Part 8
"Let us show that true religion Is the life we ought to live, And the ways that Christ rejoiced in Are the ways to which we cleave.
"Oh, my husband, dearest Trueman, I believe in Sarah reigns The true principle of goodness-- Let us fan that spark to flames.
"Can I now secure her safely, Teach her shun her evil ways And discard that haughty spirit That she learned in younger days,
"I will be the happiest mortal Ever lived on mother earth, And will reach that heavenly portal Only reached by second birth."
After coaxing, begging, teasing, Sarah consented for to go Back across the ocean, raging, Where her childhood seeds did sow.
When they reached the harbor safely, Bag and baggage on the truck, They cast lots to see what steamer They would choose for their good luck.
Doctor got the choice of vessels, And he quickly did decide That the City of St. Paris Should take their _protege_ and his bride.
Safely in the vessel's cabin, Housed in cosy stateroom there, All were ready for the voyage, And did look for cheerful fare.
Out upon the briny billows, Just three days and nights, 'twas said, When the night was dark and dreary, Trueman rose from sleepless bed.
There was something weighed upon him, Something whispered to beware; He dressed and went upon the deck To breathe the crisp sea air.
He paced and paced the vessel's deck With long and manly stride; He went from starboard o'er to port And back to starboard side.
He'd been upon the deck some time, And peered into the gloom As if them something overawed And threatened them with doom.
At last, to port, he spied a fleck, A dancing on the waves, And there he plainly saw a deck Bedecked with pirate knaves.
The vessel, with a dark-hued hull, Bore straightway on its course, When, "_Hard to port! To port! to port!_" Rang out a voice real coarse.
The strange boat glided swiftly on, Like a ghost on phantom wings, While the crisp sea breeze went dancing past And through her rigging sings.
The strange boat slipped along, across The briny billows white, And their steamer ploughed and labored hard Along its renewed flight.
It was a close and dangerous call, Because the night was dark; Had they collided there, on the ocean bare, They'd went down with their bark.
The voyage, then, to Gotham Was stormy and quite rough, And all agreed, when landed, That they had quite enough.
They then all took the railroad train North, through the Empire State, And soon were on the mountain side Where Sadie met her fate.
The first place Sadie wished to see Was graves of father and mother, And tripping lightly from the yard, She passed out with another.
That bitter morn, with memories fresh, When from her home she'd fled, She was scorned by one _now_ too glad To lead her on ahead.
When she approached her mother's grave The tears rolled thick and fast, And by her side poor Sarah stood, With memories of the past
A fitting through her guilty mind: And then she spoke at last: "Oh, Sadie, Sadie, what a blot Upon my mother's past;
It stings within my guilty heart, And would to God I now could part With half the pain I feel-- The balm of Christ could scarcely heal."
She stooped, and silently did press Her fresh and rosy lips Upon the little mound of grass "Beneath--dear mother sleeps."
Then Sarah, with most tender words, Pressed Sadie to her breast And with a fervent, heartfelt plea, Prayed both them to be blest.
When they returned unto their home, Their friendship sealed with silent love, They could not bear to be alone; They felt a power from up above.
Old friends and neighbors, with delight, Called on the Doctor and his bride, And there convened, on the first night, A host of friends who're on their side.
There's one among them old and gray, Who'd lived right there for all his life; 'Tis the elder man and sage, St. Lawrence, And he smiles upon the Doctor's wife.
Heir to the Waddington estate, Sadie reigns the queen of all; Her friendship for Sarah was great, And sister her did often call.
The Doctor chose to spend his life Upon the handsome mountain side With Sadie, his true loving wife, And Father St. Lawrence until he died.
Time rolled around and months flew by; Sadie and Sarah, hand in hand, Sealed by the firmest friendship tie, Two of the truest in the land.
There chanced to stroll from distant clime A bright young man of Sadie's kin; Came to visit in Summer time, And Sarah was introduced to him.
Sadie tried her best to make a match, And championed well her cause; Sarah viewed it as a catch That one very seldom draws.
Though 'twas but a short acquaintance, Still the wedding time was fixed; The intended groom had patience, 'Cause he felt he was not rich.
Sadie, sweet as dewy honey, Wishing that her friends should wed, Proffered home and lands and money If the word would just be said.
"I am heir to all this fortune, Known as Waddington's estate; Come, now, Sarah; come, now, Hawthorne, Join your hearts ere 'tis too late.
"I will give to you a large farm Yonder on the mountain side; I will give you kine and money, If you'll be my cousin's bride."
Sarah spake, with dewy eyelids, To the one she loved so dear: "Sadie, I am anything but worthy Of this princely gift, to cheer
"My poor broken, wicked heart, After I have been so bad; You should never take _my_ part, Since _I_ took that which _you_ had."
Yet Sadie, true to her own passion, Promised deed in fee for all, If Sarah would wed her own cousin, Ere the Summer ran to Fall.
So the wedding day was fixed When the two should be made one, And their home, as she predicted, Would be deeded as their own.
When at last the nuptial greeting Was received on every hand, The sage, St. Lawrence, came to their meeting, The last one left of their quartet band.
The wedding knot was duly tied, And the folk were feeling gay; They were now made happy groom and bride, Starting out in life's pathway.
When the ceremony was over, And the gifts they were bestowing-- Bridal gifts as sweet as clover-- Sadie, with her rich hair flowing,
Called the old 'Squire of the city That to witness of her signing The transfer of title fair, To the land that lay up there;
When, to her surprise and chagrin, Father St. Lawrence, with gentle voice, Told her that she could not bargain, For she had not even choice.
"Now, my daughter, not one farthing Of this vast and rich estate Has been left unto True's darling, Now, I tell you, 'tis not too late.
"All this land you tho't was yours By inheritance of your blood, Was bequeathed by your dear father To one you never thought he would".
Now, I've brought the Judge of Probate As an honored guest of _mine_, That he might reveal the truth, That it might be writ in rhyme.
Then, to soothe the disappointment, The old judge with silvery hair Drew from 'neath his outer garment, Two old papers kept with care.
One was read by him to Sadie, Where her father had endowed All his lands, and kine and money On the one who made her proud.
When this document was ended, And was handed to Trueman, The old sage, St. Lawrence, pretended That he enjoyed youth again.
"Read, Judge! read your other paper! Tell my daughter here the truth; Tell her what their anxious fathers Did for them while in their youth."
When the document was ended, With tears showering down her face, Sadie, kisses, sweetly blended, While she held him in embrace.
Long their fortunes had been blended By the signatures alone Of their fathers in their child days, As they played around their home.
"True, my dear; O will you come here? Sign this deed! Come quick, O do; Carry out my simple wishes; Sarah is my friend, so true."
"Yes, my darling, this with pleasure I will do, to please you all; It is my most pleasant leisure To do bidding at your call."
So, the deed of gift was given, And in happiness they'd start; From that home they'd ne'er be driven, Life anew to never part.
There in happiness and comfort Did they live upon the place Where the evil of proud passion Smothered one in dire disgrace.
Happy was Salome and Trueman When they saw their _protege_ safe In the hands of Cousin Hawthorne, On the Waddington old place.
Safe within the coils of homelife, Safe within the cottage walls, Safely with a trusting husband, Safe within their friendly calls.
Thus the vengeance of our Hero Was full spent to meet her theme; Yet so different from a Nero, Because she knew she could redeem.
Salome's revenge was to her sweet, 'Cause she'd conquered, not cut down; Now she feared no one to meet, Nor would any wear a frown.
Though some years had been so bitter, And had fraught such cruel pain; Now the coldest of the winter Seemed like flowery beds of green.
Now, away up on the mountains, In the well known Empire State, Sadie Waddington is living In sweet REVENGE, where she met fate.
_A TRIBUTE TO CAPT. GEORGE W. HESS._
BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.
Almost a decade thou hast battled with a patriot's band, Whose first duty is devotion to their native land; And no comrade but is willing, with a ready mind, To declare thee brave and loyal to all mankind.
In thy country's hour of peril, on the battle field, Thou wert ever more than willing all her rights to shield, And, with true and loyal purpose, battled for the right, Till secession's traitorous banner sunk in endless night!
Duty's path to thee is glory, glory easy won; For a task so oft repeated is quite easy done; Yet no one can ever chide, for thy generous heart Ne'er will crush the poor and helpless with oppression's dart.
Every prisoner knows and likes thee, for thy friendly ways Must attract their close attention and excite their praise; And the few who know thee better, as a man of heart, Would desire no nobler mission than to take thy part.
May you live in peace and plenty, happy with your own, Till Jehovah's love shall gather 'round His august throne All who, like you, honest comrade, follows heaven's plan And respects the rules of virtue and the rights of man.
_MY LAWYER._
When grappled in the law's embrace, Who first betrayed an anxious face And fain would shield me from disgrace? My Lawyer.
Who told me I should not confess, That he would all my wrongs redress And set me free from all distress? My Lawyer.
When, sick in jail, I senseless lay, Who took my watch and case away, Lest prowling thieves on me should prey? My Lawyer.
Who to my wealth tenacious clung, And for me wagged his oily tongue, And at my foes hot embers flung? My Lawyer.
Who told me he was dreadful smart And knew the law-books all by heart, And always took his client's part? My Lawyer.
Who, in the court, with peerless pride, My rights affirmed, my guilt denied, And swore the State's attorney lied? My Lawyer.
And when twelve men, in one compound, For me a guilty verdict found, Who came to stanch the bleeding wound? My Lawyer.
Who said my time within the wall Would be exceeding brief and small, The minimum, or none at all? My Lawyer.
And when the judge my doom proclaimed, And three long years of exile named, Who looked indignant and ashamed? My Lawyer.
When, at the sheriff's stern command, I for the train was told to stand, Who longest shook and squeezed my hand? My Lawyer.
Who, when he had me safe confined, No more concerned his crafty mind, Nor was, for me, to grief inclined? My Lawyer.
Who closed the mortgage on my lot, And drove my family from my cot, And left them homeless on the spot? My Lawyer.
Who, when of prison clothes I'm stripped, And from these walls am homeward shipped, Will get himself immensely whipped? My Lawyer.
[Written by Mr. George Gilbert, who died on the 9th of June, A. D. 1890.]
_A SAD WARNING._
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
In prison cell, at early twilight, Smoking Foesters "Best Cigar," Sat a convict, little dreaming Aught his perfect bliss could mar.
Round the cell-block, slowly ambling, Came a "Screw," on mischief bent, And his wide, expanded nostrils Quickly inhaled the welcome scent.
Wave on wave, thro' latticed iron, Smoky clouds rose thick and high, And the happy convict murmured: "Go, ye cloudlets, greet the sky!"
But the cloudlets, incense laden, Lingered near the oaken floor, Till the "Screw," with cat-like motion, Stood before the smoker's door.
In the spittoon, charred and sputtering, Lay the smoker's joy and pride; And the "Screw," exultant, murmured: "Stackhouse will _this case_ decide."
Morning dawned. The "cellar agent" Bore the trembling wretch away To a cellar, cold and gloomy, Where the tools of torture lay.
Blows and shrieks alternate sounded, And a voice from near the floor Murmured: "Stackhouse! MERCY! MERCY!! P-l-e-a-s-e, sir; _I will smoke no more_!"
From the cellar, shorn and shaven, Skulked the cowering "con." away; And he smokes--but, Oh! how watchful Is that victim, who can say?
All ye inmates, take the warning, Gushing from a brother's heart: He who smokes within these portals For the dire offense _may_ smart!
_ACROSTIC TO J. C. LANGENBERGER, CAPTAIN OF THE O. P. NIGHT WATCH._
BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.
Just to all men, to all men kind and true;
Conspicuous as a giant yet comely to the view;
Loved by all who know him, trusted everywhere; Always more than willing to ease his fellow's care; Never harsh or cruel, never false or base; Going in and coming out among those in disgrace, Earning from each prisoner's heart the meed of honest praise; None condemn his actions, none despise his ways; By his children reverenced, by his wife adored; Every friend is welcome at his ample board; Rich in all that makes a _man_, poor alone in hate; God of Mercy bless the man who nightly guards our fate; Ever may he fill the post that wisdom has assigned, Ruling all, as now he does, by strength of heart and mind.
_SHE LOVES ME YET._
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
Amid the cares and griefs of life, One precious thought I'll ne'er forget, I have a fond and faithful wife, For darling Lulu loves me yet.
The bitterest pang that earth can give Can never make my soul regret The fact that I on earth can live, While Lulu says she loves me yet.
The sweetest joy my heart could know Would prove a diamond yet unset, Whose radiant light could never glow, Like this sweet thought, "She loves me yet."
Should grief deluge my troubled soul Till every hour some care beset, I could defy its stern control While murmuring, "Lulu loves me yet."
Should every friend I have on earth Each vow of loyalty forget, I could survive the cruel blow, Since darling Lulu loves me yet.
Should earth with one accord combine, Sweet Lulu's influence to beset, It would not change my constant mind, If I but felt "She loves me yet."
I care no sweeter boon in life, Nor will my heart its choice regret; I only long to meet that wife Who truly says she loves me yet.
_ACROSTIC TRIBUTE TO HARRY SMITH._
BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.
He is like the god, Appollo, when in days of old All the hearts of Greece could conquer, yet despised their gold. Rich in manhood, health and youth, he is ever free Ready to assist his brother whatsoever his need may be. You can trust him freely, fully, with your love or gold,
Since his love of truth and honor never can grow cold. May he ever do his duty and to all be kind, It is but the noble hearted who can rule the mind, Trusting, still, his love of country and his love for man, He may rest assured Heaven will endorse his plan.
_THE PHANTOM BOAT._
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
Two lovers once sat dreaming Of scenes o'ergrown by years; Sweet Daisy's eyes were eloquent With girlhood's pleading tears; Her little hand was lying Confidingly in mine, While her silvery voice pleaded: "Dear one, awake the Nine!"
"Yes, darling, I will rhyme for you; What legend shall I drew! Shall I now fold you in my arms And, drifting down life's stream, 'Mid singing birds and nodding flowers, Pour forth my soul in love-- In accents soft and tender-- As the cooing of a dove"?
Or shall I tell you, dearest one, Why yonder's rippling stream First gained the name "Tululah" In an age that's now a dream? Well, now, pillow your head upon my breast, The legend is weird and wild; I fear me much its harrowing scenes Will shock, thee, gentle child.
Will you listen, while we're watching For the far-famed Phantom Boat? Perhaps the tale will lead us To catch the first faint note Of Tululah's wondrous music As she floats down this stream, For, I assure you, darling, This legend is no dream.
Where now we sit, in days gone by, The stealthy panther crept, And bears and wolves in horrid hordes Their tireless vigils kept; Turkey, deer and beaver Were scattered far and wide, And here the lordly savage stalked _In all his pristine pride_;
The Creeks then ruled this forest, From Suwanee to the sea;-- A haughty, bold and cruel race, Cunning, treacherous, wild and free! To hunt and fish, and boast and fight Were the duties of a brave, While woman--alas! sweet woman Was but a cowering slave!
No grant had she to breathe her wrongs Before the "Council Fire," Nor dared she utter a single word To gain her heart's desire, Until her savage master First gave her leave to speak; Nor dared she then to brave his will Lest he his vengeance wreak!
Yet ever and anon there rose A woman, whose proud soul Ignored those self-created gods And spurned their base control. Such was the brave Tululah, Whose spirit haunts this stream; In a phantom barge it glides along, Like a wraith in a troubled dream.
'Tis said she haunts this river, Alone on a misty night, And that each one who sees her Is 'palled with strange affright! And why she haunts this river Is the burden of my tale, And none who have a tender heart But will her fate bewail.
Tululah was Ocala's child, To whom the Creeks ascribe The name of the boldest leader That ever led their tribe! A savage of herculean build, With fierce and restless eye, His haughty lip deigned not to smile, And scorned to breathe a sigh!
Tululah was his pride and joy, The only thing he loved on earth, Since she became an orphan At the fatal hour of birth! The superstitious savage Deemed her mother's spirit nigh, And thought, who harmed an orphan, By a spirit hand should die!
She was born, too, "In a Castle," Gifted with a "second sight;" Friends of earth, and sea, and air, At _her_ command would fight. Her raven locks and soulful eyes, Her faultless form and peerless face, And voice of wondrous melody Awed and charmed her race.
She reigned an undisputed Queen, _All_ her mandate must obey; And even the fierce Ocala Was obedient to her sway. Yet even she was powerless To stay the raging flood Of tireless, deathless savage hate That sought the white man's blood.
Ocala's hatred of the whites Was known both far and near; Brave hunters spake his name with awe, And women in trembling fear! At last he grew so treacherous No white man dared come nigh, Till a trio of gallant hunters Determined _he should die_!
They knew 'twas a dangerous mission On which their steps was bent, Yet the prayers of honest settlers Their true hearts courage lent. As they neared the sleeping village, Where Ocala awaited his doom, They flitted like weird spectres In the silent midnight gloom!
There, spread before their vision, Five hundred wigwams lay; A savage guerdon of defense For him they sought to slay. To the silent village center Our gallant hunters crept, To the door of the largest wigwam, Where proud Ocala slept.
Stepping across the prostrate form Of the sentinel at the door, They breathed a prayer for absent ones, Whom they might see no more. Three knives flashed in midnight air, Then fell with a sickening thud, Ocala, Napoleon of his tribe, Lay withering in his blood!
But hark! what means that fierce warhoop, Resounding loud and clear? 'Tis the bugle blast that calls each brave When the paleface foe is near! Gathering fast in the midnight gloom, They form "The Circle of Death" Around the dauntless hunters, Who stand with bated breath
Awaiting the savage onslaught, Determined to sell their lives To the service of their country And the freedom of men's wives; While pitying Heaven aids them By the darkness of the night, Since not a star will lend its aid To guide their foes aright!
Now facing North, and East, and West, They meet the savage foes, Recruiting Charon's army By every lusty blow; But still they come in hideous swarms, Like hounds let loose from hell, Till, overborne by numbers, Our bleeding heroes fell!
All honor to the gallant three, Twelve braves in silence lay, With gaping wounds and stony eyes, To greet returning day! While yet a score were nursing Wounds which these heroes gave, That signed their right to enter Into an unwept grave!
Ocala ne'er again would scourge Their country, far and near, Nor wring from helpless innocence An unavailing tear! His death alone destroyed the boast And stilled the raging flood Of senseless pride and passion That bathed his hands in blood!
But, alas, for human prowess, These deeds but roused the ire Of savage wretches, who now tried To vent their spleen _with fire_! Three stakes were now erected And fagots heaped around, While painted fiends in human shape Exultant, sat aground.
They led the helpless captives forth, With many a shout and hoot, And drug them to their awful doom, Less feeling than a brute! And first they bound Hugh Cannon, Whose descendants, love, you know, I pointed out to you, last Fall, When we were at the show.
They bound him to the cruel stake Before his comrades' eyes, Then scornfully they bade them mark "How a paleface coward dies!" Thank God his captors were deceived, He smiled amid the flame! And, with his fast expiring breath, These words bequeathed to fame:
"To suffer in a noble cause Is sweet beyond compare! These greedy flames that lick my blood But light a vision fair, Where heroism and heroes sweep The still resounding lyre, Heaven's harmonies have quenched The tortures of this fire!
"Tumultuous raptures 'round me roll Heaven's pearly gates ajar! My spirit soars on fleshless wing Beyond the faintest star! Oh, blissful death; oh, vision fair, What sweet celestial glories shine, The loved and lost of earlier years Are _now_ forever mine!"
The savage horde in silence stood And listened as he sang, While even their untaught eyes could see He suffered not a pang! No yell triumphant smote his ear, Awe silenced every tongue, And many a heart beat faster As he his requiem sung.