: “Do they talk much of me in France ?” Ichabod Price, who died in New York City in March. 1862, at the age of eighty-one years, was a sergeant of a New York State artillery corps, as a volunteer in the war of 1812. He suggested to the War Department both rifled cannon and conical balls, which now perform destructive work at long distances; but he was not listened to. President Madison was so well satisfied of the genius of the sergeant that he was commissioned a lieutenant in the regular army of the United States. The room in the tower of London in which Sir Walter Raleigh was so long imprisoned is Bxl4 feet in size, and so low that it was impossible for Raleigh to stand erect in it. The walls of the room are eighteen feet in thickness, and there is only one window, an opening 10x20 inches, from which the only thing that can be seen is the blank wall of an adjoining building. Here Raleigh lived for fourteen years, never being once out of the room until the day on which he was taken to Great Tower Hill to be beheaded. The Temple of the Sun at Cuzco, called Coricancha or “Place of Gold,” was the most magnificent edifice in the Persian Empire. On the western wall, and opposite the eastern portal, was a splendid representation of the sun, the god of the nation. It consisted of a human face in gold, with innumerable golden rays emanating from it in every direction; and when the early beams of the morning sun fell upon this brilliant golden disk, they were reflected from it as from a mirror, and again reflected throughout the whole temple by the numberless plates, cornices, bands and images of gold, until the temple seemed to glow with a sunshine more intense than that of nature. Caerier pigeons have been used from a very early date, and the Castle of the Birds at Bagdad takes its name from the pigeon-post which the old monks of the convent established. The building has crumbled into ruins long ago by the lapse of time, but the bird messengers of Bagdad became celebrated as far westward as Greece, and were a regular commercial institution between the distant parts of Asia Minor, Arabia and the East. In ancient Egypt they were also brought to great perfection, and between the cities of the Nile and of the Red Sea the old traders used to send word of their caravans to each other, written on silk and tied under the wings of trained doves. An attempt is being made to account for the remarkable powers exhibited by some dogs on the presumption that “scent” is a faculty per se altogether distinct and different from the sense of smell. This is, as all philosophers must know, a misconception. The truth is that each species of animal has Borne specially developed faculty of relation by which it is, more than by other faculties, placed en rapport with the external world. The differences are great even among small classes of beings ; for example, among dogs some use sight more than smell—as the greyhound. The sense of smell is, howI ever, generally developed to a high pitch among those animals which have in a state of nature to hunt for their prey or to avoid predatory enemies. There is nothing that we can perceive difficult to understand in the intelligence exhibited by the lower animals. The scientific doctrine of evolutionary development affords a satisfactory solution of every problem, and renders the facts plain to see.

Callahan’s Tavern.

Cakahan’s mountain tavern, Oh the road to the Virginia Springs, writes Ben: Perley Poore in the Bouton Du.dget, enjoyed a great reputation before the railroad days, and parties would often go from Washington to enjoy a few days there, deer-hunting and trout-fishing. It was located in a double gap of the Alleghanies, where four mountain roads met. There was a small farm, hemmed in by the mountains, with a stream of clear water running through it, and a spring of cool, delicious water. When* I used first to go there the house was a low, picturesque cottage, but on my last visit, soon after the war, I found that it had been disfigured by a pompous Virginia veranda, with large white wooden columns. On this veranda were the domestic productions of the region—maple iugar, buckskin gloves, and rattlesnakes! —each in boxes duly labeled. The “snaiks” were visible through a pane of glass inserted in the top of their box, and their rattling was plainly heard when they were disturbed. They were plentiful thereabout, and the antidote given to those who were bitten by them was a large quantity of raw whisky, “one poison neutralizing the other, ” as a temperance man in our party observed. But the fare at Callahan’s was all that an epicure could desire, even if his appetite had not been sharpened by a ride in a stage coach. Never did I taste such juicy venison steaks, or such crisp fried chicken, with fresh omelettes and a variety of the fancy warm bread and cakes for which the Southern matrons were famous. The coffee was equally excellent, the milk was cold and pure, and after this delicious repast there were those of the party who enjoyed a compound of old home-made peach brandy, with fresh honey from a neighboring hive, there not being any constabulary in those parts. Troops from both armies camped there during the war, and the landlord informed me that Gen. Averill “camped on” him seven times. He did the Yankee General justice, however, and said that, while the stock was taken, the hay and grain were consumed, and the fences were burned, no wanton damage was inflicted, nor was the house disturbed. “The Confeds,” added the old man, with a sligh, “treated us a heap worser, though wonst they paid us in their money, but that wa’n’t of no ’count.” Just after crossing the summit of the Alleghanain chain we saw a large number of horses’ bones whitening in the woods, while many of the trees appeared to have been lopped off about fifteen or twenty feet from the ground. Our driver, on being questioned, said it was the battle-field of Dry Creek. “The Yanks was a-coming, and the Confeds fought ’em bar fur tew days, both sides a-firing at each other till the Yanks’ powder was gone; then they went a-tarin.” He said, further, that each side lost about a hundred men; but he was evidently ignorant of the facts, although he had been over the road twice a day all summer. Even the name of the rebel victor was unknown to him. Such is fame.

George Eliot’s Married Lovers.

Of all married lovers that we have ever read of in books, those of George Eliot are less to be congratulated. It is as wonderful as it is mournful to contemplate the sarcasm which she poured upon married life. Her husbands and wives generally intermarried in greater or less want of consideration for that “inherent fitness” of which she was want to speak with such confidence in the W’estminister Review, and with greater or less ignorance of the imagined superior purposes of matrimony compared with those simple purposes of God, comfort and fruit, with such preservation of honor and love as is possible to an estate so fallen. Except in the case of the Poysers, and their like, she has generally made them petulant, exacting, suspicious, and, wherever possible, oppressive. It is specially remarkable in the married lovers of George Eliot that they are made to refrain from violation of the letter of the bond which has bound thjpm, although the spirit may have long been broken and hopeless of amendment. This fact saved her from being one of the evilest of the teachers of mankind. She did not mean to be an evil teacher. Her heart was too charitable and, according to her ideas of purity, too pure for that. So she made her married lovers faithful to the letter of their bonds. In reading “Middlemarch” we are constantly expect ng Dorothea, ardent as religious, to leave the vain, pompous, jealous autocrat who, though not bloodyminded like Bluebeard, has no more, if as much, regard for a wife's individuality—or Lydgate to withdraw from one so wholly unfit for the society of a good, brave man. No. There is that fatal bond which, unlike Shylock, these obligors interpret against themselves and wait for death or madness to release them. — Catholic World.

A Diplomatist.

“Madam,” said a woman addressing the matron of a charity hospital, “can you lend me eight ragged children this afternoon ?” “Eight ragged children! What do you want with them?” “Well, you see my husband is in the penitentiary and I want to get him pardoned. Want the children to go with me when I call on the Governor.”— Arkansaw Traveler. Thackeray says a woman may be loved for three things—her intellect, her beauty, or her qualities of heart. A man who recently married a rich wife says she might also be loved for her bank account.

HUMOR.

Love is homesickness of the heart. . Freedom shrieked as Tennyson wrote about it. Sleep is merely an armistice in the battle of life. A pedantic man is much given to a i diction-airy. Black silk hose for fire companies are not in vogue this season.— Life. Always in quest of something—- • the Coroner.— New York Mail and ; Express. When a bet of tne drinks is fulfilled, the betters are generally fillfulled.— Texas Siftings. “Tempus fugit” means “time flies.” Tempus fidget means flies’ time.—Gorham Mountaineer. Figures may not lie, but we’ve often seen figures that wouldn’t stand up.— Waterloo Observer. \ The little girl who called the ostrich the bird with the bonnet tail put it about right.— Yonkers Statesman. Because a man is a poor devil in this world that is no reason he won’t make a good one in the next.— Peck’s , Sun. | A little off color—the paint on the back of a man who leaned against a newly decorated wall.— Hartford Times. He—“l hate a soft hat.” She—“Do you? You remember the old adage: ‘Like hates' like.’”— Boston Transcript. A young lady says the reason she can’t keep her beau at a distance is because crinolines are made so small.— Peck’s Sun. Some men will never learn anything. A tramp tried to rob an editor the other day. Of course he got left.— Carl Pretzel’s Weekly.. Yes, Longfellow is a poet, but all poets are not long fellows. In fact, poets are generally short—very short. —Oil City Derrick. “We know what it is to lose a dog,” says the editor of one of our exchanges. Probably you do, friend, probably you do; but why obtrude your family affairs on a suffering public.— Newman Independent. Mrs. Kaintuck—“lt is time to get ready for prayer-meeting, dear.” Mr. Kaintuck—“l am not going this evening.” Mrs. Kaintuck—“Why, the new minister will be there to-night. Why can’t you go?” Mr. Kaintuck—“My pistol is out of order. ” — Philadelphia Call. A man writes to the manufacturer of a patent medicine that he was cured “after using over two hundred bottles of Ins patent medicine.” Well, we should think he would be: but it is rather remarkable that the duty of writing the testimonial did not devolve upon one of his heirs.— Norristown Herald. Oh, beautiful land where the dates grow ripe, Where birds in winter-time go— Where the w hits man s joke dies out in a breath. W here the "chestnut” has no show. —Chicago Hera.d. Ou, bottomless pit, where the Are bums hot, Where the sinner gasps aud chokes— Where no water-pipes ever freeze up and bust, Where there arffib “plumber” jokes. —Judge. “What’s the reason you didn’t speak to Jones when he passed us just now?” “He insulted me the other day. ” “What did he say to you?” “He called me an old ass.” “Called you an old ass! How ridiculous! Why, you are not old! You ' are just in your prime! You will not be an old ass for ten or fifteen years yet.”— Texas Sifting. s. “Papa,” said little Ethel, “I have seen a picture that I want to give mamma, and I want you to buy it for me when you go down-town. ” “But how am I to know it ?” asked her father. “O, you’ll know it,” said Ethel confidently. “Just ask Mr. Kent to show show you a picture of two little children with dados round their heads.”— Ex. Two little girls of about eight years of age were heard discussing the subject of matrimony. Fanny: “When I, marry, I am going to marry a Doctor.” Emma: “And I am going to marry an army officer. ” Fanny: “That will be very foolish in you. If war breaks out your husband will have to go to the front. He will probably be killed and then you and your half a dozen children will be in a nice fix.— Texas Siftings. It is wonderful how times change. Whittier was made editor of the Hartford Review because the retiring editor, George D. Prentice, had received a few poems from him and was pleased with them. Prentice recommended the then unknown poet as his successor, and Whittier secured the place. In this age’of prose and pork and market reports, a young man can’t get an editorial position, or, in fact, any position, simply by sending in a few spring poems. Everybody has found this out except the poets. They keep on trying. Atlanta Constitution. the proper caper. "Who wouldn’t kiss A pretty miss? How could you e’er resist her, Especially If she should be Some other fellow’s sister. I'm sure that you Would be too-too Ut-ter-ly glad to do it. But have a care No brother’s there, Or you will surely rue it. But on the sly, With no one by, * Your arm her waist supporting. Lay back her head. An t then—'trough said. Go do your own sweet courting. —Houslon Post. The London Lancet says: “Certainly animals belowthe order of man never commit suicide.” Why, of course not; they never do anything sufficiently disgraceful and wicked to drive them to commit suicide.