Democratic Sentinel, Volume 15, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 October 1891 — PALMER'S GREAT HOBBY. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

PALMER'S GREAT HOBBY.

Where the World’s Felr President Has Lavished His Money. It is a tableaux vivant, a living picture of colonial life in its most attractive phase, this log cabin, the summer home of the Hon. T. W. Palmer, ex-Minister to Spain, and the portly and genial President of the World’s Fair. Next to the Spanish baby, the choicest treasure found on another contineht, this is the most valued of his possessions. Here he forgets for a time the turmoil of public life and becomes—as he loves to call himself—a horny-handed farmer.

The farm and cabin are situated on Woodward avenue, about six miles from the center of the city of Detroit. It is a pleasant drive along the platted but only partially occupied future residence part of the .city, which the associations of early years have made the Mecca of his wanderings. From Woodward avenue the cabin is reached by a maple-lined driveway skirted to the right by tiers of natural woods, the foliage a perfect study of beautiful coloring, while on the left a willow-fringed stream Sparkles out among the fern To blckor down the valley. A rail fence incloses the lawn, a rustic gate opens the way to the wellhouse, where an old-time bucket gives mute invitation to drink, and who could refuse a draught from such a poet-honored source. A soft, sinking carpet-like sward slopes from the house to the river. The house is a veritable log house, built in colonial style, and in all the details carefully carrying out the characteristics of the time when our forefathers loyally cried out, “God bless the good Queen Anne." The large front door, divided across the center and opening with a latch, the diamond-paned windows, the water barrels, the kegs lying near the door and suggesting great bumpers of the juice of the apple, all belong to the past. From the benches of the broad porch, over which the woodbine clambers, you get a pleasant view of prosperous country beauty. Within, the house is filled with mementos of Mr. Palmer’s childhood. The little chair, the trundlebed, the old-fashioned toys occupy the places of power, together with the carefully preserved handiwork of his venerated mother. The floors are covered with rag carpet which time has dulled to a tender gray. . Grandmother’s braided rugs protect the carpets and chintz curtains shade the windows. In the parlor old secretaries and bookcases hold old books and relics, while the antiquated furniture is polished as only our old grandmothers could do it. The straight-backed chairs are adorned

with patch-work cushions, and from cords fastened across the raftered ceiling are hung hanks of yarn such as were spun by the good wife’s busy hand. In the dining-room a venerar ble four-poster, valanced and covered with a patchwork quilt, shares the room with the largedining-table. The dash churn and a spinning-wheel, innocent of ribbons or gilding, stand by the hearth. On a shell rests the well-scoured brass kettle in which were compounded all manner of jams and conserves, while fragrant and pungent herbs droop from the ceiling. Antique furniture fills the upper rooms, where ingeniously constructed trap-doors open to hidingplaces in case of Indian attack. All through the house is carried out the same thought Of the past, and the visitor unconsciously expects to meet some white-capped dame walking with stately digntly through the rooms or greet a rosy-cheeked Ruth or Priscilla hastening backward or forward to the music of the hurrying wheel. But the house, withal so homely, has yet that air of beauty and luxury which only wealth and good taste can give. Near to the house is a wood of some extent, where a great amount of ingenuity has been exercised. It is as nature made it except for drives that have been cleared through it and made to cross and recross in such a labyrinthine style that the puzzled traveler would be lost but for the many signboards nailed to the trees. By their aid he passes from Surprise avenue to Sassafras lane, from Sylvan avenue to the bower where Senator Palmer has entertained many distinguished guests, who, coming expecting little, have had indifference turned to admiration. One of the features of the lawn is the group of trees planted by Senators who have visited the farm. Among the names of those who have performed the task arc some of the most notable of American statesmen. , Jersey avenue leads from the woods U> the barns and offices of the. farm. The farm has 700 acreg, and is in a perfect state of cultivation. If the house is antiquated, all the agricultural operations are carried on with the latest improvements and conveniences. The stables are filled with noble Perchcron horses, about 160 in

all. Even those that are employed in dally work seem to disdain the earth they tread. The animals in the sale stables are types of massive power and beauty, from the snow-white Anchovite, who for thirty years has been the pride of the farm, to the latest Fenelon, whose jetty form seems a fit dwelling-place for some hero of the Valhalla. On the farm there is a large herd of Jersey cows, who graze quietly indifferent to the fact that theirs is a long pedigree, and that to possess them means a small fortune; equally careless, too, that Mrs. Palmer should pass them by to lavish her attentions upon the common iced cow which is her special pet. Speculators cast covetous eyes upon this property, and many inducements arc offered Mr. Palmer to part with it. One syndicate offered a million for it, but was refused. ’ “I almost parted with it a short time ago,” said Mr. Palmer to a friend, “but I am thankful ever since that I did not, for then I would have been left without a hobby.” Not In the Line of Election. We do not hear much of the religious views or denominational predilection of men in political life, but as a matter of fact these views and predilections are often very pronounced, albeit with statesmen who are not pillars of the church nor even sleepers in it. Senator Vance, of* North Carolina, unquestionably the champion story teller of the Senate, has a broad stripe of Calvinism down his back, though he is nota communicant in the church. It is told of him that riding along in Buncombe County one day he overtook a darky, with whom he thought to have “a little fun." “Uncle,” said the Governor, “are you going to church?” “No sah, not edzactly—l’m gwine back from church." “You’re a Baptist, I reckon—now, ain’t you?” “No, sah, I ain’t no Baptist, do most of de brederen and sisters about here has been under de water.” “Methodist, then?” “No, sah, I ain't no Mefodls nudder.” “Campbellite?” “No, sah, I can’t erragate to myself de Camelite way of thinkin’.” "Well, what in the name of goodness are you, then?” rejoined the Governor, remembering the narrow range of choice in religious among the North Carolina negroes. “Well, de fac’ is, sah, my old marster was a Herruld of de Cross in do Presbyterian Church and I was fetch up in dat faith.” “What! You don’t mean it? Why, that is my church." The negro making no comment on this announcement, Governor Vance went at him again: “And do you believe in all of the Presbyterian creed?” “Yes, sah, dat I does.” “Do you believe in the doctrine of predestination?” “I dunno dat I recognize de name, sah.” “Why, do you believe that if a man is elected to be saved he will be saved and that if he is elected to be damned he will be damned?” “Oh, yes, boss, I believe dat. It’s gospel talk, dat is." “Well, now, take my case. Do you believe that I am elected to be saved?” The old man struggled for a minute with his desire to be respectful and polite, und then shook his head dubiously. “Come, now, answer my question,” pressed the Governor. “What do you say?” “Well—l tell you what ’tls, Marse Zcb: Ise been libin’ in dis hyah world nigh on sixty years, and I nebber yit hyard of any man bein’ ’lected ’dout he was a candidate."—-Mercury.

AN ARTISTIC OLD CABIN.