Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 February 1887 — Page 6

LOVE'S CALL. BT JENNIE E. OWES. The day had softly crept away. And lay a-dving in the west. And night came slowly up the east, A brilliant crescent on her breast. The conrt-honse clock had struck the hour; The clear tones sounded far and near Above the noisy city's streets, And fell like music on the ear. Like sweetest music, for that sound Had set a thousand wommen free, And those who loved were hasting home, The objects of their love to see. The wife was waiting for her lord; The children ran to meet their sire ; All hearts were filled with music soft, Waked from the depth of love’s sweet lyre. But one whose heart was light and gay Was coming swiftly down the street, His face reflecting all his heart, And whistling soft a love song sweet. “Will you be outto-night, my love ?" Up from his heart the music wells : Clear as a song from a birdie’s throat, The gentle cadence sinks and swells— Kises and floats upon the air As sweet as birdie's calling song When he is wooing his pretty mate The leafy branches from among; And, willing as a little bird Chippers reply to her pretty mate. Dear Maudie, crooning a tender song, Comes tripping lightly to the gate. For love is quick to catch love’s call. And quick to answer with a song, Whether it be ’twixt man and maid Or birds the leafy boughs among.

THE STORY OF A SPY.

Our army in the Shenaratloah Valley was hampered by the trouble that always attends campaigning in a hostile country. Probably three-fourths of the population were friendly to the Confederacy; many of those who were friendly to the Union did not dare to make their friendship known. Thousands of soldiers in Early's army had their homes and their families in the valley. At all seasons, when there was an active campaign in progress, and when there was a lull in military operations, some of these men would visit their homes, often taking the most daring risks in doing so. It was so easy to conceal them when suspicion was aroused and search made by our forces, that detection and capture were rare. Three or four instances I recall when spies were discovered and summarily executed, but each of these instances was in the heat of the campaign, when the army was on tho march, and it was felt by those in authority that if the offender was not then and there hung he never would be. In fact the justice of the drum-head court-martial in the army was generally Bounded, and well administered. None but the most flagrant cases were punished in this way; the innocent were not likely even to be brought before this stern tribunal. When it is added that in General Early’s army there were some other thousands of soldiers, young men who had left their sweethearts in the valley, and who were literally dying to visit them, and about ready to go through fire and water for that purpose, it will be seen that, if Early did not have the most correct information from all these sources of the numbers and movements of our army, then he did not avail himself of the means that were ready to hiß hand. That he always did have pretty accurate information on these subjects, the plain history of the campaign will show. The subject is an interesting one; and before leaving it to relate the story that I began to tell, which naturally grows out of it, of the adventures and fate of a Confederate spy, it should be said that the Union people in the valley, if in a great minority, were both eager and willing to render any service to the cause that was consistent with their safety; and that upon many occasions General Sheridan received the most valuable information from them, which be publicly acknowledged after the war. The case of Rebecca Wright, at Winchester, is the most conspicuous example of this, and deserves to be kept prominently before the people. To her is to be directly credited the great service of sending at great risk to General Sheridan the information upon which he fought the victorious battle of Winchester. Having been myself in that fight, and being sincerely anxious to know if her share in the business was as great and as creditable as was reported, I not long since addressed a letter to her on the subject. The reply came from Washington, informing me that the story was substantially true. The lady has for some time been Mrs. Rebecca Bonsall, and fills a place in the Treasury Department, which General Sheridan procured for her, besides presenting her with a handsome gold watch. In September, 1864, she was living at Winchester, which was then within the enemy’s lines. Her character as an Union woman had been reported to Sheridan by his spies, and he succeeded in getting a message to her, asking her to ascertain and send him word what the strength of Early’s army was, in each arm. For an attractive young lady who was visited by acquaintances among the Confederate officers, this was not a hard thing to do—at least so far as securing the information was concerned; and the gallant officer in gray and gold lace who one afternoon called upon Miss Wright and innocently answered her questions by telling her the whole number of Early’s infantiy, cavalry, and artillery, and added, in the fullness of his confidence, that two divisions would march to Bunker Hill, several miles north, the next day—that gentleman had not the faintest suspicion that Phil Sheridan would be in possession of this precious information the same night! But it was one thing to get the information, and another to send it through the well-picketed lines of the Confederate army to Sheridan, at Btfrrvville, twelve miles away. How could it be done? There was just one way that seemed practicable, and Miss Wright adopted it. The information was written by her own hand on thin paper, with all necessary detail, wadded up in a little ball, inclosed in silver leaf, and placed in the cheek of a faithful negro. Some plausible story was invented, to account for the wish of the latter to go beyond the lines; a strict examination failed to disclose anything suspicious, and he appeared so perfectly stupid that he was allowed to pass. He was at Sheridan’s headquarters in four hours, and that General explicitly tells us that the information he received in this curious way was that which justified him in taking the aggressive and bringing on the battle which resulted so gloriously for the Union cause. But all this is merely incidental to the subject. I began to relate the interesting 4rtory of a Confederate spy, and we will return to it. In that cold and dreajy Virginia winter of

1864-5, our troops imihp Shenandoah Valley were quartered in and about Winchester. Those who were outslMe of that place constructed log huts with fire-places, and, Baltimore being less than one hundred miles off, they were able to procure such articles as made them quite comfortable. There was little duty to be done in this situation, and, therefore, writing letters, playing cards, reading the papers, and predicting how much longer the war would last, became the stock methods of employing the time. Furloughs ami leaves for thirty days were liberally granted, and many went home for a brief visit, to air their military experience to wondering ears, and return with a new stock of hope and patience with which to “see it out.” An incident that somewhat concerns the story I have now to tell was the review by Sheridan of ten thousand cavalry in the last of that February. It took place on a level plain near Winchester, and was attended by about every officer and man who was not on duty, as well as half the population of the little city, it was a magnificent spectacle, exceeded only in splendor by the great review of the armies which closed the war in the following May at Washington. The line of horsemen was so long that it was doubled back into columns on each flank, and the continued and prolonged burst of music from the splendid cavalry bands, as the General and his staff rode around it, was inspiriting in the extreme. The passing in review before him occupied more than an hour, and the little chief seemed to my fancy to swell into giant proportions with pride as he sat his black pacer und answered the salutes. What he did with these men has become history. In the rain and frost he pu-hed far up the valley to Bockfish Gap, where they literally rode over the disjointed fragments of an army that Early had gathered there, capturing most of them, and sending them back to Winchester, andt ! en striking over the mountains to the southeast, destroying canals and railroads, and joining Grant at City Point for the final work. I saw the motley captures of this raid, as they were corralled together by the Provost Marshal, and was highly edified by the talk of some of thorn. One gaunt feilow gave a graphic summary of the affair in about this language: “Why, we uns was there in the gap, and we was goin’ to fight you uns; but you uns came ridin’ in hell-bent, and scooped we uns up just like ho many kerrin'?” It was late one night in that January, when several of Emory’s staff were silting up in one of our log huts at Stevenson’s Station, three miles north of Winchester, that a negro was brought in by a corporal of the guard. He was anxious to see “Massa General Sheridan, ” but was presently convinced that if he had anything of importance to tell he had better let us have it. His mission was indeed important, if his story was true. He said he lived at Bunker Hill, about twelve miles north, and was “a Linkum niggah.” There was an old man named Link living there, who sympathized with the Confederacy, and whose only son was in Early’s army. Before daylight that morning he had seen a man ride up to Link’s house, and gain admittance, while his horse was put in the barn. The negro had slyly watched the premises all day, and he believed both man and horse were there yet. * “Well, uncle, what of it?” our Provost Marshal asked. “I tink he’s young Mas’r Link, sah.” “Nonsense! Why, how could he get here, through our pickets, from away off near Gordonsvilie?” The negro expressed the opinion that he had made a wide detour toward the mountains at the west, and come in that way. “I suppose that might be; but what’s his object?” “He’s a spy, sah.” “Of course ho is—if he’s the man; but soldiers don’t often take such risks for the good of the service. Has he a mother alive?” “No, sah.” “Then I doubt if he’s from Early’s army. A man wouldn’t come all that distance and risk his neck merely to see his father.” The darky’s face wore a broad grin as he answered that there was a young woman living at old Link’s house to whom the son was engaged. “Now you do talk!” said the officer. “A young fellow will go through fire and water to see his sweetheart. This promises to be important. Stay here, and I’ll see about it. ” He went out, and in fifteen minutes was back with authority from the General to try to make the capture, and to take whatever he wanted for that purpose. Of course, we were all clamorous to go; but the Provost Marshal thought it neces - sary to take only one officer beside himself and a dozen mounted orderlies, all well armed. The negro, of course, went along as a guide. I was not of this little expedition, and I awaited the result with much interest. It was entirely successful. Shortly after daylight the party returned, bringing the prisoner on the horse which the negro had ridden away. He was an erect, manly looking fellow of about twenty-two. Ho was very pale and much agitated now, though he did his best to keep up a bold demeanor. Over our mess-table at breakfast that morning, the Provost Marshal related his adventure. “It was about two o’clock in the morning when we got to Bunker Hill. The negro pointed out the house, and immediately made himself scarce, in which he wris quite right; it probably wouldn’t be well for him to have any of those people discover his agency in this business. Late—or early —as it was, there was a light in the rear part of the house. I surrounded the building with nine men, posted another at the stable-door, and, with the Lieutenant and the other two, rapped at the back door. The light was out in a twinkling. We hammered at the door till old man Link opened a window and demanded our business. “ ‘We want to come in.’ “ ‘You shan’t.’ ‘We shall! We’re soldiers from Stevenson’s, and have orders to search this house.’ “He became quite wild on hearing this, but begged us to go away and not molest him, declaring that there was nobody in the house but ‘me and Sue.’ “I was fast getting out of patience, and was not polite at all. I intimated to the proprietor, whose red night-cap was sticking out of the window above, that he was a confounded old secesh liar (I think I put it stronger, but this will do), and that if he didn’t open that door forthwith I’d burst it off its hinges. So down he came with a light, and admitted us—and what do you think? There sat, ns she had sat for fifteen minutes in the dark, Miss Sue, looking verymuch frightened and trembling all over.”

Somebody interrupted the narrative to ask if she was handsome. “I suppose so; I didn’t stop to study her up and find out. No donbt that unfortunate young fellow in the guard-house thinks she is. We went right to business. ‘Miss,’ I said, ‘l’m sorry to trouble you, but we want young Link. Just produce him.’ “ ‘O, he’s not here, sir; indeed he’s not!’ “ ‘He was seen to come into this house early yesterday morning.’ “She hesitated an instant to shape her next little lie in the most plausible way. “ ‘So he did, sir; I won’t deny it. But be Vent away about noon.’ “ ‘What’s his horse doing in the bam, then, at this moment?’ I asked, at a venture. “That shot told. She sank down all in a heap on the floor, crying and wringing her hands, and imploring us not to hurt Tom. “It was now, of course, merely a question of making a thorough search of the house; and would you believe it? I struck the right place the very first thing. Up against the wall of this room stood one of the great lumbering clothes-presses that we see sometimes in this country. I tried the knob, but could not open it. 1 drew my pistol and said in a loud voice that I was going to send three or four bullets into that press. The girl screamed, the door opened, and out walked Mr. Tom Link, dressed in a rough homespun suit. “‘I surrender,’ he said. ‘Here’s my pistols. But I want you to understand that I’m not a spy.’ “ ‘You’ll have to talk to General Sheridan about that,’ I said; and in ten minutes, after such a scene between him and the girl as made me feel very womanish, we had him mounted and riding to camp.” The prisoner was duly turned over to the Provost at Winchester, and a full report of the case made to General Sheridan, who promptly ordered a military commission to try him on the charge of being a spy. The facts were too plain to be denied. He had been found far inside our lines, in citizen’s clothes, lurking in secret; several good Union people from the vicinity of Bunker Hill were ready to testify that he was a Confederate soldier, and that they had seen him in the ranks of Early’s army, carrrying a musket, the previous summer. This he did not deny, but strenuously insisted that he did not come home with any intention of being a spy. He said that he had not seen his father nor his affianced since September; that he had been permitted to come here by General Early, and that he had intended to return, after a short visit, without seeking any information to carry back with him. His plea was a plausible one, but could not avail against the stern facts. The raid of our cavalry that has been referred to was in contemplation; the intelligence of it might have been carried to Early by this soldier, with very prejudicial results to us. He was found guilty, and sentenced to be hung. The conviction and sentence were promptly approved by the commanding General, and a day only two weeks off fixed for the execution. Much sympathy was felt for the condemned and his betrothed, while of course the entire justio 3 of his fate, as military justice goes, was acknowledged by everybody in our army. Great efforts were made by the people at Winchester to save him. Many petitions for a milder punishment were sent to headquarters. The ladies of Winchester were especially active in the matter, and some of them sought interviews with the General in behalf of Link. Poor Sue went to headquarters and begged for bis life, as was natural. But it was reported that Sheridan was obdurate, and that the spy must hang. The appointed day came. Almost at the hour fixed for the execution, the General relented. Link was ordered back to confinement, and the execution was indefinitely postponed. I think that everybody was glad of it. The war was plainly drawing to a close, and the death of this poor fellow could not hasten it a particle. He was released, of course, the next spring, and went back to Bunker HiH to finish his courting in peace, undisturbed by Yankee soldiers. I don’t absolutely know what happened later on; but I suppose that he and Susan were duly married, and I think that if he named one of his boys Phil Sheridan, he did no more than the correct thing.

“Labby” as a Clerk of Legation.

Henry Laboucliere, editor of Truth and member of Parliament, was for sev- * eral years after the war Secretary of the English Legation in Washington. He is remembered here as a very bright and a very wild young man. He knew everybody and figured in society of all grades. His Bohemian instincts led him to all sorts of adventures and brought him into large notoriety. His abounding humor frequently developed into practical jokes. One day a rather green member of Congress called at the Legation and asked if he could see the Minister. “You can see me; I am his Secretary,” said Laboucliere. “±sut I want to see the Minister,” said the Congressman. ’’The Minister is not in.” “All right, I’ll wait for him.” “Certainly, sir; have a seat.” The Congressman took a chair and a newspaper, lighted a cigar and settled down for a comfortable time of it. An hour passed. He turned to Labouchere, who sat reading a novel, and asked: “Do you know when he will be back ?” “I do not, ” was the curt reply. The Congressman lighted another cigar and strolled about the office until another hour was gone. “Do you think he will be back this evening?” “Hardly.” “To-morrow?” “I guess not.” < , . ’’Well, when will he probablv be here?” “Really, sir, I cannot tell you. The Minister sailed for England yesterday and did not indicate when he intended to return,” replied Labouchere, without lifting his eyes from his book.—Atlanta Constitiition. The “earth-shine” which we see on the unilluminated part of the new moon is a reflection of sunlight from the earth, which <is then at the “full” as seen from the moorn The apparent diminution in size of the dimly illuminated part is due to an optical illusion known as irradiation.

The Young Milton.

Most people seem to experience an odd difficulty in realizing that the very greatest personages of the past ever were young. Yet this conception is necessary, if we wish to see them as they really were, and not according to the text-books and other sources of illusory tradition. Milton, for instance; who does not think of him habitually as the “blind old bard?” To test this, let any one arrange to have the name brought suddenly before the attention at an odd moment and see what kind of image presents itself to the imag nation in response to the word. Ten to one it will prove to be a venerable but sightless and piteous figure, a confused mixture of several superimposed images, of which the most prominent may be some dolorous frontispiece engraving of a stoop-shouldered bust, or the blind, pathetic form in Munkaesy’s vivid group. It needs but an instant’s reflection to see that this is a very inadequate and unfortunate conception of the actual Milton in his best days. True, he was both old and blind when the two Paradises were committed to paper, but not when they were first conceived in his creative brain. And what of that long period of his middle manhood, when he was not only poet but statesman, and diplomate, and terrible fighter for free thought and free government—an erect, active figure, as full of force and fire as any trooper of them all ? What of the still earlier days, when the beautiful young fellow charmed the hearts of man and maid, “cunning at fence,” of the literal sort as well as in all the elegant intricacies of Italian sonneteering and polished statecraft? For my part, I like best to remember the outward aspect of Milton as he appears in Yertue’s engraving from the Onslow portrait at the age of —a jo und youngster, with laughing, dark, gray, eyes, and fresh, manly face; full of the sap so soon to mature into the tough oak that helped—he more than almost any man, if we consider his having been both brain and pen to Cromwell, besides his own incessant prose polemics on the side of freedom—to wrestle out our modern liberties in that fierce tug of the great revolution. It was at just the time of this lovely boy-portrait that he was writing to his college-mate: “Festivity and poetry are not incompatible. Why should it be different with you? But, indeed, one sees the triple influence of Bacchus, Apollo, and Ceres in the verses you have sent me. And then, have you not music—the harp lightly touched by nimble hands, and the lute giving time to the fair ones as they dance in the old tapestried room ? Believe me, where the ivory keys leap and the accompanying dance goes round the perfumed hall, there will the song-god be.” The teachers of literature might well make some effort to rehabilitate these misimagined worthies of the past, to remove from them the disguises of age and senility that a too reverent tradition has thrown about them, and to present them in that bloom of manhood belonging to the period of their greater activity. If I were a professor of literature I should desire to hang my lecture-room with pictures— not of the old traditional and forbidding decrepitudes, but of Milton, for example, as the charming young swordsman, with velvet coat tossed on the ground, and rapier in hand; of Homer, no longer bi nd and prematurely agonized, as it were, with our modern perplexities in finding him a birthplace, but as the Splendid young Greek athlete, limbed and weaponed like his own youthful vision of Apollo.— Atlantic.

New England English.

The same Englishwoman told the Athenian of an amusing experience which grew out of a misunderstanding on her own part shortly after she came to this country, a few months ago. She kindly volunteered to serve for a night as amateur nurse for a sick friend. The patient was so weak that she could barely whisper a word or two to tell her wants, but the nurse was so zealous and attentive that the feeblest lisp of a want was filled at once. With an Englishwoman’s faith in fresh air, she took care to open the window so that the room was well ventilated, though no draft could reach the patient. Still, the atmosphere became decidedly cooler, and the sick woman felt the change. Beckoning her nurse to the bedside with a wistful look, she whispered softly in her ear: “Comforter.” The one word was enough. With a woman’s quick wit she guessed what her friend wished for at once, and set off down stairs in search of the family Bible. Having found it, after a short search, she lugged it up stairs again, with considerable exertion, for it was heavily illustrated and bound, and set it down triumphantly on the patient’s bed. To her surprise the sick woman said “No!” plainly with her speaking eyes, and moved her head slightly in token of dissent. Again the energetic nurse set off undiscouraged and hunted up the patient’s husband, whom she brought hopefully to the sick-room. Troubled and surprised at the unsatisfied look of the sick woman, she went off again without thinking of giving up the search, and this time “rounded up” the family pastor, taking the good man from his house just as he was retiring for the night. When the combined efforts of the three succeeded in putting a warm coverlet on the bed the nurse sat down, fairly exhausted by her struggle to master New England English.—Boston Record. The highest fountain in Europe is that in the gardens of Chatsworth, the seat of the Duke of Devonshire. The height of the famous jet is 267 feet.

HUMOR.

You should never judge a man by the umbrella he carries. Nine times out of ten it belongs to somebody else. “Whatever you do, my boy, begin at the bottom and work up.” “But, father, suppose I were going to dig a well." The law cannot make a man moral, but it can make him dreadfully uncomfortable when he is immoral.—Columbus ( Ga .) Enquirer-Sun. When you see a couple on the streets, if the man carries the bundles they are engaged. If the woman carries the bundles they are married.— New Haven New 8. Has it ever been noticed what large I’s egotists have? — Rochester Po<t-Ex-press. Yes; but then their knows is small enough.— Boston Commercial Bulletin. Clara —Come up and see me this evening, George. George (dubiously) —Well, how about your father? Clara —O, he’s all right. He has chilblains on his feet.— Lowell Citizen. “Your Honor,” pleaded the condemned man, “will you put my execution for Thursday instead of Friday?” “Why?” inquired the Judge. “Because Friday is such an unlucky day.” —New York Sun. “This diary is only ruled out for January,” said a gentleman in a bookstore. “ Yes,” replied the stationer, “our experience in the business has taught us that no one ever gets beyond the first month.”— Judge. “How did it happen that you made such fine sausage yesterday ?” asked a customer of his butcher. “Well, you see,” explained the butcher, “a sporting man gave me a pointer, and, ” “Fay no more,” said the customer, turning pale, and turning quickly to go home.— New Orleans Picayune. A clergyman sat in a chair to be shaved. The artist began: “Wbo shaved you? Have your hair cut? Try a bottle of our Trycophegus? Have a shampoo?” The clergyman turned to the barber, and said: “Let me up. If I have got to say my catechism, I prefer to say it sitting up. But I came here to be shaved. ” They tell a story in a Shasta, Cal., town about a Justice of the Peace who fined a citizen sls for some offense. “I won’t pay it,” said the man. “Will you pay $10?” demanded the Justice. “No.” “By Gad, then, gimme $5,” pleaded the Justice; but the delinquent swore he wouldn’t pay a cent, and he didn’t, and that was the end of it. The hotel clerk was studying his chin through a small hand-mirror, when a*guest said: “One moment, sir, please.” The clerk continued his investigation intently. “One moment, sir, if you please,” repeated the guest. And still the clerk’s absorbing occupation went on. Finally he turned slowly and said: “Well, sir, what do you want?” “I want to buy the earth,” said the guest, “if you don’t ask too much money for it. ” New York Sun.

Not That John.

He was having his fortune told. “I see,” said the medium, contracting her dyebrows and turning her toes in, “I see the name of John!” “Yes, ” said the sitter, indicating that he had heard the name before. “The name seems to have given you a great deal of trouble.” “It has.” “This John is an intimate friend.” “That’s so,” he said, wonderingly. “And often leads you to do things you are sorry for.” “True; every word.” “His influence over you is bad.” “Right again.” “But you will soon have a serious quarrel, when you will become estranged. ” “I’m glad of that. Now spell out his whole name.” The “meejum” opened one eye and studied the face of her sitter. Then she wrote some cabalistic words and handed it to him in exchange for her fee. “Do not read it until you are at home,” she said solemnly. “It is your friend’s whole name.” When he reached home he lit the gas and gravely examined the paper. There he read in picket-fence characters the name of his ’’friend” : “Demi-John!” —Detroit Free Press. An Economical New England Wife. This story is told of the wife of an eminent benefactor of the town, whose residence was on the “Hill:” One day, while the lady was in the midst of preparations for the midday meal—this was in the olden time, when people got up in the morning and had dinner at the proper time—a caller was announced. Hastily leaving the kitchen, where she was overseeing operations, she entered the next room where the visitor was. The door between the two was open, and pretty soon the lady broke off the conversation and called to the “help” in the kitchen: “Nancy, does the kettle boil?” “No, ma’am.” Then the conversation was renewed, to be broken again in a few minutes by the inquiry: “Nancy, does the kettle boil?” “No, ma’am.” “Then take the pine stick in the corner and put it on the fire. ” This was presumably done, for shortly after, when “ma’am” repeated her questipn: “Nancy, does the kettle boil ?” “Yes, ma’am,” was the answer. “Then take off the pine stick and put it in the corner.” This shows a spirit of saving hardly to be surpassed.—Jso3 fori Record.