Democratic Sentinel, Volume 12, Number 52, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 January 1889 — Page 1

The Democratic Sentinel.

VOLUME XII.

m DEMOCRATIC SENTIF.L DEMOCRAT 1C NEWSPAPER. 1 1 1 1 1 ■■ "" PUBLISHED EVERY Fx.IDaY, DY Jas. \*. McEwen EATES OF SUBSCRIPTION. 1 ' «« jlvertising Rates. „ „ ~ar SBO 00 i. omni.; 40 o> OOlUlOji*-* M 30 0^ rUr . XO o 0 J ssstsgsz *Wlißh<vl statute tuice. ujj Cft xi on xo cents .* . cent, a Nearly advertisements may toe changed -quarterly Surge°f J^ 8 of r W n f>u blto’t ion. When less than one-qusuter colutnn in size; aud Quarterly n advance when larger.

y— “ t. J, McOc y Alfred HoLLWa3WOKTU . A. M«C©¥ & StLi banks® S , (Succesfcoisto A. McCoy &T.Thompson,) Rensselaer. Ind. DO a flei eral banking business. Exchange °bougbt and sold Certiflcatos bearing in- —. (.sued Collections made on al. available ,f. « -»!»“• “ » 14 XmZw’ Thompson y aordecai f. chiilcote. Attorney-at-Jjaw kBNSSEIiAKB. * INDIANA Praotloes lin the Courts of Jasper and ad„g o^co*<m WashMgtoa f&eet. opposite Court House- v W SIMON P, ‘■THOMPSON, DAVID J. THOMPSON Attorney-at-Law. Notary Public. THOMPSON & HROTHER, Bknsselaeb, - * Practicein all the Courts. ajuon lTspitler, Collector and Abstractor. 'Ye pay p irticular attention to paying tax.lelllna and leaslag tands. v2n« iTO . H. H. GRAHAM, attokney-at-law, Reesdelatr, Indiana. Money to loan on long time at tow interest. Sept. lUx oo« JAMES W.DOUTHIT, UPXjjRNEYbAT-LAW AND NOTARY PUBLIC, /Bf~ Office in rear room over Hemphill & Honan’s store, Rensselaer, Ind. Kdwtn P. Hammond. William B. Austin. HAMMOND & AUSTIN, ATTORNEY-AT' L A W, Rbnsselae”, Ind Office on eecond floor of Leopold’s Block, coine r of Was ineton and Vanßensselaer streets. William B.'Avstin purchases, seljs and le| see real estate, pays taxes and deals in negotiable instruments. may 27, 87._ W- WATSON, ATTOrNSY-AT-LAW Office up Stairs, in Leopold’s Bazay, RENSSELAER IND. Yy W. HARTSELL, M D HOMOEOPATHIC PHYSICIAN & SURGEON. RENSSELAER, - * INDIANA. Diseases a Specialty.,^!!! OFFICE, in Makeever’s New Block. Residence at Makeever House. July 11, 1884. J. H. loughridge. victor b. loughridgb Jx H. LOUGHRIDGE & SON, Physicians and Surgeons. Office in the new Leopold Block, seco: d floor, second door right-hand side of hall: Ten per cent, interest will be added to all recounts running uusettled longer than ithree months. vlnl DR. I. B. WASHBURN Physician & Surgeon Rensselaer , Ind. galls promptly attended. Will give special atten tion to the treatment of Chronic Diseases. E. JACKSON, M. D„ PHYSICIAN A SURGEON. Special attention given to diseases of women %na children. Office on Front street, corner of Angelica. 12.. 84. ’'‘''l! ■LILLE 111 U»- . 2hcri Dwiggins,. F. J. Sears, Val. Bbib, President. Vic-President. Cashier CITIZENS’STATEBANK RENSSELAER, IND., rvoxs A general banking business: U Certificates bearing interest issued; Bxihpnge bought and sold; Honey loaned on farms Slowest rates and on moa J avorabie term*. '

RENSSELAER JASPEB COUNTY. INDIANA. FRIDAY JANUARY JB. 1889

. , .. ; , w ;> . • , ... „ , -• t.. V I • - - • t oflfvfinsr’s btaw, ! i < v. .•! • .«)«<» iht r> - • i iii er -ry care. Air) ' u » r'y . u .» ..... si -t . i ;i wer that upend there. 'Wen »»• *b '!• li'i*- witch in* '«vwcr IVCi.i .•t-!'.:. till . tw^ Jo.ue'J in to pass the ovoninir hour— The' mai t v.’l h cycled rooud th« place Tmth ht ’ "-'are th m heavenly fair, l r e. aye I thocii; a'e iimeh-lo’ed face The reijjamit Queen o’beauty there. Yet iicau is in <*' to lo’e i' ra’ Its 1 •irr.-.s s -me day may floe; But .'■arah*.- I e >rl is gold and true. And kindly ay-she thinks o’ me, Tho’ I was doomed to crostS the sea And roam yon desert bleak aud bare, A par sdise it vet would be Were only Sarah wi’ me there.

FOUND HIS SWEETHEART.

Pa ; sv "Warde was my companion. I nad engaged her without knowing anything about her antecedents, because she was so winsome and charming and seemed friendless and alone in the world. There was about her sweet, young face a sad expression that betokened a past sorrow, ! a as she never offered me her confidence I did not press her to tell me what the trouble was. When my nephew A Valter came home lie immediately proceeded to fall in love with Daisy, and I watched the progress of the romance with no little interest. It terminated in a different way than I expected, for Waller suddenly cut Ms visit short and went away, and then I knew that she had rejected him 1 was a little angered at this, but when I sought Daisy and found her in tears all my anger faded. ‘ Why could you not care for him?’' I asked her gently. •b ecause,” bowing her golden head—- ‘ ‘he- ause my heart is already given to another” After a moment’s silence she added! “I must tell you all my sad story so that you -will understand.” She told me that her father had been wealthy, but by his death she was left alone in the world. Then his lawyer—the father of the lover with whom she had plighted her troth—had come to her, and with a few words had cut, as it were, the ground from beneath her feet. From papers which he had found in his deceased client's desk he had discovered that she was no blood relation of him she had called “father,” but a. foundling taken from an asylum, and one of whose name and parentage no one knew aught. “I could not but take notice that Mr. Kendal’s manner (at the name I started) was not the same as it had been when he deemed me the daughter and heiress of his wealthy client, and his next words showed me my perceptions had been true ones. “ ‘As things are, my dear young lady/ he said, suavely, ‘do you not think it would he the proper thing for you to return to my son his freedom? Let me be frank with you. My son is ambitious, and if he marries well, has a brilliant future before him. He has au -aunt —an old and exceedingly fastidious person—who adores him; but if by uniting himself to one without name and lineage he should lower himself in her estimation, he would, beyond all doubt, lose all chance of the large fortune to which with a cousin he is coheir.’ “I was proud, and, though hurt to the quick, 1 hid as best I could my pain, and wrote as desired. Then I left the home whicli was no longer mine. I knew that my betrothed would leave no stone unturned to Induce me to change my determination, and I feared lest in his dear presence my pride should give way. In looking over the paper I saw your advertisement; the rest you know. ” “Would you mind ‘ telling me your lover’s first came, Daisy?” I asked. “It is Roland,” she answered. I knew that Daisy felt happier after her confidence in me, and each day as it went by only strengthened the ties of affection between us; while into my mind had entered a pleasant assurance, for (though why, I will not say) I knew that I had no need to dread a 1 nely future without the winsome companion I had learned to lean so upo n. Two weeks went by, and one evening we sat In the library. Daisy was reading aloud, with the full glow of the lamplight falling over her lovely face, while I, with my knitting, sat a little back in the shadow. A light step came up the stairs, through the hall, and paused by the open door. All unconsciously Daisy read .on, her young voice making sweet music in the great room. Suddenly a rich voice I well knew, with a ring of passionate joy in its tones which brought' the sympathetic tears to my old eyes, exclaimed: ‘ ‘Daisy! my own I Found at last I” With a glad, wondering cry she sprang to her feet. "Roland! is it—can it be you?” “Yes, my darling, it is your Roland, and the nephew of this dear old lady, but for whom Ibis bliasful moment might never have come to us. ” Taking the surprised girl in his arms he kissed her beautiful mouth, then led her to me. “Aunt Margaret,” he said, “when I learned a year past from my father, in his illness, the truth, which he had withheld from me till then, of what had passed between him and Daisy, 1 made a vow to find her though I grew old in the search. But my heart had grown heavy within my breast, and hope had all but left me, when I received your letter telling me of your suspicion that your dear companion and she whom I loved were the same. So I Mm. l kut ilvttn Uv«A «■ •*«—*

as a son than a nephew, amt now it is to vou that I owe the happiness of mv life!” 3 They were married, and the wish of my heart was gratified, for Daisy never left me

Where to Find Him.

“How high is that steeple?” asked an English visitor of the sexton. ‘“Three hundred feet, sir.” “Did you ever climb up?” “Y r es, when it was being built.” “Ever fall down?” “No, ’ replied the sexton, with a look of contempt. “If you want to find the fellow who fell down just go back there In the yard and you 11 see his name on one of the tombstones. ”

A VAIN PROTEST.

Mrs. Dewsford sat in her own room assiduously employed in fastening dried butterflies on a sheet of pasteboard, aud a magnifying glass affixed in some mysterous manner to her nose. She was a spare, prime, hard-featured matron, was Mrs. Dewsford—one who believed in women’s rights, and thought woman generally a much-amused personage, deposed from her proper sphere and trampled on by the tyrant man. Mrs. Dewsford had come very near being a man herself—what with a deep voice and a bearded chin, and a figure quite innocent of all superfluous curves oi grace. But Lizzie Deivsford was quite different—Lizzie Dewsford, who stood beside her mother with cheeks round and ripe ae a fall peach. You wondered, as you gazed at her, how they could both be women, and yet so unlike. Although married herself, Mrs. Dewsford was opposed to her daughter Lizzie marrying Charley Everett. “Tears will not melt me,” said Mrs. Dewsford, calmly resuming the encyclopedia. “I only regret to be the mother oi so degenerate a daughter 1" “Mamma,” ventured poor Lizzie,'after a few minutes of silent grieving, “I —] promised Charley to ride out with him this afternoon.” “You must give him up, Elizabeth. Upon such a subject I can accept nc compromise!” “But 1 promised mamma!” “A promise is a promise, Elizabeth; noi shall I require o? you to bleak it. But 1 shall accompany you. Where are you going?” "To the woods beyond Ihe glen, mamma. Charley is going to get some wood sorrel for my herbarium.” “Nor will the expedition be unprofitable to me,” .aid Mrs. Dewsford gravely “There are many choice varieties of adian turn and asplenium to be found in those woods, and my collection of native fern? is very incomplete.” And Lizzie went in great consternation to slip out in the garden where Charles was busied in whittling out stakes foi carnations. “Oh, Charley, Charley! lam so miserable.” “Lizzie, what is the matter?” He dropped knife, stakes, and all ic dismay at her woful countenance, and Lizzie told him to the best of her ability wat ‘ ‘the matter” was. “Is that all?” he asked quietly when the recital was concluded. “Isn’t that enough?” she rejoined pite ously. “Don’t fret; it will be all right. So sh< won’t consent to our marriage, eh?” “She says most positively that she will not.” “And are two lives to be made miserable just because she thinks matrimony a mistake?” he asked gravely. “1 suppose so, Charley.”Lizzie Dewsford’s pretty head dropped like a rose in the rain. Charley watched her quivering lip and tea-wet eyelashes and said no more. Mrs. Dewsford was ready, with a preposterous drab umbrella to keep off the sun, a tin case to put ferns in, and an extra pair of boots, in the event oi swampy walking, when Mr. Everett’s lit tie light wagon drove up to the door, “1 had better sit in the middle—it preserves the equilibrium of the vehicle better,” said Mrs. Dewsford, wedging herself in between Lizzie and Mr. Everett with a smile of great complacency. Suddenly her eye caught a cluster of Seen waving vegetation on the crest:e point of a rock which overhung the road. “Charles! Charles!” she cried, “stop a minute! Can’t you reach that asplenium ebenum?” “This, ma’am?” hazarded Charley, clutching at a fat-leaved cluster of weddy growth. “Oh, dear, dear Charles, how stupid you are!” sighed Mrs. Dewsford. “I’ll jump out and get it myself.” “Mammal” remonstrated Lizzie. “Oh, I’ll help her,” nodded Charley, springing nimbly on the cliff and pulling Mrs. Dewsford by main force upon the steep side of the rock. “Here you are ma’am.’’ 3 “Yes,” panted Mrs. Dewsford; “but—but it was very steep. I really think women should devote more attention to gymnastics. Charles, where are you going?” For Mr. Everett had sprung back into the wagon. “Only for a little turn, ma’am, while you are collecting your botanical treasures.” Mrs. Dewsford’s words of remonstrance were drowned in the rattle of the wheels as Mr. Everett drove briskly away, with Lizzie nestling up to his side. Tha swt was well set tt* •*-

turned, ana Mrs. uewsford B position was not an agreeable one. She looked nervously round. It was a tall, steep cliff whereon she stood, cut off from the woods beyond by the rush and roar of a wide and by no means shallow stream on one side, while on the other three it was almost perpendicular, rising some twenty feet up from the road. “Well!* she cried, “I never was more thankful for auvthing in my life. I’m tired to death waiting. “Are you?” said Charles Everett, as he checked the horses In the middle of the road. “Yes. Why don’t you drive closer?” sharply demanded Mrs. Dewsford. “Oh! Did you want to drive home with us?” “Why, of course I did! I’d ha’been home long ago if I could have got off this place. ” “Well, ma’am,” said Charley, In accents of the coolest deliberation, while Lizzie clung, frightened and yet smiling, to his side, “I shall be very happy to help you off the cliff on one condition.” “Condition! Charles Everett," ex claimed the astonished and indignant matron, “what do you mean?” “Simply this, Mrs. Dewsford; I want to marry your daughter. But Lizzie, like a too dutiful child, will not become my wife without your consent.’ ’ “Which she shall never have!” said Mrs. Dewsford, emphatically.

“Very well, ma’am! Get up, W .itev, and he shook the reins. “You're not going to leave me here? shrieked Mrs. Dewsford, in apm go; terror. “Unless you comply with my co: ditmti ma’am, I most certainly shall. “And that condition is ’ “You consent to my marriage with your daughter!” “Elizabeth!” cried Mrs. Dewsford, “will you be a witness to this—this atrocious conduct and not interfere?” “Charley won’t let me have a voice in the matter, mamma, at all,” said Lizzie, demurely. “He says he doesn’t believe in women’s rights.” Mrs. Dewsford gave a hollow groan Mr. Everett touched his horse slightly with the whip. “Stop!” cried Mrs. Dewsford. “I consent, but it is under protest!” “Yob can protest all you like,” said Mr. Everett, driving close to the rock and standing up to assist his inother-in-law-elect into the wagon. Silentlv Mrs. Dewsford entered the ve hide—silently she rode home—silently she crossed the threshold of her house, ai became a conquered party. “To tbinkl” she said in a hollow voice, aa she sat down to a woman’s universal solace, tea, “that after all my precepts and example Elizabeth should end hei career by getting married."

THE WORK OF A TEAR.

For the first time In two years these two, who had once been man and wife, met in a hotel parlor. They were parted through the machinations of a jealous woman, who, failing to inspire a love in the husband, had set herself to work to make the couple unhappy. The meeting was strictly a business one that brought them together. Some legal papers assuring a separation had to be discussed and signed by both parties. There was a wild imploring glance in the man’s eyes when they fell on his wife’s face, but she did not seem to notice it. She seemed nervous and dispirited, and the white hands trembled visibly, and see did not dare to raise her eyes foi some time. She was richly dressed in plain black velvet, that set off her superb figure. Sh< was much his junior, but a woman in th( prime of beauty's summer. He thought of his lost happiness with many a pang and of this woman he coul d never call by the sacred name of wife again. A harsh decree of law hat snatched her from his side forever. This stately, beautiful lady was "Mrs Jernyngham” now, for him as for al others. lie had no right to take her ham or clasp her in his arms. He must stil the heating of his aching, agonized hear and address her as he might address th veriest stranger of h er sex. It was a terrible effort. But he made i' bravely: and succeeded in it far bette than he had hoped. She looked up, with a start of surprise as his cold and measured tones fell on he ear. She turned deathly pale as she me his eyes, and then the color rushed bacl to her face in an overwhelming tide o crimson. She took the chair he brought her without a word, and leaned her heac upon her hand. Presently she looked up. Her ey« avoided his. But her manner was per fectly quiet now, and her face was cum. though pale. "vve will go on now with our business, if you please, sir,” she said, in a voice at measured as his own had been. He bowed low and drew a chair neai the table where she was seated. Spreading two formidable looking documents on the table before her, he began explaining their nature and contents as calmly as u he had been some smoke dried lawyer, and she his client. She listened in silence. "You Yuliy understand the nature ol this deed —Mrs.—madam?” he said, when he had concluded. "I do.” “Are you satisfied with the provision* herein made for your future? Can anything more be done? Can I be—” His voice faltered a little and broke. Her hand, lying on the edge of the legal document. txaahM «he*tfV.

•'i am pcrrccuy sausnen, sir," sne an swered at last. “ I hen you will have the goodness tc sine your name within ihat blank.” A pretty, fanciful inn stun i of malack' ite aud ormolu stood on a marble slab at the further end of tliu room. He rose to bring it. Her dark eyes followed him—was it with a yearning love? If so, he knew it not. Returning ho plated tlm (men parch mont sheet before her and pointed to the blank. hhe took up Aho pen. • “What nanfe-shc a dec I in alow voice, and again that crimson ti !u sur-md up over cheek and neck aud brow. “Your—your own, madam:’’ he answered, coloring painfully in his turn. “Alexia Jernyngham.” She wroto u calmly, in a full, free, flowing hand. And he iookod on the while, thinking of other days, when, in their own home, he had often watched her proudly ana fondly, as she signed another name.

Throwing down the non as the last letter was framed, she rose to her Met. Ho roso also. “Farewell—madam!” he said in a broken voice. And again the dark blue eyes were bent upon her downcast face wiili a passionate, despairing look. Her breast heaved convulsive y once or twicq. She put her white hand suddenly up to her throat, as if something had stopped her breath. Her hand met tho golden chain. The next moment the chain was torn from her neck, revealing a, beautifully executed immature, ret closely in a border of forgot me nois, formed with rare skill from clusters of precious gems. His quick eyo fell upon the portrait—his own face! And she had worn it next her heart through these two lonely years in spite of all. The chain Hashed brightly in Iho air X the precious stones blazed In tho sunlight’ the diamond-guarded wedding rin >■ shone like a circle of living fire as she’tore it hastily from her hand and dushed it, with the picture, at his feet. “fake them!” she cried, wildly “Take them away from my sight forever! Oh, J wish 1 could tear every thought of * you from my breaking heart! ’ And as she spoke something brighter than the diamonds—of infinitely greater value tlmn gems, or gold, or the finest efforts of the artist’s skill—Hashed also in the sunlight and fell upon her chock. It was a tear.

He saw it and his heart boat high. Yet even in that moment pride must come between them. He stooped for the treasure at his feet. “Akxia,” ho suid gravely, “if I take these it must only be lo give (hem back to you again. Shall it be so, *ny darling?” . The once familiar pet name fell siowly and hesitatingly from ills lips. But still she heard it, tfho came a step nearer. The tours fell faster now, and the white hand shp held out to him trembled like a leaf. “My husband!” "On, ray wife! my wife!” And holding her to ills long-widowed heart, the strong and stately man laid his proud head upon tho woman’s shoulder and wept. The next day saw. their second bridal. No enemy can ever come between them more. They are bound too firmly to each other now to ever be separated except by the cruel hand of death.

The Formal “Call."

Whatever may betide, men have good cause to tojoico that they bear no part in that in-owning bore of all bores known at the “formal call.” That .a feminine institution. It is an invent ion of the sex, and the sex groans under its yoke. Man smokes his Durham in beatific peace, while the wife and daughters pay tribute to the for "d call. He hears the sotto voce prayer that parties will bo out, and that the matter can be dispatched with a card. Ho quietly notes the sigh of relief when the exhausted women return after hours of social distress. He observes the tax of dre.:': incident to the affair, the bad temper it invokes, and the hypocrisy and total alspnco of any equivalent in the way oT pleasure for all this slavish adherence to custom, and then dimly realizes the iritraculoua felicity of liis own escape from suoh thralldom, and it maybe takes comfort in the thought that the whole business falls totally on those who have made& him pay the piper for countless other freaks and whims of fashion, and caprice. The elasticity of conscience with which the gentle creatures endeavor to mitigate the infliction of the formal call by convenient fibs, furnishes the masculine monster some amusing food for study, and it may be doubted whether he would budge an inch to abolish the formal call. It is diamond cut diamond; women annoying women, th such a transaction the wise man holds aloof and lets the dainty belligerents masquerading as friends manage the hollow and artificial show as suits themselves. It is not often that he has an opportunity of keeping out of a game in which women arra” their wits against one another instead of against the common tyrant, man. He is at liberty to be judiciously silent and hear the fair prattlers discuss each other in a style utterly unlike the fancy pictures of novelists and poets, and if lie doesn’t get some wholesome enlightenment he u hopelessly stupid.— PittaHurgh Chronicle-Telegraph, xn autnor ox me ” untie Brown fug” waa probably in a jugular vein, when he wrote that sometime popular Htty.

NUMBER 52