Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 30, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 August 1887 — Page 6

MOO JI LIGHT. The moon has risen from her downy couch That overlooks the glimmering eastern sea; And now she pours her radiance softly down Upon each river, hill, and dewy lea. Upon the grim and rugged mountain side She paints with skillful touch a picture fair. That seems to shift like transformation scones, And in its place rise others yet more rare. Her light fall* gently on the somber lake, As if to woo the lilies on its breast; And they would think it day and bloom again, That she might gaze on their white loveliness. Her rays seek vainly to o’ercome the gloom Of lorest shade, where hide the modest fems— Where myrtle creeps among the clammy moss, And ivy twines, and red-eyed fox-fire burns. On yonder church-yard her bright rays stream down. And touch rhe nameless mounds with tender grace; But where a huge slab marks the proud man’s grave, A shadow falls across his resting place. But now she hides her face behind a cloud, And those fair visions fade before my sight; And all the earth, and all the sky and sea. Is jilunged again in darker, gloomier night.

THE SECTET MARRIAGE.

BY LOUISE GREY.

The story I’m about to tell is the true experience of my dearest friend. You may think it dull, kind reader. I beg, however, your leniency, as the absence of flowery language is balanced by the truth of the narrative. Eugene Eggleston loved Laura Le Favre fondly, devotedly. He loved her as only those can love who possess that warm, affectionate temperament matured under a Southern sun, affluence, and the sweet influence of loving friends. His was a true manly nature, a noble heart, a face and physique almost perfect. He had eyes of clear, beautiful blue, through which one could look way, way down into the very heart, and see nothing corrupt therein. A complexion as rich and warm as his nature, and soft auburn hair which accompanies that peculiar shade of blue eyes. There was nothing objectionable in him! Nothing—absolutely nothing. He was the embodiment of everything grand and noble—and yet consent to wed the object of his deep passion was withheld by Colonel Jerome Le Favre. Proud, wealthy, and aristocratic, Colonel Le Favre had always held himself so far above every one in his suburban town where his summer home had been for a quarter of a century, that he was regarded with awe and reverence. One hardly dared approach him until he made the first advance toward recognition, and it was with a faint heart and nervous bearing that Eugene sought this haughty man and made known his desire. Col. Le Favre had raised his only child, Laura, alone. The day that gave her birth saw her mother’s eyes close in death, and the father from that hour centered his w hole heart upon the child; had given her every advantage abroad that wealth could secure; and now, at the age of seventeen, he realized with a feeling of satisfaction that bis daughter was inferior to none in beauty, education, refinement and culture. She was bis idol. Watch her as she perches on the arm of the great upholstered chair in which her father sits. Her right arm encircles his neck, and they make an attractive pair. He, with his handsome face lit with paternal love and pride, and she, with that dark, rich, magnetic beauty that baffles all description. Her brown lelvety eyes are deeply fringed with long, dark lashes that incline upward and at the corners come together in so bewitching a manner as to impart a combined look of childish purity and innocence with a love of fun and mirth. The contour of her face is oval; her complexion most enviable, and her mouth so beautiful, so rich in coloring, and with clear-cut curves, which be poke a love for everything good and pure; and such a sweet expression! One cannot look at her without a desire to kiss, And loth men and women were alike in this. An abundance of silky black hair, carelessly put back in two long braids, is held by cream satin ribbons, and a dress of cream-colored summer fabric, on a faultless figure, complete the picture. She is happy, for Eugene that evening is to ask for her hand, and she soliloquized in this manner: “I know papa’s love for me is too great to deny me any pleasure; for I cannot recall one instance where he has refused me anything.” She seemed to feel certain of his approval. His refusal was never dreamed of; but that evening Eugene Eggleston received, in words most painfully to the point, an absolute and final refusal of her hand, with a warning, full of subtle meaning, to withdraw his suit at once. He was nearly wild, and did nothing but walk the streets all night and contemplate suicide. The next morning, at the hour his darling was accustomed to take her daily ride, he mounted his favorite saddle horse, and searched the road she usually selected, just in time to see her emerge from a bend around a thicket of willows. From the expression of her face he saw she knew all. He had no hopes. He knew he must give up his darling. “Eugene, I have never disobeyed my father in my life,” she said, and broke down. She could not speak for an instant, and, believing that she was trying to summon courage to say “good-by” to him forever, and knowing he would rather hear his death-warrant read, he felt a paroxysm of pain, an uprising in his throat, and his heart seemed to stop beating. Soon she continued: “But without you I cannot live, and knowing the depth of my i ather’s love for me I feel confident of Lis forgiveness in the course I am about to follow. Eugene, I will marry you this hour, and before I dismount from my pony.” He felt as though he had been called back to life. They turned their horses, and in silence reached the residence of the dear old divine who had baptized Laura and loved her as his own. The minister had not the moral courage to refuse the request she made, even though it was full of mad romance, and there, under the massive boughs of a grand old forest tree, and on horseback, Laura Le Favre and Eugene Eggleston were made husband and wife. The laws of their State did not require the marriage license. f Realizing the hasty step taken, she felt her whole nervous system giving way; but she soon had control of herself, as she knew she had need of great courage to meet her father and disclose what to him would seem appalling intelligence. They rode along, not in silence this

time, as many plans must be made to meet all emergencies. Eugene knew his bank account was ample, and if his life was spared by 'he Colonel, a heaven was his; for here by his side was the one dearer to him than his life, his wife. On reaching the house Laura assumed a cheerful manner, tripped gayly to the door and pulled the bell. In a moment it was answered by her father. His countenance was stern, and her heart almost stood still; but she thought it wise to treat the subject lightly, and as she bad often done before, she threw both arms around his neck and confessed all, begging his forgiveness. She did not know Colonel Le Favre, although she was his child. He pushed her from him almost savagely, and said: “Go from me forever, without my torgiveness or blessing,” and shut the door in her face. With a sad heart she turned to her husband, who, if such were possible, loved her more that moment, on seeing her turned from her father’s mansion, than ever. His plans were quickly made. In less than twenty-four hours he had completed his plans, purchases, etc., for a trip to Europe and was en route for London. Was there ever such another impulsive, self-willed pair of lovers? So perfectly mated, and with true mutual love existing, could they help but be happy, even though they had made a sensation in their quiet little town and were deprived of a father's blessing? They remained six months abroad, loving one another more and more every day. Business then called Eugene home. They returned, located in the neighboring city to the Colonel’s residence, and, believing time would heal all wounds in his heart, and fully expecting a reconciliation, Eugene Eggleston was not an unhappy man. He little dreamed of the sad event awaiting him, an event which would change his present state of happiness to hopeless misery. Colonel Le Favre had grieved deeply for his daughter, and decided that their separation should not be further continued. On learning of their return, he coolly carried out his plans to obtain her. Eugene Eggleston had placed his darling in a Lome of grandeur, suited in every way to her exquisite taste; and just as they were prepared to enjoy life in a genuine, homelike, domestic manner, fancy his sorrow, on returning to his house, one evening, expecting to find an attraction therein, his love for which all words fail to describe, to find, instead, the following cool note, written in the bold hand of Colonel Le Favre 1 “Eugene Eggleston: Your bird has flown. 111-gotten joys cannot last. They laugh best, who laugh last. All search or pursuit will be vain." I’ause and behold him, dear reader, for a moment. He had reached the pinnacle of happiness only to be robbed so cruelly of all. He thought of the infinite bliss they had enjoyed undisturbed for six months. He knew her whole heart was full of love for him alone, and to be thus cruelly bereft of her was maddening. He felt the strength and meaning of these words, “Search will be vain,” as he well understood the stem nature of their author, and the power and wealth at his command to assist him in his bold venture. The case was hopeless in the extreme, yet he vowed to find his wife, or at least devote his life-time in a search. He left nothing undone in his endeavors to obtain some clew to their whereabouts, but each day, each year, more strongly proved the meaning of those words, “Search will be vain.” He lived. But 0, what a sad life! He could not remain in any one place; he traveled continually. His grief had so stamped itself upon his countenance that strangers saw written therein volumes of untold sadness. It was gnawing his very life out. He could not apply himself to anything. His was a hopeless, ruined life. He searched systematically lor years, but with fruitless results. Then the search had become a part of his nature, and was mechanical. This one thought—to find her —had so absorbed his whole soul that he was powerless to do aught but mechanically search. He had ceased to follow out any course of plans or reasoning, but followed his inclinations, which led him everywheie. * * * * * * Five long, dreary years passed. We find Eugene Eggleston in Italy—a sad, changed man. His friends rejoice that he has at last found one pursuit which holds his attention. He now finds solace and comfort in the occupation for which he always had a passion and natural talent—the art of painting. It is not landscapes, animals, or marine views to which he gives attention, but ever the same subject—his wife. His continual effort is to produce or have produced a satisfactory portrait of his lost darling. The desire now absorbs his whole life. One of the large rooms of the suite he occupies is filled with paintings; the subject in each the same, his wife. All are productions of the most eminent artists the Old World contains; but none satisfy him. In vain these famous artists have endeavored to suit him in the coloring and expression. He arises, leaves his easel in disgust, and starts for a walk. As he passes out the door his attention is attracted by a child of extraordinary beauty, chatting gayly to her French nurse, in her native language. They enter the house adjoining the one he has just left, but not until he has obtained a good view of the face and eyes of that child, which bears so marked a resemblance to his lost darling that his first impulse is to follow them and speak to the child. But he suddenly realizes how absurd such a proceeding would be, and moves on. He reasons with himself and tries to throw this trivial incident from his mind; but that sweet baby face fairly haunts him. He does not walk far, but returns to the easel while the face is fresh in his memory, thinking it will aid him to approach nearer to the desired expression of the picture. The next day he saw the child again. She came out accompanied by a lady and gentleman—evidently her parents. ' The gentleman was tall and handsome and much older than the lady, who was dressed in deep mourning, with a thick veil which hid the face from view. He watched them from his window till they passed from sight; then something about the lady’s figure recalled an old familiar something, he knew not what. He felt strangely, and could think of nothing but the lady and the fancied resemblance. Finally he banished the idea from his thoughts, or, at least, made an effort to do so; for if it should be her, was not that man her husband and the child theirs? Two living barriers to a possible reunion with his darling, should it prove to be her! Far better,

thought he, never to know the truth than to find her thus. To remain in a state of doubt was preferable; but all efforts to reason with himself and dismiss the subject from his mind were in v%i n . He felt, however, that it was best for him never to have revealed to him the identity of the lady in black. He decided to leave Italy that evening, and go direct to Paris. He had started down the street to make some arrangements toward this immediate change when bis attention was again attracted by the French nurse and her little charge. He could not overcome the desire to speak to the latter, and he said, in English, hardly expecting a reply in the same language, as she had the face of a typical French child, and spoke the language naturally, as though it might be the mothertongue. “What is your name, little girl?” Looking up with childish simplicity, she replied, in perfect English: “My name, sir, is Eugenie Le Favre Eggleston.” Ho seized her in his arms, kissed her again and again, fondly, madly. Before he could recover himself sufficiently to try, by further questioning, to positively identify her, the nurse, believing him to be mad, took the child in her arms, and ran from him with fear. He stood spellbound. Was it only an accidental similarity of names? Had there been but two names he might have believed it possible. But three, and those three No, no, no! It must be trjie. He had caressed his own child. What step to take he knew not. Was he happy or miserable, or both? Joy was mingled with distress and hopelessness. She. his wife, wedded to another—for he knew his marriage could easily have been set aside. Here, after years of continued search, to find her thus—beyond his reach. “My child—for some powerful instinct tells me she is mine—to be forever withheld from me! O, God, pity me,” he cried out in distress. How he reached his rooms he hardly knew. Arriving there he tried to think of some course to pursue, but could decide on nothing. What could he do? His brain was in a whirl. He ordered his valet to have the groom bring his saddle-horse at once. As he stood at the window, waiting for his orders to be executed, he saw a party emerge from the adjoining house, a tall gentleman, the lady in black, maid, nurse, and his child. They entered a carriage and were driven rapidly away. A maddening thought occurred to him. They may be taking final leave of the city. “I must act; something must be done before it is too late.” He jumped on his horse and followed the carriage for a long distance, and he saw his worst fears realized. Their evident destination was the depot, where they would soon board a train that would bear them swiftly away from his view forever. He reins his horse nearer the carriage, and side by side keeps pace the distance of a block. The carriage stops. A lady screams in wild delight. Laura Le Favre recognizes in him her long lost-husband. “Eugene,” comes from her lips. In au instant he is face to face with his loved one—under more perplexing conditions; for he dares not claim her until he understands the relationship that man by her side bears toward her. He is speechless; but she is conscious of the fact that an explanation must be made before he dare claim her. She quickly introduces her uncle, Leland Le Favre, who, she briefly states, since the death of her father, two years previous, has been guardian and protector of her and her child. “O, how I have prayed for this hour!” “At last,” said Eugene, “I am rewarded. 0, my darling, my two darlings.” The footman takes charge of the saddlehorse, the camage door is opened, Eugene enters, and, barring the very objectionable presence of witnesses, this is to him like stepping into heaven. Little Eugenie, with an inherited love for her father, puts her baby arms around his neck and calls him “papa.” He had never dreamed of this additional joy—that of finding a daughter—their daughter. He felt amply repaid for all his years of misery. Her love unchanged—his intensified! Oh! theirs would be undisturbed bliss through the future. Each had volumes to relate, and together they traveled for months enjoying their second honeymoon. They returned to their old home in America, and there, on her twenty-second birthday, they held a grand reunion of old friends, who joyfully congratulated them, all agreeing that “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

Fooling the Old Soldier.

It is a touching thing to see an old soldier hurry up to get around the corner when he hears a bugle call that is familiar to him. The bugle call excites him, and he pricks up his ears and hurries, limping may be, anxious to see what is going on around the corner. The bugle rings out the “assembly,” for instance, and the old soldier thinks there is a cavalry company forming around the corner, and he will be there to see if they get into position correctly. He comes up puffing, his old lame leg a little tired, takes off his hat and wipes the perspiration off his brow and looks for the soldiers. When he sees that the bugle call came from a perambulating waffle peddler he would tick himself if his old leg was not lame. What connection there is between an army bugle and a waffle wagon is a mystery. It is cruel to fool old soldiers by playing a cavalry call to collect hungry people around a waffle wagon.— Peck’s Sun.

Two Kinds of Powder.

They were having a heraldic discussion in the Faubourg St. Germain. Said a Marchioness a la mode, whose title is of this century, to an elderly Marquis, whose title was given to the family when the megatherium and the mastodon innocently played together on the plains of France: “I see, dear Marqu s, that our coats-of-arms are almost the same; we have each barrels in them.” x “Yes, madame; but mine contains barrels of gunpowder, while yours contains barrels of powder for your charming face,”— Town Topics,

STRANGE MENTAL CLOUDS.

BY DAVID SWING.

The eclipse of memory, writes Professor Swing, in the Chicago Evening Journal, which has suddenly fallen upon the once bright mind of a Chicago young lady awakens, indeed, widespread sympathy for the young beauty and her home circle, but it also compels us to perceive that the different fatuities occupy different parts of the brain-tissue, and thus a calamity to a beloved girl casts light upon the physical basis of intellectual action. This lady awoke from a sleep and did not know her own sister or the other members of her family. Her mother lingered upon the borders of some well-known being, but to her sister and brother and father she spoke as to strangers. Her language, her reasoning power, her happiness remained, but the world of persons had vanished, to be succeeded by interesting people, but persons who were unknown. Thus upon some part of the brain a disease had fallen and the faculty which had for twenty years occupied that apartment was rudely evicted. It may be there is some part of the brain which is the seat of consciousness and that the little nerve which leads from the memory of persons to that citadel of consciousness has been injured, and that therefore no communication can be made from the suburb to the central city. Blindness results from some paralysis of a little thread which runs from the eye to the brain, and, while the eye itself may be perfect and the consciousness perfect in ability, yet, owing to the injury to the intermediate nerve, the image on the retina can not pass over to the consciousness. Seeing takes place in the dark caverns of the brain, but the image can not travel in the dark if the bridge be down between, for the abyss is bottomless. In the case of Miss L., the injury may be only to some nerve delicate as a spider’s web. Nature may repair the injury, and the lost persons may all return suddenly as they departed. Generally such injuries are irreparable, but we are glad that they are not always so. Some years ago Mr. Frank Whetstone, of Cincinnati, became suddenly deranged. He knew and loved all his friends, his city, his home, but his judgment was gone, and he was dangerous because his love was liable to make him offer up himself or some person to the honor of some one else. He was taken to the Columbus Asylum; and after a few weeks his reason came back, and came instantly. He saw at once that he was in an asylum. He sent for the Superintendent, and told him that his perfect reason had come back. He was soon back among his friends, tMd never suffered from a return of the malady. The Rev Marcus Ormond, of Oxford, Ohio, was stricken instantly with the loss of his language. He knew” his children, wife and all his friends, but he could not recall the name of any one or of any thing. Language had gone. He was not dumb, but he did not know what words to use. His world was all around him, but the names of things had departed. ' Sitting by his window one day, perhaps a month after the attack, he suddenly uttered the word “peach” to some blossoms which were near the window. He retained great physical power and all his reasoning faculties. The blight had fallen upon the names of things. Very slowly words came back until he could count upon a hundred or two of terms, but he never was able to command words enough to enable him to resume any work as a public speaker. He must have lost thousands of these names in an instant of time. There is no microscope that could have learned what nerve it was which thus became impaired and cut off names from the central consciousness. Alter some boys had leturned from a circus they attempted to rival the gymnasts they bad just seen, and they began with tho hand-spring act. One lad fell rather heavily upon his head and neck, and deafness set in and became total. The youth of that unhappy hour in the circus is now a man of twenty-four or twenty-five, but the world of sounds has left him never to return. He was a musician and can now play the piano for others, while to his own heart there comes no sound whatever from the instrument. Some thread was snapped in that moment of innocent play. Not all of the brain is made use of by the -dental powers. A large part of it is, perhaps, only the hull of the nut or the bark of the tree. It may be the supply train which follows the working and fighting army. A Mr. Jessup, of Hanv.lton, Ohio, shot a Mr. Smith through the head just above the ear. The ball went through the head. But Mr. Smith only did not die but he suffered no particular injury from the invasion of his brain-chamber. He was put to bed and was expected to breathe his last in a few minutes, but he did not meet the public expectation. Thus, after we have chased the mind into the brain, we are still ignorant of the part played in intellectual action by this or that part of the bulk total. Mr. W ebster had a large brain, but we do not know what was the office of his extra ounces. They may have been supply stores, which were fed out to the toiling cells within. It is sad that the bright and happy mind of Miss L. should now be found among these abnormal phenomena of nature; it is pitiful to think that her scepter of friendship has departed, and that, able and willing to love many friends, she has come to the sad pass of not knowing a sister or brother from a stranger. Perhaps all this cloud will suddenly pass away and the lost will be found.

The Mission of the Bumble Bee.

An Indiana farmer, who told his boys to burn every bumble bee’s nest they found on the farm, and who was complaining at the failure of his clover seed crop, was surprised when Maurice Thompson, the naturalist, said: “That is why your clover seed fails you. Bumble bees make your clover seed.” It is a fact that a strong nest of bumble bees in a big clover field is worth S2O to the owner; for these insects are the chief agents in fertilizing the blossoms, thereby insuring a heavy crop of seeds. In Australia there are no bumble bees of our kind, and they could not raise clover seed there until they imported some.

What She Said.

Young Man (to messenger boy)— What did the young lady say when you gave her the flowers ? Messenger Boy—She asked the young feller who was sittin’ on the porch with her if he didn’t want some for a but-ton-hole bouquet.— New York Sun. A man must ask leave of hie stomach to be a happy man.

HUMOR.

Ship bred—Sailors. A game leg—Hindquarter of venison. War fare—Corned beef and hardtack. A harder thing to keep than a secret —money. It is not admitted that the sea duck is the most seductive of its kind. A man always thinks he is on the wrong tack when he sits down on one. “Yes,” said Mrs. Seldomhit, “I keep off the evil spirits now by wearing an omelet around my neck.”— New Orleans Times-Dtmocrat. My daughter,” exclaimed a fashionable mother, “is innocence itself. You can’t say anything in her presence that will make her blush.” The unhappy Baltimorean already imagines he hears the brakeman cryiny: “Baltimore! twenty minutes for dinner!”— Courier Journal. A new story by Nathaniel Hawthorne is announced. Hugh Conway is not going to have the posthumous business all to himself.— Pittsburg Chronicle. “Alas !” said the heavy tragedian mournfully, as he stepped from one railroad tie to another. “These are the times that try men’s soles.”— Siflings. What are the last teeth that come?” asked a teacher of her class in physiology. “False teeth, mum,” replied a boy who had just wakened up on the back seat. Nothing suggests the arrival of the millennium more forcibly than the sight of an old tomcat sleeping peacefully by the fireplace with his head resting on a bootjack. New-Yorker (to Dakota man) —You have a good deal of snow in Dakota, I suppose? Dakotan—Oh, no; it never gets so deep that we can’t tell what kind of a day it is by looking out of the chimney’tops.— New York Sun. “In case of an accident, Doctor—a broken leg, for instance—what is the best to be done while waiting for the physician?” “Well,” said the Doctor, I think the best thing to be done is to get his money ready for him.”— Puck. A fireman who had rendered efficient service in fighting the fire fiend in a Western city recently died. His companions sent a floral pillow on which was inscribed: “He has gone to his last fire. ” The widow rejected tho tribute.”— Troy Budget. Our little Jack, when in possession of his high chair and his Noah’s ark, with which he was much interested, ceased his play one day and gave us the benefit of the following conclusion: “Horses and cows and dogs have legs to keep their stomachs up.” A preacher was wont to be rather wandering in his remarks. One day he asked a lady what his hearers thought of his sermons. “Well, if you must know,” said she, “they say that if the text had the small-pox the sermon was in no danger of catching it.” Visitor (to Flossie) —“And how is the baby to-day, Flossie?” Flossie—“Mamma thinks he is a little better.” Visitor—“ Then he is not much better?” Flossie—“No, ma’am. He couldn’t be very much better, you know, because he is such a little bit of a baby. ” Gontran (to his doctor) —“You attended my uncle; he died and I inherited his fortune. I owe you a great deal, indeed.” Doctor (thinking he saw a chance to increase his bill),— “And your wife ?” “Oh! I had forgotten. You cured her —so we’re quits.” —Paris Charivari. A true story is told of an old New Hampshire doctor, who was one day consulted by a man suffering from rheumatism. The physician gave him copious advise, and ended with directions so concisely put as to be easily memorized. “Avoid dampness,” he said. “Yes sir.” “Keep warm; keep your feet dry and remember what I’ve said about flannels.” “Yes, sir.” “Take the medicine with absolute regularity. Here is the prescription. The man expressed his thanks, paid his fee, and took his leave. As he reached the door the doctor called: “Oh, by the way, if any of these things help you, just give me a call and tell me. I’ve had rheumatism for over twenty years, and nothing has ever helped me yet. Good morning.”— Youth’s Companion.

Neither Was Posted.

A fair American was a guest in Berlin at a ball given by the officers of the Emperor’s body guard and met there an accomplished German lady, who asked her something about Cuzco. She replied that she didn’t happen to know anything about Cuzco; that it must be some small town, and there were so many small towns in the United States that it was impossible for one to know the names of them all. “Oh, dear,” was the reply; “how dreadfully ignorant of the rudiments you Americans are!” The American lady was piqued at the contemptuous way in which this was spoken, and determined to find the whereabouts of Cuzco. After searching an atlas and a gazetteer she discovered that it was not in the United States at all, but in South America. Meeting her German acquaintance again a few days afterward she told the latter of her discovery, confidently expecting an apology. The Berlin lady simply replied: “Oh, dear! I thought that the feeling between the North and the South had all died out.” —Argonaut. Good temper, like a sunny day, sheds a brightness over everything. It is the sweetener of toil and the soother of disquietude.