Democratic Sentinel, Volume 12, Number 5, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 February 1888 — Page 6

A TRAGIC TALR. I Some distance after the ‘Mikado.] BY J. ALEX. SAVAGE. The editor sat in his den, tra la. With a look that was somber and sad; With pencil in haqfti he did write, tra la, And column on column Indite, tra la. To be set by compositors bad: To have his words altered, his rhythm destroyed, Or twisted and tortured, and foully alloyed; Do you wonder “his giblets" was mad 7 Tra la, la, oL, la, etc. Do you wonder the editor laughed, ha. ha! When a stranger stepped out of the gloom; A subscriber, perhaps, in arrears, tra la, Whose account had been running for years, tra la, And squatted right down in the room! And pleasantly said: ‘I owe a bill, My name is Bill King from over the bill, For some ‘ ads’ I see you have room." Tra la, la, la, la, etc. * 'Tis the ‘ ads' I know that pay, tra la," Said Bill to the man of the pen. ‘But then for a paper to run, tra la. It must sizzle and'fizzle with fun, tra la." And he snickered and giggled again. “I have here a poem, a sweet little thing. It treats of the flowers that bloom in the spring, I hope I’ve not written in vain. ” Tra la, la, la, la, etc. By the neck and the seat of the pants, tra la. Bill was yanked down the hatch with a fling. And rollers and briers were made, tra la, (At least so the devil has said, tra la) Of the body of poor Billy King. And the editor seized his scissors and brush, And off to the caves of the mountains did rush. And wildly and loudly did sing, Tra la, la, la, la, etc The devil he needs his pay, tra la, But time did no editor bring; He saw the whole snap at a glance, tra la, Struck a match on the base of his pants, tra la, And into the waste basket did fling. And now on the ruins, delinquents to fright, Walk the devil and editor, night after night, Singing bother the posies that bloom in the spring. Tra la la la la, etc. —Germantown Independent.

MENTAL CONFESSIONS.

BY FRANK H. STAUFFER.

~~ A 1 he took the meadow-path which led to his beautiful country home. When he came in sight of the.house, the central figure in the stretches of lawn, orchard and garden, a look of intense satisfaction, born of the sense of proprietorship, filled his face. He was a handsome man—tall, erect in figure and graceful in bearing, and just in the prime of his manhood. He had a few faults, and the leading one among them was his excessive selfishness. In that he was not exacting, perhaps, and never invaded the rights of others; still, in his attempt to get out of life all the zest that was in it, he lived very mnch for himself. His farm was a large and valuable one. It was well tilled and well kept, and there was not a dollar due upon it. His yacht was at anchor in the bay; his stable was filled with thoroughbred horses; his bank account was plethoric; his credit was unlimited. He had no children, but a lovely, quiet, intelligent, self-possessed wife, of whom any man would have been proud, was mistress in his lordly home. A woman with a sweet, placid face, with thoughtful blue eyes, with a low, musical voice, with timid, caressing manners, with a head to plan, yet with a heart that might be broken. He had arrived at nine o’clock in the morning, whereas she did not expect him until nine in the evening. His

early return would be a pleasant surprise to her, to be sure, and with that thought uppermost in his mind, he -stepped softly upon the veranda and looked in at the open window.Suddenlv a Ijaleful light came into ihis black eyes; a deadly pallor swept his face; his lips parted with a gasp; his right hand fumbled nervously for a pistol which he carried in his hip pocket. Within the drawing-room he saw a man kissing his wife—apd that man was Bichard Brandon, his life-long, most-trusted friend, the discovery of whose perfidy almost dumfounded him. In a second more a great sense of relief came to him, for he saw that his wife was not passive under the caress. She tore herself from the man’s grasp, and dealt him a smart blow in the face. “Coward!” she cried. “Ingrate, perfidious friend!” She pressed one hand against her heart, her breath coming and going, her face flushed with anger, her blue -eyes aglow with indignation. Never had she looked- so lovely in the eyes of her husband, or in the eyes of the iriend who had wronged him. “Mr. Brandon, this ib an outrage for which you can never atone,” she said, in repressed vehemence. “Were Ito tell my husband * “Oh, but you never will,” the man interrupted, recovering from the surprise caused by her fierce resentment. “He would call me to account. It would result in his death or mine, or of both of us.” The possibility of such a result brought a dusky pallor to the young wife’s face. “And believing that you presumed,” she said, with ineffable scorn. Her assailant grew red in the face, for he was not utterly devoid of principle. “Mrs. Denflam,” he slowly replied, “I might offer much in extenuation of my conduct. I might insist that it admits of an interpretation other than the one you choose to place upon it.” “It was an inexcusable insult, sir!” ;she cried. “But not premeditated, ” he replied. '.&*<s■?i 4 iif.

“I have been strangely drawn toward you, I pitied your lonely life. I felt that you were neglected. I saw that you sighed for genial companionship. To be sure, you did not make me your confidant, yet I divined that my society was agreeable to you. Tour husband does not appreciate you He is wrapped up in his yacht, his fast horses, his giddy round of pleasure. He is so utterly selfish that ” “Stop just there!” she imperiously ordered, with a quick, angry gesture. “Do you think so meanly of me as to suppose that I would allow you to traduce my husband, even though every word were true ?” “Mrs. Denham, I know that I have offended you,* pleaded he. “I forgot myself. Your lonely life, the indifference of your husband, and your supreme loveliness ” “Mr. Brandon,” she sternly interrupted, “you are continuing the insult. I misunderstood you a little—you misunderstood me a great deal more. I once respected you a good deal—now I do not respect you at aIL Nay, I despise you. I am shocked, but hold myself blameless, for I never by thought, word or act led you to suppose that you could humilate me in this way. I never complained to you about my husband ; I never admitted to myself that I had reason to complain. If my life has been a lonely one I wasn’t aware of it. It certainly has not been a loveless one. You say that you forgot yourself. A gentleman never forgets himself. You shall never forget yourself again in my presence. You must leave this house at once, never to return to it.” “Mrs. Denham ”

“You twitted me, sir, because I had no protector. It seems that I need to be protected from you. Go, traitorous friend!” Although his lips parted and there was a movement of the muscles of his throat, he did not say a word. He stood abashed, disconcerted, baffled, self-condemned. He struggled for a moment with his passion, then bowed low, seized his hat and walked out of the house. Mrs. Denham sank into the nearest chair and went off into a hysterical spell of weeping. She keenly felt her humiliation; she censured herself because she had been too unsuspectful; she mentally admitted that her life had at times seemed desperately lonely to her. Lisle Denham was deeply stirred by what he had heard and witnessed. The strongest emotions were those resulting from self-crimination and admiration for the loyalty exhibited by his wife. “I have been a fool, ” he muttered to himself; “a selfish, unappreciative wretch. Yes, Maggie indeed has been a neglected wife. It needed something like this to show me how remiss I have been.”

HE 9 o’clock morning train from the city left Lisle Denham a t the pretty lifc--11 e way-sta-tion known as Waldermere. With a fling of his hand to several gentlemen of his acquaintance,

He waited until her grief had largely spent itself; then he noiselessly approached her. He stood directly over her. Her face was buried in her arms, and her frame shook with sobs that she could not entirely repress. “Maggie, what is the matter?” he softly, tenderly asked. She sprang quickly to her feet, her heart almost standing still, the delight in her eyes blending with consternation. “Oh, Lisle!” she cried. “1 am so glad you have come.” She flung herself into his arms and kissed him wildly, her whole form quivering with excitement. He returned her caresses; he drew her clpser to him; he imprisoned her hands; he spoke in the softest accents of love. “What happened, dear?” he asked. “I—have—been frightened,” she stammered.” “By some tramp, no doubt,” Lisle said. “Poor child! Yon have been left too mucb alone.,” There was such hearty sympathy in his tone that she lifted her sweet, tearstained face from his shoulder, and looked at him with an intense yearning in her eyes. “Lisle, ” she cried, in a broken, wailing voice, “you love me, don’t you, Lisle?” “Love you, darling!” be exclaimed. “Why, what do you mean, child ? Do

I love you? No man could love his wife with more devofc on. I may not be very demonstrative, but it is there. ” “Oh, thanks, Lisle,” she cried in ecstasy, Snd clasping her hands. “ Oh, I bless you for saying that. Don’t fancy for a moment that I doubted you. Only Well, don’t mind me; Ive been frightened, and —am—dreadfully tired. lam a silly, hysterical little thing. ” “On the contrary, darling, you are a brave, sensible, uncomplaining, truehearted woman,” he said, with grave earnestness, his dark eyes shining into heie.

SHE NESTLED CLOSE TO HIM.

She laughed in a pleased, glad way, and seemed very much like herself again. In the afternoon she handed him a letter. “It was left here by a messenger,” she said. “It is lrom Mr. Gillingham,” Lisle replied, as he opened and glanced at the letter. “He offers me ten thousand dollars for my yacht. He can have it.” “Lisle, will you buy another?” she asked, the faintest apprehension apparent in her voice. “That would be a folly,” he said. “I am tired of yachting. It takes me away from home too much.” , A pleased light filled her eyes, and a soft smile came to her lips. The next morning he called to her to come to the front door. There she saw the prettiest horse her eyes had ever rested upon. “Maggie, I bought him for you, - ’ Lisle said. “He’s safe, docile, intelligent. I have other horses, but lam not sure that I would want you to ride any of them. You used to ride, before we were married, and you rode well, too. Now fix up some kind of a skirt, and we’ll take a dash across the country after breakfast.” “Lisle,” she said, with a sudden swelling in her throat, “you are too kind.” Bhe supplemented her words with a glance of love that made his pulses throb. The ride was an enjoyable occasion to both of them. He was polite, chatty, attentive, solicitous, and she let him know that she appreciated it by her responsive manner—that natural blending of the freedom of a girl with the selfconsciousness of a woman that had ever pleased him. “I am just beginning to live,” washer mental comment.

“It is nice to be at home more frequently,” was his mental admission. His desire to remain more at home increased day by day. He became less selfish; he comprehended that she had needs as well as himself. He studied to please tier; he grew more steady in his habit?, and had larger views of life, its aims, its privileges, its duties. He saw that a change had taken place in her, and yet he was scarcely able to divine the character of it. He knew that she had always loved him, but he had never before had even an approximate idea of its depth, its fervor, its stability. One charming evening toward the close of summer they stood alone upon the veranda. She nestled closer to him, her head dropping upon his shoulder. “Oh, I have been so happy ail these months, ” she said, a low, sweet tremor running along her words; “so happy, Lisle, I would not have thought it possible. But I have been wanting to make a confession to you, Lisle, and why should I not make it now ? It has been a burden on my soul. If I could throw that off I would be supremely happy. ” “Tell it, dear,” he whispered, looking down upon her from his grand height. “I am sure that it will not include a plea for forgiveness.” “No, Lisle,” she said, though the calm lines of her mouth wrought with suppressed emotion. “I committed no wrong; I was in no wise to blame, and yet it might have led to peril had it been less precipitate.” She spoke with a timid earnestness that suited her soft, girlish voice. She waited a few seconds; then said: “Lisle, do you remember the day you came home at nine in the morning instead of at nine in the evening, as you had written would?” “Yes, dear.” “When you came into the drawingroom you found me crying.” “I remember, Maggie. Don’t say anything about it.” “But I—l—want to,” she stammared. She was looking directly at him with the sweet eyes that ever inspired faith, promised fidelity, pleaded for love. “You need not tell me, Maggie, for I know, ” he said. “You know!” she exclaimed, aghast. “Yes, dear. You refer to Bichard Brandon’s perfidy.” Intense surprise filled her face. “He didn’t tell you?” she gasped. “No, Maggie,”'replied Lisle, with peculiar gravity. “There isn’t even that to be said in his favor. Dear, I saw and heard what happened. I was on the veranda, just where we are standing now. I made no noise, because I wanted to surprise you. The window was open, you remember. It came to me like a lightning stroke. I reached tor my revolver. ” “Ob, Lisle!” cried his wife, with a shudder. “Then I saw you repulse him, heard your hot words of scorn, noted the indignant expression upon your face, understood that you were pure as heaven is pure, and as loyal as the just. But for that I would have shot him.” Her eyes grew dim with a sudden gush of feeling. She glided close to him again, and clung to him in her excitement. “It opened my eyes,” she heard him say. “I saw how selfish I had been—how neglectful. A rare treasure was mine and I had never properly appreciated it. I had been living solely for myself. The mental confessions I made brought a sense of shame to mv brow and a pang of regret to my heart. Maggie, I have been kind to you since then.”

“Much kinder, Lisle,” she cried, trembling in her joy and standing on her toes so that her lips could touch his. “The dearest, best husband that ever lived. And you saw? And all this time you knew ?” “Yes, pet. Let it all go. It opened my eyes and brought joy to you. We should both be thankful.” “And, Lisle, we are.”

STRUGGLE WITH DEATH,

The Extraordinary Cass of Calvin Pease, Which Is Puzzling the Surgeons. A Wonderful Instance of the Tenacity of Life Under Brain Destruction. [San Antonio special to Chicago Daily News.] Caivui Pease, asinau lartner living at Devine, a station on the International A Great Northern railway, was b.asting a well a few weeks ago. He was sixty feet below the surface of the ground when he fired his last cartridge in tue world. He was engaged in what is technically known as “tamping”—that is, he had inserted his dynamite and was pounding in gravel around it to tighten and give the exploit ve greater purchase. Some slip of the long iron bar which he wielded fired the dynamite. His family heard the report and, noticing his failure to ascend, ran to the well in alarm. Peering down they saw him in erect posture, leaning against the side of the shaft. A rope was lowered and with his remaining good arm he managed to fasten himself somehow and was hauled to the top. He was placed in a common country wagon and driven thirty-three miles over horrible roads to this city. He was placed in the hospital and lived a week. Taken all in all—the character of the agent which injured him, his distance from succor, the tremendous strain to which he was subjected, his ghastly wounds, his utter tang froid, his entire retention of consciousness, and the length of time for which be lived—he furnishes, probably, the most remarkable instance of the tenacity of life under brain destruction to be found in the medical records of any country. So remarkable was it that members of the West Texas Medical Association daily receive letters from prominent surgeons in every part

EXAMINING THE BRAIN.

of the Union asking/for some official confirmation of details of tbe case as reported by tbe St Louis agent of the Associated Press. In every instance the first account has been added to rather than detracted from. But seeing is believing, and, with this idea, photographs have been made, botn ante and post mortem. Briefly summarized, Pease’s injuries were; The right hand blown partially off, the left eye blinded, the right eye entirely gone; above it, and extending far toward tbe top of the head, the skull removed, leaving all that portion of the brain exposed to view; loss of some three tablespoonruls of brain tissue, a fracture of the skull extending from the nosebase back to rear of right ear. During liia seven days’ confinement at the hospital he was thoroughly conscious, had a reasonable appetite, slept well, was able to distinguish between different foods by the taste, alleged that he felt no pain, and more than once expressed strong hopes of getting well. Photo No. 1 represents City Physic an Braunnagel and Dr. Berry lifting the flap and making an examination. It was taken five days after the accident At this time the patient expressed a strong desire for ability to see himself. He was quite a pleasant suf-

THE FACE BEFORE DEATH.

serer, and gave the Sisters of Charity as little trouble as possible. Photo No. 2 was taken upon the same day. The physioian’s notes state: “Taken from the sick bed in hospital five days after brain and skull injury from dynamite explosition; the man perfectly conscious and able to apeak, eat and drink; no paralytic symptoms in extremities. A large portion of the frontal bone is entirely gone and about eight splinters were found in the brain substance. A large fracture runs from base of nose toward and beyond occipital protuberance. The eyes are entirely blown out of their sockets.” Photo No. 3 gives the appearance of the brain as held in the assistant’s hand after removal. The frontal lobes show a brain-sub-stance defect about the size of an ordinary whisky glass. This matter was carried away by the explosion and spattered against the walls of the well. Driven deep into the brain, and practically honeycombing it in many directions, were numerous splinters of bone, which were tediously picked out They

APPEARANCE OF THE BRAIN.

ranged in size from a pea to a nickel, and were of ail shapes and degrees of roughness. Photo No. 4 pictures the appearance of Pease after removal of upper part of skull. AA, right and left brain iobos. 88, loss of bram substance below frontal-bone region (the entire frontal region near base of nose gone). C, dura mater. DD, brain membrane flapped over. E, cranium. FF, frontal muscle thrown aside. H, right ear. I, periosteum. The entire edge of the skull (E) represents the line of fracture from B to D. Such is the case of Calvin Pease, Texan farmer and amateur miner. He was 24 years of age and not, in appearance, a man of any remarkable vitality. He will figure ponderously in medical magazines, and for many a year to come will “hold the record” in tomes which treat of the eccentricitiesQof ao-

cident as connected with surgery. How far hia instance will go toward disproving pet theories of braiu governance remains to be seen. „How much wind it knocks out of psychologic disaertators sad pbrenologio demonstrators no man can say. There is enough in it, however, to set the doctors by the ears—not a difficult matter at any time. That the above are true counterfeit presentments of the material aspects of the case, and that it has been and is herein correctly represented, the following reputable physicians will bear w.tness: F. Heiff, M. D., President of the eat Texas Medical Association; E. G Bennett, Vice President; P. W. Johns, Vice President; Adolph Herff, M. D., Dr. Berrev, R. Monger, M. D, members; Amos Graves, M. D., surgeon-general Southern Pacific Railway

AFTER REMOVAL OF UPPER PART OF SKULL.

Company, and Julius Braunnagel, city physician.

A TRIBUTE TO NOBILITY.

Abraham Lincoln Beautifully Pictured by an Eloquent Speaker. The Grandest Figure of the Greatest Civil War of the ( World. At a banquet in Brooklyn, N. Y., in observance of Lincoln’s birthday, Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, responding to the toast “Abraham Lincoln,” spoke as follows: Abraham Lincoln was one of the few who saw that slavery could not exist forever. He was bojn in a cabin—laid m the lap of the poor—born in a cabin in the wilderness of ■Kentucky, yet he rose to such a supreme and splendid bight that fame never reached higher than his brow when putting his laurels on the brow of a human beihg. He was a man who was true to himself, and for that reason Yfi 8 true to others. He was a strange mingling of mirth and tears, of the perfect and grotesque, of Socrates and Rabelais, of iEsop and ot Marcus Aurelius, of all that was noble and just, of mercy and honesty, mercilul, wise, lovable, and divine—and all consecrated to the use of man, while through ail and over all was an overwhelming sense of chivalry and loyalty, c and above all the shadow of a perfect mind. Of nearly all the great characters of history we know nothing of their peculiarities. About the oaks of these great men, and about the roots of these oaks, wo know nothing of the earth that cliugs to them. Washington himself is now a steel engraving. About the real man who lived, who loved, who schemed, “and who succeeded, we know nothing. The glass through which we look at hhn is of such high magnilyiug power that the features are indistinct Hundreds of people are now engaged smoothing out the lines in Lincoln’s face so that he may be known, not as he really was, but, according to their poor standard, as he should have been. “Abraham Lincoln was not a type; he stands alone—no ancestors, no followers, and no successors. He had the advantage of living in a new country, the advantage of social equality, of personal freedom, of seeing in the horizon of 1A life the perpetual star of hope. He kuew and mingled with men of every kind, and became "familiar with tho best books. In a new country you must possess at least three qualities—honesty, courage and generosity. In cultivated society, cultivation is often more important than soil; and, while a polished counterfeit sometimes passes more readily than the blurred genuine, it is necessary only to observe the uncertain laws of society to be honest enough to keep out of the penitentiary, and generous enougn to subscribe in public when the subscription can be defined as a business investment In a new country character is essential; in the old reputation is often sufficient In the new they find what a man is; in the old he generally passes for what he resembles. People separated by distance are mnch nearer together than those divided by the wads of caste. “Lincoln never finished his education, although he was always an inquirer and a seeker after knowledge. You have no idea how many men are spoiled by what is called education. For the most part colleges are where pebbles are polished and diamonds are dimmed. If bhakspeare had graduated at Oxford he might have been a quibbling attorney or a poor parson. Lincoln was a many-sided man, as reliable as the direction of gravity. His words were kind as mercy, and gave a perfect image of his thought. He was never afraid to ask, never too dignified to admit that he did not know.

“Lincoln was natural in his life and thought, master of the story-telling art, liberal in speech, using any word which wit would disinfect He was a logician. He did not say what he thought others thought, but what Ije thought He was sincerely natural. If you wish to be sublime you must keep close to the grass. Too much polish suggests insincerity. If you wish to know what is the difference between an orator and an elocutionist, read Lincoln’s wondrous words at Gettysburg and then read the speech of Edward Everett. The oration of Lincoln will never be forgotten; it will live until languages are dead and lips are dust. The speech of Everett will never be read. Lincoln was an immense personality, firm but not obstinate—obstinacy is egotism, firmness is heroism. He influenced others, and they submitted to him. He was severe to himself, and for that reason lenient to others, and appeared to apologize for being kinder than his fellows. He did merciful things as stealthily as others committed crimes. He did and said the noblest deeds and words with that nobleness that is the grace of modesty. Everything for principle, nothing for money, everything for independenca Where no principle was involved easily swayed, w.illing to go somewhere if in the right direction; willing to stop sometimes; but he would not go back, and he would, not go away. He knew that fight was needed and full of chances; he knew that slavery had defenders, but no defense, and that those who advocated the right must win some tima He was neither tyrant or slave. Nothing discloses real character like the use of power, and it was the quality of Lincoln that, having almost absolute power, he never abused it except on the side of mercy. Wealth could not purchase power, could notaws this divine, this loving man, He knew no fear except the fear of doing wrong. He was the embodiment of self-denial and couraga He spoke not to upbraid, but to convince. He raised his hands, not to strike, but in benediction, and lived to see pearls of tears on the cheeks of the wives whose husbands he had saved from death. Lincoln was the grandest figure of the greatest civil war of the world.”

Speak well of your friends—of your enemies speak nothing.