Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 26, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 July 1885 — Page 6

810 PEDET, DEB MILLER. On dop of der hill yon can saw a mill Dot vos all blayed oud dough made of shdone, Der bar vas dere nnd noisy shdill, But Pedey, der miller, vas died nnd gone* Jilorning und night und airly nnd lade. Dot made no difference hot or cold. He dealed oud der Lager nnd Visky shdraighd Dill him under der blase got awf nl old. •* Big Fad Pedey ” vas all der same, Tnd all of der beebles dem liked him veil; But vedder he owned any Oder name, I shwar of I knowed I voodin delL ’Dvas “ Big Fad Pedey, a shlice of ham,’’ Und “Big Fad Pedey, a glass of beer; ” But Pedey didn't seem for to care a cent So long as der jinkle of shdambs he'd hear. ’Dvas “ Big Fad Pedey,” dem all did call, Der sacks, for sure, I’m going to dold— He vas ’* Big Fad Pedey ” ven he vas shmall, Und “ Big Fad Pedey ” ven he vas old. Bud “ Big Fad Pedey,” dough he vas shdout, You musn’t dink dot he vas shdrong; He could drink dree barruls of bier glean out, Und den dob off mit a shplendid song. All der dime busy und full of fun. All der dime doing his lifel bead, He always dook care of “ Number Von,” Und boody goot care of all ber resd. Dere vas always a shmlle on Pedey’s sac No madder how cold dor vedder mighd be, Der fire vood burn in Pedey’s blace, Sometimes in der nighd dill half-past dree. How Pedey had lifed was known to fame, Bud efry von lader or soon musd go; So von day around der news did came “ Der bier und Pedey vas awful low." Und den ’dvas d-alked kinder shamfully, Der docder vas dere und he vas died; Und all der naypors rushed in to see, “ Boor Big Pedey,” vas ail dey cried. Dey pud him in his leedle bed. His ulster coat dot vas his shroud: “He’s shkibbed der gutter,” some von said, Und der dirt vas shoiilled by der ground. Gauge he always baid for vot he got, ] Und nefer dinked dot vas a sin, j Ven some von vasn’d dot near der snpot, To pud blendy vater in der gin. / On dob of der hill you can saw a mill Dot vas all blayed oud dough made of shdone, Der bar vas dere und noisy shdill, But Pedey, der miller, vas died und gone.

THE DOCTOR'S STORY.

BY ALEC CREAN.

You must know, (said my friend Harry), that in the course of my many •wanderings about the world I chanced •once to meet an Englishman by the name of Rushton. He was a doctor by profession, but, like myself, being quite •well off, did not have as much practice as he might have otherwise commanded, for he was a talented fellow, and •one who had studied medicine with much zeal. Now, Dr. Rushton, some two years since, arrived in this city, and I immediately called upon him, and offered him our hospitalities. He was staying at one of our principel hotels. To this place I bent my steps, and while awaiting in the office the Doctor’s appearance in answer to my card, which I had sont up by one of the waiters, I amused myself, as I frequently do under such circumstances, 'by looking about and scanning the features of those around me. There were only a few persons present, such individuals as are to be met with loafing in the halls of our hotels; and I did not find anything particularly interesting to engage my attention until my eyes chanced to alight upon a man whom I had not at first perceived. I was immediately struck by his peculiar appearance He was a tall, thin Frenchman, dressed in rather a shabby cloak, and wearing upon his head one of those impudent-looking military fatigue caps which were so common at that time in this country But it was not his costume that attract-’ ed my notice so much as his face, which was particularly repulsive, and not in the least degree heightened in beauty by a pair of coal-black eyes, ever restlessly turning from .one object to another, as if suspecting every one they saw of being secret enemies. Under his chin I observed a dark-red scar, which he had evidently attempted to bide by allowing all his beard -to grow out. Unfortunately, his stock of that article was very poor, being thin, straggling, and of a light color, so that a been eye like mine readily detected the •curious mark he bore. I was thus observing this man and cogitating who he might be, when a hand was placed upon my shoulder, and turning around 1 beheld my friend, Dr.‘Rushton. After the usual salutations, the conversation turned upon old scenes and old friends, and, as is generally the. case, we had much to say that interested both; so that I forgot, for the time, the presence of the man who had attracted so much of my notice, until, turning to leave, I perceived the mysterious stranger still present. He had drawn a chair close to the stove, and was now fast asleep. I was about to call my friend’s attention ;to him, when I heard the Doctor suddenly give a slight exclamation as of one in pain, and looking toward him, I became conscious that he was deadly pale and was staring fixedly upon the Frenchman. Before I could speak he whispered hastily, as he clutched my arm .and motioned me to foMow:

“Come; for heaven’s sake, let us get ■out of this place!” He was so earnest in what he said that I made no remark, but followed him mechanically up the stairs to his room, having entered which he threw himself into a chair, and drawing a long breath exclaimed, “Lock the door!” I did as he requested, and then took a seat opposite him. “What in the name of all that is sensible does this mean ?” I asked. “My conduct must appear very strange to you,” answered Rushton, smiling, “and as I have acted thus, it is due to you, my friend, that I should give an explanation.” „ He ceased speaking for a moment to collect his senses, and then continued: “You noticed that man in the office—that Frenchman with a light beard?” “Yes, I did,Doctor. In fact, I thought .his appearance was very singular, and

■was devoting my attention to him when you came down stairs.” “I had a strange adventure once with that man. I saved his life—whether I did so rightly or not, I have never since made up my mind.” “I should like to hear an account of the adventure, Doctor, for I must confess that my curiosity this evening has been excited to a high pitch. ” “ You shall hear all about it, and you will be the first man that I have confided it to. So to begin. You are aware that, like yourself, I studied for my profession in Paris. For two years I had lodgings in the Rue d’Antoine, not far from the Academy of Medicine. One very stormy night I took it into my head, at rather a late hour, that I would visit the dissecting rooms and pursue my studies quietly there by myself, as I knew no one would be about, except the old janitor, who was well disposed toward me, and would easily give me admittance at hours when it was not customary for students to disturb him. So I pulled on my overcoat and, taking an umbrella under my arm, started out. A few steps brought me to my destination, and a knock at his door summoned the janitor to admit me. “ ‘Monsieur comes late to-night.’ “ ‘Yes, Adolphe. I must trouble you to let me in. I have some very important work to do in the college.’ “ ‘Certainly, Monsieur. Only too happy to do you a favor,’ answered Adolphe, with the usual politeness of a Frenchman. ‘But,’ he continued, 1 Monsieur will wait a moment until I get a light.’ “With this he bustled away, and soon reappeared, carrying a lantern. “ ‘ls there any one else up stairs in the dissecting rooms ?’ I asked. “ ‘No, Monsieur; youwill be entirely alone, and I wish you joy with all my heart, for a more disagreeable place I do not know of. Ugh! It makes me shudder to think of it.’

“Having uttered these words, Adolphe ushered me into a small apartment directly underneath the principal dissecting room, where he lit the lamp and then left me. As the sound of the retreating footsteps of the janitor died away in the distance I settled myself in an easy chair by the table on which the lamp stood, and, opening a large volume that I desired to look over before commencing my work, I was soon lost to everything but the subject to which my attention was devoted. About half an hour passed in this way, naught interrupting my studies save the wind whistling outside and the rain-drops pattering on the window panes. “Suddenly, and from no 'cause that I could imagine, an inexpressible sense of fear came over mo. I was unable to fix my attention upon. the book, although I tried my best to do so. My thoughts would wander, and my imagination caused hideous spectral objects to flit through my mind. I could not divine what this sudden dread meant. I was never superstitious —never had allowed my better reason to be overcome by any marvelous tales that I had heard in the course of my life. Still, try to throw it off as I would, at this moment I was in the power of some unknown, invisible terror. Thus I sat benumbed, feeling at short intervals a chill run through my frame, when I distinctly heard a moan in the room above. As you may suppose, this startled me, for I remembered well that old Adolphe had said there was no living being there —nothing but the mortal shapes of those whose souls had passed away from this earth. Again I heard the moan, then a rustling noise, then a step. Adolphe must have been mistaken. Some fellow-student had preceded me and gained entrance into the building without the janitor’s help. But how could this be ? Adolphe kept the keys. That step again! My thoughts were interrupted by the mysterious sound, and I arose from the chair and took up the lamp, intending to search out the meaning of this perplexing incident, when the steps were repeated — at first slowly, like one feeling his way, and then rapidly, as they descended the stairs and approached the room in which I was. My blood curdled as I saw, with horror, the door swing on its hinges and an unearthly object, clothed in the cerements of the grave, appear on the threshold. Upon discovering me the figure uttered a sharp cry, and, advancing a few steps, threw itself before me on the floor, shrieking, ‘ Save me! Save me! * “The tones of the human voice which thus struck on my ear reassured me, and gave me the welcome conviction that it was a living being who had thus unexpectedly disturbed my studies. Still, the emaciated form, clothed in its winding-sheet, the pallid face, and blood-shot eyes gazing upon me caused me yet to feel a great dread of my visitor. At length I mustered up courage sufficient to ask, ‘ Who are you?’ “As I spoke, the man lifted himself from the floor and answered in a whisper, ‘Do you not know me? lam one whose crimes have astounded all Paris. You now see the murderer, D !’ “ ‘What! D , who was hung this afternoon ? ’ “ ‘The same. But you seem to doubt me,’ continued the man, as he perceived an incredulous smile pass over my face. ‘Perhaps this will satisfy you! ’ With these words he unwrapped part of the shroud which covered his neck and disclosed a fearful gash. “I started in amazement. ‘ Gracious heaven!’ I exclaimed, ‘how has this happened? The hangman has failed to perforin his task! ’ “‘Do not ask me how it occurred,’ said D . ‘I had made up my mind to die, but I awake from my fearful dream to find my-

self m a charnel house. I, a living, j breathing man, the companion of 1 corpses: but we must not waste further time. Save me, for God’s sake, I im- ! plore you! Give me clothes, and show jme the way out of this place, and, i though I am weak and faint, I can yet !escape! ’ “Yon may imagine what a position I ! was in. The piteous accents of the man, notwithstanding his former crimes, ! struck a chord of sympathy in my ; heart. My feelings prompted me to j assist him to escape. But again, would Ibe acting rightly in so doing? My mind was thus perplexed wiih conflicting reasons when I suddenly remembered to have read in the paper that the friends of this unhappy man had received a promise from the Judge who had sentenced him that his remains should lie undisturbed in their grave, and not he subjected to the doctor’s dissecting knife, as the corpses of most criminals are. And yet some of my fellow-students had been bold enough to steal this body. Here was a loophole for my conscientious scruples to escape through. ‘I will see what I can do for you,’ I said. Never shall I forget the grateful expression of that man’s countenance. “ * God bless you, Monsieur. Let me but leave this building, and France shall never hear of D ’s crimes being repeated by him.’ “‘Do you think you can escape the police, if they should know of this ? ’ “‘lam sure I can.’ “ ‘ Will you promise me that you will leave the country ? ’ “ ‘Before heaven I swear to do so!’ answered the man, in a solemn tone, at the same moment raising his arm on high. “There was something in this criminal’s voice that led me to believe he was sincere. “ Twill trust you,’l answered. ‘Here, take some of this; it will strengthen you.’

“As I spoke, I handed him my brandy flask. He took a good pull at”the contents. But, my friend, it is needless for me to continue my narative further. It is sufficient to state that I gave him some clothes, led him to the door of the building, and saw his figure disappear in the darkness of the night. I never heard of D from that time until this evening, when, to my horror, I perceived him sitting in that office down stairs. The sight has conjured up all my old feelings; and the scene that I have attempted to describe is as vividly portrayed in my mind’s eye as if it had only occurred yesterday. I must leave this hotel. For me to stay here would only keep me in a constant state of uneasiness. ” “Andyou shall not stay here, Doctor,” Rapid. “My house is at your service, and I shall be greatly disappointed if you do not accept my invitation. But, tell me this: Did you never perceive any signs among your fellow-students at the academy as if they were rather cast in a fog as to the disappearance of D ’s body?” "Oh, yes” answered the Doctor, smiling; “two or three of them appeared to be very much perplexed, but they never confided the matter to me; and, as to the authorities, I suppose to this day they are not aware of the occurrence.” “Well, a still further question: How is it that your friend D escaped with his life from the gallows?” “His body, I believe, for some reason or other, was cut down too soon; and, although the surgeon present thought him dead, D had life enough left in him to frighten me out of my wits.” And so ends the Doctor’s story.

“Brother Jonathan.”

“Let us see what Brother Jonathan says,” was Washington’s usual remark when doubtful cases arose during the war. The words, which since have become a sobriquet of the United States, referred to Jonathan Trumbull, Governor of Connecticut from 1769 to 1784. Washington highly esteemed his judgment, and all who came in contact with him learned to love the wise Governor. During the winter of 1780-81 some of the troops of our French allies wintered at Lebanon, Conn., where Gov. Trumbull resided. Their commander, the Duke de Lauzun, was quartered at the house of the Governor’s son, David. In return for the civilities extended to him by the citizens of the town, the Duke often gave brilliant parties. Upon one of these occasions—a dinner given in honor of two distinguished French visitors—the grave and ceremonious Governor was present, dressed in the peculiar style of his Puritan ancestors. Around the table were seated volatile, laughter-loving French officers, most of them disciples of Voltaire. Yet the Governor, true to his Christian profession and his custom, pronounced in a loud tene a long “grace. ” Such were his solemnity of manner and his evident sincerity, that those F enclimen, to all of whom “grace” was a solecism before a meal, responded with “Amen.” Once in the Lebanon meeting house the minister announced that a collection would be taken for the soldiers. Faith Trumbull, the Governor’s wife, arose from her seat, and, taking from her shoulders a magnificent scarlet cloak—a present from Count Roc.hambeau, the Commander-in-Chief of the French army—advanced to she pulpit and laid it on the communion table. It was afterward cut into strips and used to trim the soldiers’ uniforms. Youth’s Companion. The Jewelers’ Circular says that never in the history of jewelry in this country have colored stones, both gems and semi-precious stones, been more in request than now.

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

Last Days of the Author of “ Home, Sweet Home.” My recollections of poor Payne are still fresh in my memory. He was a small man with a fine, intelligent face, but of a very serious and melancholy expression. He spoke slowly, with great dignity of manner. He was highly educated and very well informed. His conversation was extremely pleasant and interesting. Though rather cold and reserved in his manners, he had a strong temper and will. The many ups and downs he had had in his life had made him rather skeptical and given him a strong touch of misanthropy, which increased, in his last years. He never spoke of his theatrical life before me; politics was the ordinary topic of his conversation, as it is generally with United States Americans. He liked to talk about poetry, too, although I do not think he cultivated it any more at that time—at least I have not heard he left any compositions of this period after him. He told us one evening how he wrote Sweet Home” at Paris while sitting on a bench in the Champs Elysees and under the influence of a strong spell of homesickness. He said the music was Sicilian, but did not tell whether it was he who adapted the words to it. He had a good collection of books, which has been in a gross way dispersed here since his death. He used to show us a certain quantity of Indian weapons and was very fond of natural history; he used to collect numerous specimens of our African birds and wild animals, which he got from the Arab sportsmen and sent home. He professed a great friendship for the English consul at Tunis, Sir Thomas Reade, who used to invite him for whole weeks to his beautiful summer house at Marsa; it was there that he met Moses Santillano, the English interpreter attached to the British Consulate, who became deeply attached to him, and with whom I have lately talked, and secured some of the details I am imparting. He (Payne) spent nearly all his time in studying. Mr. Santillano told me he thought he was preparing a work on Tunis, I know he went two or three times in the interior of the regency, but I never heard him say anything about this work; I do not think he left Anything on the subject. All his papers were at his death thrown, just as they were found, that is, in the greatest disorder, into several baskets (at least twelve), and stored in damp magazines where they remained for years and from whence many must have been lost or stolen. It was very long after his demise, ten or twelve years at least, that they were claimed by his sister, who very reluctantly sent the money for their expedition.

Payne’s official occupations were altogether nominal. It was very rare to see any American ships in our bay, and there were no American traders in Tunis. His task was altogether political and gave him no trouble; he had therefore all his time free, and had spent it in reading ahd writing. I remember the negotiations he had with the Tunisian Government for the repairing of the consular house; they were, I am sure, the most important fact of his official career here. He succeeded, though, in getting what he wanted, and the house was completely remade according to the plans of a German architect, Mr. Konneger, who was intimate with him. The Bey had to pay a famous sum for it. Poor Payne did not enjoy it very long, though; he died some time after, and Dr. Heap, his obstinate competitor for the Tunisian Consulate, succeeded him at last.. Payne in the last year of his life had become of very sedentary habits and very gloomy in his ideas. I remember to have seen him many times sitting; in his arm-chair by a red-hot stove drinking brandy and water, and looking very sad. He seemed to have no ties left in this world. H© saw very few persons here, and did not seem to like new acquaintances, He was at last taken with a slow fever, which, neglected, took a bad turn and became dangerous. We saw to our great consternation that his constitution was giving way before it without the least resistance, and we soon found that our poor friend’s days were numbered. Every care was taken of him, but with no effectual result, except showing him that he was cared for and surrounded by friends. He died after tea oar twelve days’ illness, without suffering, and like a lamp whose oil is extinguished. We buried him in his Colonel’s uniform. We had him taken to our cemetery, and I took care of his tomb ever since—up to the day his dust was removed to America. The slab was put upon the grave by the care of my excellent friend W. P. Chandler, of Philadelphia, once American Consul here, who wrote the epitaph which is upon it. These are the few details I can give you upon our regretted friend. I have been in a position to ascertain fully the precious qualities with which he was endowed, the loyalty oi his character, the frankness and dignity oi i his manners, and the depth of his in- : telligence and information.— Pricate letter of Alfred Chapelie, Tunis.

Watch Manufacture in Switzerland.

The manufacture of watches in Switzerland is almost exclusively confined to the French-speaking cantons of Geneva, Neuchatel and Valid, and to Berne. Neuchatel manufactures about 1,000,000 watches a year, worth on the average $lO each; while in the Vaud about 8,000 persons are employed in making watches and music boxes. In the Canton of Berne there are 13,000 men and women engaged in watchmaking, and their labor is estimated to yield $6,000,000 per annum. Never say “dye,” whatever may bo the fashionable color for hair.

HUMOR.

It is often the man that is right who is left.— Texas Siftings. Thb rooster has the most eg-otism, but the hen has the most eggs.— Texas Siftings. It's a poor rule that a sehoolma’am cannot work in different directions. — Drake?B Magazine. We contracted a cold last week, but it has spread all over us again.—Burlington Free Press. It’s bad to be out of pocket, but it’s all up with you when you’re entirely out of breath.— Barbers’ Gazette. Why is the Admiral of the American navy like an appurtenance of a hotel? Because he is a Porter? Life may not be worth the keeping, but it is worth the giving up when there is a policy for SIOO,OOO on it.— Merchant Traveler. “There isn’t much family likeness in our family.” said Johnny Dumpsey, “and.what there is is mostly for pie. ” Burlington Free Press. That ladies easily learn to play the violin is not surprising when their experience in handling beaux is taken into consideration.— Exchange. A Boston millionaire left his wife her weight in gold annually. The celerity with which she threw her bottle of anti-fat out of the window challenged admiration.— St. Paul Herald. “Are you of German extraction?” asked a young lady of a gentleman whom she met the other evening at a party. “Well, no; not exactly,” replied he, “but I have a cousin who plays on the German flute.”— Carl Pretzel's Weekly. Daniel Webster called tobacco “the great catholicon which inspires immovable courage.” Dan’l bad evidently finished smoking a “two-fer,” and was en route for the tobacconist’s, with a club, when he gave this definition.— Merchant Traveler. sally’s wonder. Gayly the bicycler Glides o’er the tar, Like a demi-god olden Astride of a star. His girl at the casement sits Watching his prauks. While Sally the cook, cries, “Mys Look at them shanks!” Washington Hatchet. • Woman, God bless her bright eyes, can make roses blossom in the desert, and when so minded she can give to the most commonplace affairs of life rather much of a rainbow look, but to save her eyebrows she can’t use a pen without getting ink on her fingers any more than she can remember the day of the month.— Chicago Ledger. “Come here to me, you good-for-nothing thing,” exclaimed a pious farmer, addressing his son. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, going fishing on Sunday.” “I didn tgo fishing, pap. I only went down the lane to throw rocks at them boys.” “Oh, well, that’s all right, then. Recollect, my son, you must never violate the Sabbath.”— Arkansaw Traveler.

THE REVISED VERSION. A monkey and » parrot once Left in a room together Beaan to light, and fought so hard They near.y killed each other. Their mistress coming home perceived Their wrongs they had been riuh insr, And said to them, “I'm deeply grieved To think that you’ve been lighting." The monkey really felt quite bad In thinking of his crime; The parrot, gleeful, said, “We’ve had A sheol of a time!” —Bouton Cdurier. “And so you admire his teeth, Laura?" “Yes; I certainly do think he has the most beautiful teeth I ever saw. It’s wrong to be envious, I know, but I never seen him smile but what I think I’d give a hundred dollars if I could have his teeth.” “Why, you poor silly girl, that would be the same as throwid& money away.” “Why so, dear?” “Because he only paid ten dollars for them when they were brand-new.”— Chicago Ledger.

The Wit of the Poet Rogers.

Rogers’ wit was perhaps in higher repute than that of any one else in his time, except Sydney Smith; but while Sydney’s wit was genial and good-humored, and even his mockeries gave no offense, that of Rogers was sarcastic and bitter ; and the plea which I have heard him advance for its bitterness was in itself a satire. “They tell me I say ill-natured things,” he observed in his slow, quiet, deliberate way. “I have a weak voice. If I did not say ill-natured things no one would hear what I said. n It was owing to this weakness of voice that no candles were put on his dinnertable, the light being thrown upon the walls and pictures, but shaded from the room. This did not suit Sydney Smith, who said that a dinner at Rogers’ was a “flood of light on all above, and below nothing but darkness and gnashing of teeth.” However one might be tormented, it was not safe to complain. I remember one victim—it was the widow of Sir Humphrey Davy —venturing to do so. “Now, Mr. Rogers,” she said, in a tone of aggrieved expostulation, “you are always attacking me.” “Attacking, you, Lady Davy ? I waste my life in defending you.”— Sir Henry Taylor’s Memoirs.

Animal Vaccination.

Pasteur’s system of vaccination for anthrax, of which French farmers have so eagerly availed themselves, has been most successfully tried by the Government of India—ponies, donkeys, cows, bullocks, buffaloes, elephants, sheep, and guinea-pigs having been effectually, protected against fatal attacks of thift.’ destructive disease. We too often make our happiness depend upon things that we desire, while others would find it in a single one of those we possess.