Daily Wabash Express, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 16 June 1889 — Page 5
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BK MILL AND WAIT. Be gtill and wait. And bear U17 fate—
If thou art poor or desolate— As patiently Till better fortune cornet to thee.
Though black the night, No star In sight,
There sorely comes the morning light So o'er thj sky Of midnight aye The san will shine out by and by.
?v Be still and wait, Nor frown thy fate,
Be thy fortune small or great For thou shouldst 1 That ]oy and woe Have, like the tides, their ebb and flow.
The fret and strain Of heart and brain, •,
Increase the gloom, augment the pain But hours of calmLike hallowed psalm— To aching wunds will furnish balm.
Though many a bliss Tliou'rt doomed to miss
vIn such a charming world as this, Thy fears abate. Be still and wait,
For Joy will And thee—soon or late. [Josephine Pollard In New York Ledger.
COHEN OF TRINITY.
I From the (ientleman's Magazine.J The news of poor Cohen's death came to men both as a shock and a surprise.
It is true that, in his melodramatic self-conscious fashion, be had often declared a taste for suicide to be among the characteristics of his versatile race. And, indeed, in the Cambridge days, or in that obscure interval which elapsed between the termination of his unfortunate university career and the publica tion of "Gubernator," there would have been nothing astonishing in such an act on his part. But now, when his book was in every one's^hands, his name on every one's lips when that recognition for which he had longed was so completely his that success for which he had thirsted was poured out for him in so generous a draught—to turn away, to vanish without a word of explanation '(he was so fond of explaining himself) is the very last thing one would have expected of him. ...4.:3Vrs
He came across the meadow toward the sunset, his upturned face pushed forward catching the l'ght, and glowing also with another radiance than the rich, reflected glory of the heavens
A ^curious iigure slight, ungainly shoulders in the ears an awkward, rapid gait, half slouch, half hobble. One arm with its coarse hand swung like a bellrope as he went the other pressed a book close against his side, while the hand belonging to it held a few hairbrushes and marsh marigolds.
Behind him streamed his shabby gown—it was a glorious afternoon in May—and his dusty trencher-cap pushed to the back of his head revealed clearly the oval oontour of his face, the full, prominent lips, full, prominent eyes, and the curved beak of the nose with its restlees nostrils. "Who is he?" I asked of my companion, one of the younger dons. "Cohen of Trinity."
He shook his head. The man had come up on a scholarship, but had entirely failed to follow up this preliminary distinction. He was no good, no good at all. lie was idle, he wus incompetent, he led a bad life in a bad set.
We passed on to other subjects, and out of sight passed the uncouth figure with the glowing face, the evil reputation, and that strange suggestion of laten force whioh olung to him.
The next time I saw Cohen was a few days later in Trinity quad. There were three or four men with him—little Cleaver of Sidney and others of the same pattern. He was yelling and shrieking with laughter—at some joke of his own, apparently—and- his companions were joining in the merriment.
Something in his attitude suggested that be was the ruling spirit of the group, that he was indeed enjoying the delights of addressing an audience, and appreciated to the full the advantages of the situation.
I came across him next moraing, hanging moodily over King's bridge, a striking contrast to the exuberant figure of yesterday.
He looked yellow and flaccid as a sucked lemon, and eyed the water flowing between the bridges with a suicidal air that its notorious shallowness made ridiculous.
Littje Cleaver came up to him and threw out a suggestion of lecture. Cohen turned round with a self-con-scious, sham-tragedy air, gave a great guffaw, and roared out by way of answer the quotation from "Tom Cobb": "The world's a beast, and I hate it."
IT.
By degrees I scraped acquaintance with Cohen, who had interested me from the first.
I cannot quite explain my interest on so slight a knowledge his manners were a distressing mixture of the bourgeois and the canaille, and a most unattractive lack of simplicity marked his whole personality. There never indeed existed between us anything that could bear the name of friendship. Our relations are easily stated he liked £to talk about himself aad I liked to listen.
I have sometimes reproached myself that I never grew fond of him but a little reciprocity is necessary in these matters, and poor Cohen had not the art of being fond of people.
I soon discovered that he was desperately lonely and desperately unapproachable.
Onoe he quoted to me, with reference to himself, the lines from Browning: Hath spied an Icy flsh. That longed to'scape the rock-stream where she lived. And thaw herself within the lukewarm waves O' the lazy sea^ Only she ever sickened, fouud repulaa At the other kind of water not her life. Flounced back Irom bliss she was not born to breathe. And In her old bonds burled her despair, Hating and loving warmth alike.
Of the men with whom I ocxJasionally saw him—men who would have been willing enough to be his friends—he spoke with an open contempt that did him little credit, considering how unscrupulously he made use of them when his loneliness grew intolerable. There were others, too, besides Cleaver and his set, men of a coarser stamp—boon companions, as the story books say—with whom, when the fit was on, he consented to herd.
But as friends, as permanent companions even, he rejected them, one and all, with a magnificence, on arrogant and bitter scorn that had in it a distinctly comic element.
I saw him onoe, to my astonishment, with Norwood, and it came out that he had the greatest admiration for Norwood and his set.
What connection there could be between those young puritans, aristocrats and scholars, the flower of the university •—if prigs, a little, and bornee—and a
man
of Cohen's way of life, it would be hard to say. In aspiring to their acquaintances one scarcely knew if to accuse the man of an insane vanity or a pathetic hankering after better things.
Little Leuniger, who played the fiddle, a Jew, was the fashion at that time among them, bat he resolutely turned the cold shoulder to poor Cohen, who, believe, deeply resented this in%is heart, and never lost an opportunity of hurling a bitterness at his compatriot.
A desire to stand well in one another's eyes, to make a brave show before one another, is, I have observed, a marked characteristic of the Jewish people.
As for little Leuniger, he went his way and contented himself with saying that Cohen's family were not people that one "knew."
On the subject of his family, Cohen himself, at times savagely reserved, at others appallingly frank, volunteered little information, though on one occasion he had touched in with a few vividstrokes the background of his life.
I seemed to see it all before me the little new house in Maida Vale a crowd of children, clamorous, unkempt a sallow shrew in a torn dressing-gown, who alternately scolded, bewailed herself, and sank into moody silence a fitful paternal figure coming and going, depreesed, exhilerated, according to the fluctuations of his mysterious financial affairs, and over everything the fumes of smoke, the glare of gas, the smell of food in preparation.
But, naturally enough, it was as an in dividual, not as the member of a family, that Cohen eared to discuss himself.
There was, indeed, a force, an exuberance, a robustness about his individuality that atoned—to the curious observer, at least—for the presence of certain of the elements which helped to compose it. His unbounded arrogance, his enorm ous pretensions, alternating with and tempered by a bitter Belf-depreciation, overflowing at times into self-reviling, impressed me, even while amusing and disgusting me.
It seemed that a frustrated sense of power, a disturbing consciousness of some blind force which sought an outlet, lurked within him and allowed him no rest.
Of his failure at his work he spoke often enough, scoffing at academic standards, yet writhing at his own inability to come up to them. "On my honor," he said to me once, "I can't do better, and that's the tru th. Of course you don't believe it no one believes it. It's all a talk of wasted opportunities, squandered talents—but, bei'ore God, that part of my brain which won the scholarship has clean gone."
I pointed out to him that his way of life was not exactly calculated to encourage the working mood. "Mood!" he shouted with aloud exasperated laugh. "Mood! I tell you there's a devil in my brain and in my blood, and heaven knows where it is leading me."
It led him this way and that at all hours of the day and night. The end of the matter was not difficult to foresee, and I told him so plainly.
This sobered him a little, and he was quiet for tffree days, lying out in the grass with a lexicon and a pile of Oxford classic?.
OQ
the fourth the old mood was upon him, and he rushed abou& like a hunted thing from dawn to sunset, winding up with an entertainment whioh thraatoriftd his position as a member of the university.
He got off this time, however, but I shall never forget his face the next morning as he blustered loudly past Norwood and Blount in Trinity Btreet.
It he neglected his own work, he did, as far as could be seen, no other, unless fits of voracious and promiscuous reading may be allowed to count as such. I suspected him of writing verses, but on this matter of writing he always maintained, curiously enough, a profound reserve.
What I had for some time foreseen as inevitable at length came to pass. Cohen disappeared at a short notice from the university, no choice being given him in the matter.
I went on to his lodgings directly the news of his sentence reached mff, but the bird had already flown, leaving no trace behind of its whereabouts.
As I stood in the dismantled little room, always untidy, but now littered from end to end with torn and dusty papers, there rose before my mind the vision of Cohen as I had first seen him iir the meadows, with the bulrushes in his hand, the book beneath his arm, and on his face, which reflected the sunset, the radiance of a,secret joy.
I did not see "Gubernator" till it was in its fourth edition, some three months after its publication and five years after the expulsion of Cohen from Trinity.
The name, Alfred Lazarus Cohen, printed in full on the title page, revealed what had never before occurred to me, the identity of the author of that much-talked-of book with my unfortunate college acquaintance. I turned over the leaves with a new curiosity, and, it must be added, a new distrust. By and by I ceased from this cursory, tentative inspection I began at«the beginning and finished the book at a sitting.
Every one knows "Gubernator" now, and I have no intention of describing it. Half poem, half essay, wholly unclassifiable, with a force, a fire, a vision, a vigor and felicity of phrase that carried you through its most glaring inequalities, its most appalling lapses of taste, the book fairly took the reader by storm.
Here waa,a clear case of figs from thistles. I grew anxious to know how Cohen was bearing himself under his suocess. whioh surely must have satisfied, for the time being, at least, even his enormous claims.
Was that ludicrous, pathetic gap between his dues and his pretentions at last bridged oyer?
I asked myself this and many more questione, but a natural hesitation to hunt up the successful man where the obscure one had entirely escaped my memory prevented me from taking any Bteps to the renewal of our acquaintance.
But Cohen, as may be supposed, was beginning to be talked about, heard of, and occasionally met, and I had no doubt that chance would soon give me the oj portunity I did not feel justified in mg.
ek-
There was growing up, naturally enough, among some of us Cambridge men sense that Cohen had been hardly used, that (I do not think this was the case) he had been unjustly treated at the university. Lord Norwood, whom I came across one day at the olub, remarked that no doubt his widespread popularity would more than atone to en for the flouting he had met with at the hands of Alma Mater. He had read "Gubernator it was clever, but the book repelled him, just as the man, poor fellow, had always repelled him. The subject did not seem to interest him, and he went off shortly afterward with Blount and Leuniger.
A week later I met Cohen at a club dinner, given by a distinguished man of letters. There ware present aotabilities
of every sort—literary, dramatic, artistic —but the author of "Gubernator" was the lion of the evening. He rose and*' niably to the situation, and roared as much as wss demanded of him. His shrQl, uncertain voice, pitched in a loud, excited key, shot this way and that across the table. His strange, flexible face, with the full, prominent lips, glowed and quivered with animation. Surely this wss his hour of triumph.
He had recognized me at once, and after dinner came round to me, his shoulders in his ears as usual, holding out his hand with a beaming smile. He talked of Cambridge, of one or two mutual acquaintances, without embarrassment, fle could not have been lees abashed if he had wound up his career at the university amid the cheers of an enthusiastic senate house.
When the party broke up he came over to me again and suggested that I should go back with him to his rooms. He had never had much opinion of me, as he had bsen at no pains to conceal, and I concluded that he was in a mood of un bosoming himself. But it seemed that I was wrong, and we walked back to Great Russell street where he had two large, untidy rooms, almost in silence. He told me that he was living away from his family, an unexpected legacy from an uncle having given him independence. "So the fates aren't doing "it by halves?" I remarked, in answer to this communication. "Oh, no," he replied, with a certain moody irony, staring hard at me over his cigar. "Do you know what success means?" he asked suddenly and in the question I seemed to hear Cohen, the poseur, always at the elbow of, and not alwayB to be distinguished from, Cohen starknakedly revealed. "Ah, no, indeed." "It means—inundation by the secondrate." "What doee the fellow want?" I cried, uncertain as to the extent of his seriousness. "I never," he said, the half-loaf theory." "it strikes me, Cohen, that your loaf looks uncommonly like a whole one, as loaves go on this unsatisfactory planet."
'was a believer in
He burst into a laugh. "Nothing," he said presently, "can alter the relations of things—their permanent, essential relations. 'They shall know, they shall understand, they shall feel what I am.' That is what I used to say to myself in the old days. I suppose now, 'they' do know more or lees and what of that?" "I should say the difference from your point of view was a very great one. But you always chose to cry for the moon." "Well," he said, quietly looking up, "it's the only thing worth having."
I was struck afresh with the man's insatiable demands, which looked at timee like a passionate striving after perfection, yet went Bide. by side with the crudest vanity, the most vulgar desire for recognition.
I rose soon after his last remark, whioh wa*delivered with a simplicity and an air of conviction whioh made one cease to suspect the mountebank we shook hands and bade one another goodnight.
He
I never saw Cohen again Ten days after our renewal of acquaintance he sent a bullet tarougu nis brain, which, it was believed, must have caused inatftntananiiH rlnnf That, am nil section of the public which- interests itself in books discussed the matter for three days, and the jury returned the usual verdict. I have confessed that I was astonished, that I was wholly unprepared by my knowledge of Cohen for the catastrophe. Yet now and then an inkling of his motive, a dim, fleeting sense of what may have prompted him to the deed, has stolen in upon me.
In his hour of victory the sense of defeat had been strongest. Is it, then, possible that, amid the warring elements of that discordant nature, the battling forces of that ill-starred, ill-compounded entity, there lurked, clear-eyed and eyer watchful, a battled idealist? ..
THE FAMING IN 8HINTUNG.
Escape From Starvation by Saiqide—Sellins Women and Children.
The Rev. Alfred G. Jones gives the folllowlng details of the famine as observed by him in Shintung. The letter is under date of April i: "There is, says the North China News, no village which has not had deaths from starvation, probably about one person starved to death in every five families, to.say noth-' ing of those who are suffering daily on the verge of such a horrible fait. Regarding the sale of women and children, it is a matter of as much notoriety as the selling of mules and donkeys, except that they are not brought to market. Since the very cold weather passed over death from starvation has decreased, but not so the sale of women and children. Women between 20 and 30 years of age are sold for $5 or 110, the latter being a high price. Children under 10 years, say $1 to $1.50."
Mrs. Neal wrote on April 11th: "I hear on all sides the saddest talee told in the quietest way, as if it were only natural, now this man's wife or daughter, this woman's only son or her two or three little children have been starved to death how So-and So sold his little girl or boy to get food for his other children for a month to. come, or how a certain man's wife hung herself to get away from the sight of her famishing babies. I heard our gatekeeper say to a man whose wife was ill: 'Your wife hasn't the courage mine had! She took her life moet bravely (ate arsenic) to save herself from seeing our children die slowly before her eyes.' The other man, determined that the sterling character of his family should be appreciated, replied: 'But my boy ran away from home to join a theatrical troupe, and my only daughter drowned herself last winter, BO that her mother and I might have more to eat if she were gone.'"
Writing 28.305 Words on a Postal Card
It is said that the champion microscopic penman of the world lives in Belfast, Waldo county. Me. His name is Rila Kittredge, and, although past 77 years of age, his hand is as steady and his sight as keen as ever. He wrote one of President Cleveland's messages to congress—about fifteen thousand words —on the back of apoetal card, but lately he has done some fine scribbling which throws that performance in the shade. He has written the Lord's Prayer eight times on a space the size of a 5cent silver piece, eighteen columns of the Boston Post upon
THE TERRE HAUTE EXPRESS, SUNDAY'MOR|«NG, JUNE lfi, 1889.
TUB IO» ff 80BBUB&
Brt M—n KasdsBp OWMBII*Wy Hnt Turk*? Boat. Owing to the frequent visits of pot hunters, wild turkeys, formerly abundant around Pineville, have become rather scarce in the last year or two, bat it has been known for some time that flock was feeding Hear Bear Wallow Gap, in the mountains fivr miles bom bare, writes a Kentucky correspondent. Hunt ere frequently attempted to bag the birds, but, rendered wary by their proximity to the settlements, the turkeys evaded them.
Last Saturday young Bob Mason, of Pineville, armed with a double barreled shotgun, started to hunt the turkeys He had never shot a wild turkey in his life, and he was laughed at when he said that he would not come back ftntil he had killed the finest bird in the flock. Mason left Pineville long before day light, as the best time to shoot wild turkeye is at early dawn, when they are perched upon the boughs of a tree, and are more easy of approach than at feeding time during the day. The loud gobble with which they salute the coming day and signal to each other also guides the hunter to the flock. Young Mason had been wandering for nearly an hour around the Bear Wallow Gap when he heard a distant gobble. It must been a mile away, but the clear morning air of the mountain side rendered the sound distinct. Msson wss a novice in hunting, but he knew that it meant wild turkey, and he made his way as cautiously as possible through the forest in the direction of the gobble.
After an hour of half walking, half crawling, to prevent a noise, Mason, guided by the gobbling of the wild turkeys, reached the edge of a little glade. In its center grew a large black jack tree, and upon a bough not more than ten feet from the ground were perched about twenty wild turkeys. Mason's ap proach had been so cautiouB that they lad not smelted nor heard him aB he lay hidden in the bushee. The monstrous size of one of the flock at onoe caught his notice. It was an immense gobbler with flaming rei wattles and much darker in plumage than the ordinary wild turkey. Mason had seen many a wild turkey brought in by mountaineers to Pineville, but never one equal to this in
Bize.
The gobbler he selected ss his
target, and cautiously raised his gun to his shoulder. He was immediately seized with such a violent trembling that he could not take aim with the gun, and nearly dropped. He was suffering from the "turkey ague," exactly similar to the "buck ague."' Almoet all sportsmen have it the first time they aim at a wild turkey. Mason made half a dozen attempts before he could steady his muscles sufficiently to take good aim the great gobbler. When he succteded in doing this he blazed away with both barrels at once. The big turkey flopped off the bough, and tumbled to the ground, while the others flew away. There was a great fluttering among the leaves and undergrowth, and Mason,greatly excited at his success, clubbed his gun, rushed up and began to belabor the struggling bird with the stock of his weapon. But there, was no danger of eecape, for the turkey's head bad been torn by several shot, and it died in a few minutes.
Mason triumphantly dfaHu^iis .turkey all the way tHMpCp*" rr? "^fjjrho G«TTT {f nn* il *4 J0Nn[P£3y evgr killed in eotBa rodnSBd upright, it measured 4 feet .Vjuffines from the ground to the top of its head. Its feet looked like thoee of an ostrich, and its weight was thirty-eight pounds.
The Harvard Dade.
The Harvard exquisitiee this year are not quite BO gommeux, somewhat less starchy, than they have appeared for a year or two past. There is about them certain air of lightness and graoefulness in attire that they seem not to have possessed last year. Perhaps the change is due to the greater number of youths who happen in on such an t£casion in flannel shirts and flowing neckwear. This attire is particularly becoming to young men it is a vast relief to the eye of the general public as well as a comfort to the wearer. Then there is a great tendency on the part of th&se college men to wear white duck or light-checked waistcoats, which contribute to thesame effect, lightness,and grace. As for-the baggy pantaloons, they are simply an eyeeore, and it is agreeable to eee now and then a brisk youth of elegant appearance who has enough independence of fashion and enough pride in his legs to clothe them in really becoming integuments.—[Boston Tram •jo
Ed neat ion of Indiw^-
The tenth anniversary^ Carlisle (Pa.) Indian school wasT^^jgated in that city May 22d. FroL pupils with which the school WwjUirted in 1879, the number has graduaj&increased to the present roll of 607. C? this number over five hundred attended the anniversary exercises. Captain Pratt, who was ordered by the government to establish this school, and who is still superintendent, firmly believes Ui the plan of educating these Indian boya and girls away from the influence of their tribal surroundings and in the midst of civilization. Judging from results, the school has certainly been a remarkable success, and the experiment is worth repeating in other parts of the country.— Sheltering Arms.
js l. The Milk Question.
The horse flesh prejudice of the West Caucasians seems offset by the Ohinese and Japaneee antipathy to tp ilk as a beverage of adults. In time of famine citizen of Nagasaki might resort to cow's milk, as' a starving Comanche would fall foul of his hores, but a well-to-do Jap would as soon milk
Medical Classics.
a
postal card, and is now engaged in the work of putting 28,305 words upon an-, other postal card. The work is so fine that a powerful microscope has to be used in reading it, but then every letter aopeara distinct and beautiful. Mr. Kittredge usee a common steel pen and wears spectacles. He has autograph letters from several presidents and other distinguished men who have received samples of his work, President Garfield having sent him his photograph and a kind letter, which
are
(he old man.
nighly prized by
W
a Bea
cow.
"How do you account for that crotchet of your countrymen?" an attach* of the German treaty oommissiofa asked
Japaneee doctor.' "Is not milk the one universal beverage of all mammals, north or south?" "Yes, indeed," said the medical pundit, "but north or south you will fina that they renounce that leverage with their baby habits."—
Some Bagllsh Balls.
Here are some beautiful specimens of recently perpetrated bulls: "After the door cloeed," writes a novelist who is widely read just now, "a dainty foot slipped into the room, and, with her own hand extinguished the lamp^" "The chariot of socialism," wrote an editorial writer, "is rolling and gnashing its teeth it rolls." "The Charity Association," wrote a reporter, "has distributed twenty pairs of shoes among the poor, which will dry upi many a tear." "I was sitting," writea another novelist, "at the table enjoying a cup of coffee, whan a gentle voice tapped me on the shoulder. looked around and saw my old friend again."
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LITTLE GOLD MINE.
No labor you can perform for cash returns 'pays as well as that of converting wasting Fruits into evaporated stock. These products are among the highestpneed luxuries in food products. Evaporated peaches, cherries and raspberries, 20 to 25 cents per pound apples, pears, blackberries, eta, 10 to 15 cents all salable to or may be exchanged with your grocer for anything he sells.
We will send this complete Fruit Drier (freight paid to any part of the United States) and the
WEEKLY EXPRESS,
"One Year, for $5.
GEO. M. ALLEN,
r»
3
It don't pay to run after other brands, for in the end wise housekeepers settle down to the use kof SANTA CLAUS SOAP.
If your grocer hasn't Santa Clans 'Soap, he'll get it for yeu.
OVER A HOT FIRE.
GET THE POPULAR
BEST
No Extra Fires.
PATAP^jo^^^
FACSIMILE OF MACHINE COMPLETE-PRICE $7.00. X__J
Publisher The Express,
Terre Haute, Ind.
ti
m.
Always Ready for Use and Will Last a ..iietirn'
Easily and qu_vly set off and on t\e stove as empty or filled wit* fruit.
Incorporated 1888.
1.1L CLirr, 8MTand Tnaa.
CLIFT & WILLIAMS CO.,
•AHCFAorumns or
Setst), Doors, Blinds, &c.
Lumbar, Lath, aiaM, Paints, Oils, and Bnlldan' Hudwan,