Decatur Eagle, Volume 1, Number 16, Decatur, Adams County, 29 May 1857 — Page 1

, |j; - , I-,' ~~ ~ -■■ ■■ ■ ■ - : —i———■——. "■ " THE I) FC A TLB EAGLE.

VOL. 1.

THE DECATUR EAGLE.! PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING. oa*a, on Main Street, in the old School House, one Square North of J. & P Crabs’ Store. Terms of Subscription : For one year, $1 50, in advance; $1 75, within six months; $2 00, after the year has expired. O" No paper will be discontinued until rill arrerages are paid, except at the option of the Publisher. Terms of Advertising: line Square, three insertions, $1 00 Each subsequent insertion, 25 ITTNo advertisement will be considered less than one square; aver one squafti will be counted and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. JOB PRINTING. 'We are prepared to do all kinds of JOT? WORK, in a neat and workmanlike manner, on the most reasonable terms. Our material for the completion of Job-work, being new and of the latest styles, we art confident that satisfac tion can be given. Law of Newspapers. 1. Subscribers who do not give express notice to the. contrary, are considered as wishing to continue their subscriptions. 2. If subscribers order’the discontinuance of their papers, the publisher may continue to send them until all arrearages arc paid. 3. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their papers from the office they are held responsible till they have settled the bill and ordered the paper disconlmned. 4. If subscribers remove tootherplaces with- i out informing the publisher, and the paper is still sent to the former direction, they are held responsible. (EFThe Court have decided that refusing of take a paper from the office, or removed and leaving it uncalled forisraiMA facie evidence of intentional fraud. THE OLD MILL. BY WILLIAM W. HARNEY. Live and die; live and die; And all the weary years gone by, And the quaint old mill stands still; The unniixed shade, like a spotted snake, Lies half concealed in the bushy brake, And half across the rill. The summer comes, and the winter comes, And the flower bloom, and the striped bee hums And the old mill stands in the sun; The lichen hangs from the walls aloof, And the rusty na Is from the rugged roof, Drop daily one by one. The long grass grows in the shady pool Where the cattle used to come to cool, And the rotting wheel stands still; The gray owl winks in thegranary loft, And the sly rat slinks, with a pit-pat soft, From the hopper of the quaint old mill. The mill wheel clicks and the mill-wheel clacks And the groaning grooves one creakt and crackt And the children came and played; The lazy team in the days of yore Munched their fodder at the old mill door, Or drowsed its grateful shade. Blit the good wife died, and the miller died, And the childvrn went far and and wide, From the play ground by the dam; Their marble ring is grass o’er grown, As the mossy foot of the rough grave stone, Where the old folks sleep so calm. But the miller’s son in the city thick, Dreams that he hears the old mill click, And sees the wheel go round; The miller’s daughter through her half-shuteyes Can see her father in his dusty guise. And the place where the corn was ground. In courting, three herd squeezes are better than fifty soft words. Try it. Curiosity—Looking over other people’s affairs, and overlooking our own. The man who made an impression on the heart of a coquette, has become a -skillful stone-cutter. During the session of a county court in ■the interior, a witness was asked if he was not a husbandmon when he hesitated for a moment, then coolly replied, amid the laughter of the court, ‘No, sir I’se not -married. . ■— <M — Medical Student’s Examination. — ‘Do wounds often heal by the first intention?’ ‘Not '.vhen the patient is rich and 1 the doctor is poor.’ ‘When does-iLeitifi-cation ensue?’ ‘When you put the ques-i tion, and are answered—no.’ Only One O’Clock.— Mr. coming home late one nigh from ‘meeting,’ was met at the door by his wife. ‘Pretty time of night. Mr. for you to come home—pretty times three o’clock in the morning; you, a respectabfu man in the community, and the father of a family!, . . “Tisn’t three —it’ only one, I heard it. strike. Councils always sits till one o’clock.’ ‘My soul! Mr. .you’re drunk —as true as I’m alive, you’re drunk. Its three in the morning.’ , I ‘I say Mrs.—, its one. I heard it! strike one, as I came round the corner, 1 two or three !>"’ ‘’s '

THE TWO OFFERS. BY MARY W. STANSEY GIBSON. CHAPTER 1. ’A contented mind is a continual feast.’ The words fell, half unconsciously, 1 from the lips of a young girl, who stood i in the door of her father’s cottage and looked out upon his pleasant farm. It was a lovely scene on which her eyes rested. Across the road, and before the house, a fine orchard sloped down to to the pastures, where the flocks and herds of Milton Ainslie where grazing. At her right hand a smooth, level stretch of green-sward, with an old well-sweep ris- ' ing toward the sky, lay smiling in the afternoon sunlight, and at her left, a flowergarden that had been planted by her own hands filled the air with fragrance. Old ■ Rover, the house-dog, crouched at her | feet, wagging his feathery tail, and trying, I vainly, to catch her eye, but for once he was unheeded. A fair, open, smiling face, had Sarah Ainslie naturally, but now it was overshadowed by a frown, and the dark blue eyes looked half sad, half angrv. ‘ A contented mind is a continual feast, she repeated, thoughtfully. ‘So father often tells, me, and I suppose it must be ! true. But I never can have that here.— I cannot be contented in this lonely, out ( of the way village, and I don’t like to ; live on a farm. It is weary work. ‘Sally, I want you,’ saida pleasant 1 voice in the house. She turned away with a fretful sigh. ‘Yes, that is always the way. I almost hate the sound of my own name. — ! What can’t they call me Sarah?’ I She went into the kitchen with a lagging steo, fully expecting to be set at some household task. But her mother sat in her great easy chair and her father was lying on the settee at her side. Two 1 open letters were on the little round stand (before them, and both were looking very grave. ‘Come here, Sully,’ said her mother. — ‘Sit down beside us. We wish to talk with you.’’ The girl sat down on a low footstool | beside her father, and laid her head down besides his. He stroked her dark brown ; hair, fondly. ‘You are now eighteen years old, Sally,’ said her mother. ‘Quite ayoung woman. I was married at that age, Sally.’ ‘And you are thepicture of your mother, Salley, as 1 saw her on her wedding dav,’ said the old maa, fondly. ‘Other people besides us have seen that vou area woman,’ resumed her mother, after exchanging an affectionate look with her husband. ‘Here, on this table before me, are two offers of marriage for y° u ’’ , o, ‘For me, mother? Sally started up now, with looks fullof interest. ‘Yes, for you.’ ‘Let me see them. Who are they from, mother?’ ‘One is from John Grant.’ The girl’s face was suffused with a deep crimson flush. The other, from old Mr. Lovelace, the millionare. She was pale now, as death. She held out her hand for the letters. Her mother gave them to her, and watching her narrowly, saw that the yonng farmer’s was read first. It was a frank, honest, manly letter. — The young man askeal for their daughter asif she was the most precious thing on earth. It was evident how deeply and tenderly he loved her. His affection stamped itself in every line. But the old man wooed the girl in a different strain. He said little of his love, but spoke eloquently of the splendid city home made ready for his bride, of the diamons she should wear, and the proud and aristocratic circle over which she should reign. "Th' girl’s cheek flushed, and her eyes sparkleu as she read lhe alow at her heart faded away iu the glitter of those unseen jewels, and she laid the letters back upon the table with an air that showed her mind was fully made lup. I ‘Well, my daughter,’ said her mother, j gently. , i Sally colored and hung down her head. | ‘Mother, I like John Grant very much, I but only as a friend, I think. I don’t . i want to marry him.’ The old man started to his feet.. ‘What! is it Sally that is speaking so. Is it my girl that has encouraged an honest fellow to love her, and now casts him off like a worthless thing, because an old 1 doting fool, old enough to be her grand- ! father, offers her a few pieces of colored 'glass? Sally—I —I ’ i ‘Husband!’ The gentle hand laid upon his arm, and t,h< gentle eyes that met bis own, quieted his rage. He sat down again and sighed j heavily. ‘Well, Sally, I have always said you ' should marry to please yourself, and I’ll keep my word. Not another word will

“Our Country's Good shall ever be our Aim—" Willing to Praise and not afraid to Blame.”

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, MAY 29,1857.

I say against it. But remember, as you make your bed, so you must lie iu it; and mark my words, you will rue the days when you marry Simon Lovelace for his j money. Oh, that I should see a daughter of mine- ’ He checked himself, and rushed out of the room. He had taken an unwise course. ' The girl might have been won over by I gentleness, but, now all the pride of her , nature rose up within her at her father’s ! words. Her mothersighed as she looked at Her, mid fcit »i,«t a ]| persuasions would be useless now, •Sally, you little know' what marriage I is,’she said at last. ‘I am afraid it is the gold and not the man you covet. — Think for a moment. Can you love, honor and obey him?’ The girl’s proud lip curled scornfully. ‘Can you bear to spend your whole li.\ with him—to give him all your love—can you be true to him, my child, and cling to him as well in adversity? Think seriously.’ ‘Mother, I will try.’ But the girl’s face was averted, and her voice trembled. Mrs. Ainslie sighed, but the next moment her ;<iee brightened , as she saw a gay, handsome young man j leap tlie fence, as if disdaining the gate, • and cor ? up to the door. ‘Here comes one who can, perhaps, do more towards changing your resolution than I,’ she said. ‘J will leave you to talk to him.’ Sarah looked up as her mother left the room, and there upon the threshold stood John Grant, his fine face glowing with hope and pleasure. ‘Oh, this is cruel’.’she exclamed. Andi springing to her feet, she would have left I the room. But he stoped her. ( Why Sarah, how is this?’ he asked, ■ playfully. ‘You are not agoing to run ' away from me, just because I have spo- I ken out plainly, as an honest man should, I I are you? It has been hard waiting for a | year back, and you were so kind and I gentle with me last Sunday night, that 1 * I thought I must, try my fate at once.’ The young girl groaned at the recollection of that Sunday night, so full of inI nocent happiness, j ‘Let me pass,’ she said, coldly. •Not I, till you tell me wliat is the mat- [ i ter,’ he answered, taking both her lmn<k in his. She tried to a-’e them, but he held them fast. ‘ls it because I was vexed, last night, when you stopped in the dance, to let old I Simon’Lovelace fix the rosebud in your hair? Come—l will confess that I was wrong. I ought to have ’nown you bm ter. For me to be jealous of the -old man, was perhaps rather rideiulous. But you shall never find me so again. Only say 1 you will be mine, and he may kiss my bride on her wedding-day, if he likes.— What, still silent? I tell you I will never . care for him again.’ ‘Never?’ she echoed, looking in his face with a dreary smile ‘And yet you have greater cause than ever, for I am going to marry him.’ The young man started back, as if he I had a blow. ‘Sarah, you are not in earnest.’ ‘l am going to marry Mr. L6velace!’ she repeated. There was no need of freeing her hands now—he dropped them of his own accord, and stood looking at her in silence. ‘And so you have been trifling with me for a year back,’ he xclaimed, in bitter scorn, ‘Laughing in your sleeve at your poor dupe, 1 have no doubt, and setting your trap for the withered old miser — I Woman, if I had not. loved you so tender--1 ly and truly, I conld hate you as I would hate a friend. Do you know what you I have done? My misery will be your | curse. I shall be with you in your splendid home, and everything you see and i hear shall remind you of the man you i have ruined. Here is your picture,’ he , added, fiercely, tearing it from his neck. ‘Take it and’the golden chain with it,. ( since you love gold so well. Or let it lie there.’ He threw i. upon the fluorai i her feet, and turned away< ‘May God forgive you!’ lie said, as he turn' it the door to lake a last look at I the fair false face that had worked his ruin. ‘May God forgive you, and pity me! ; She lifted the dispised pietur f rom the floor, and gazing at the smiling innocent face (so different from her-. at that moI ment), hid it in her bosom, and burst inIto tears, But when her mother entered, j she was calm, and saying, simply, , ‘I shall marry Mr. Lovelace, mother,’ went to her own room. The mrriage was a dreary one. The old farmer kept his word, and said nothing more against his-dauguter s choice, but she read volumes in his clear blue eye. And when the vows were all spoken, and she turned away from her busband to | hide her face upon Ir r mother’s breast, and hear her low, fond blessing, she wishled with all her heart that she might die then, and be at rest. But death comes oftenest to the happy. I Sarah tried to love her husband —she

was certainly grateful to him for the ele- 1 gant home in which he placed her, and ; the jewels he lavished with a willing hand | to deck his young bride. But sometimes, when she stood in a gay and F fashionable ; crowblazing with diamonds, and the j envy of half the city, a momory of her j country home would come up suddenly before her, and the words she had utter,ed on that, most eventfnl day, seemed written in letters of fire wherever she' turned her eyes. ‘A contented mind is a continual feast.’ Her heart sank within her as she remembered the words, and fearful mistake she had made. -t'here were not wanting those among the gay throng of her acquaintances, who would gladly have won tho car of the beautiful Mrs. Lovelace with their words of flattery. But, with all her faults, she was a good and virtuous woman. The lessons her pious mother had implanted in b.>r young heart were not all lost, and she was true, in word and deed, to the husband who had learned to idolize her. A love so pure, and true, and deep as 1 his, could not f .i! at. last, to meet with its reward. By degrees she banished i b lage of her rejected lover from her nvnd, and devoted herseit to her husband. ( He little guesse ! the secret of her fond ' attentions, little knew that she was so lend, so gentle, and so good, in penance ‘ for the sin she had commited in marrying him; but lie fancied that she loved him, anil the old man was happy. Sickness came at h--‘, and laid him prostrate upon his bed. Sarah felt a strange panof remorse at the thou ht that he ; might die, and watched beside him night j and day. All that, the most faithful love ■ 1 could have promted was done, but the (old man’s days were numbered. And j they roused her from the deep sleep of utter weariness and exhaustion, late one ! night, to see him die. She knelt beside him, and kissed him fondly. He laid his trembling band up-, on her head with a tender smile. ‘From the hour of our mairiage,’ he ! said, speaking with great difficulty, ‘you have been my prido and joy. You have been a good wife, and you will have your reward. Perhaps I was to old, but that 'is all past now. Kiss me, my dear child.’ Her tears fell fast upon his pale face, Ifts sfia L-'O to press her lips to his. She felt them growing cold, and sank down with her head lying upon his breast.— j Never bad she felt so utterly alone as; then. And as she gazed upon the closed ieyes, and the happy smile that still lingered around his lips, she thanked God in her heart that he had never known the ' truth. In that hour of anguish her dead husband was far nearer to her heart than ' the living lover, in~all the flush of youth and passion, had ever been! CHAPTER 11. A little thiner, a little paler, and 1 more quiet in look and voice and manner, the widow moved once more around the , humble farmhouse of her father. Those lof her acquaintances who had kept aloof, lat first upon her return, fearful that the' wealth which seemed almost fabulous in their eves, would make her unbearably i proud and haughty, were agreeably sur-1 prised to find her greeting them even more cordially than before, and looking so pale and interesting in her simple I mourning that they went away much | : more delighted with Mrs. Lovelace than ■ they had ever been with Sally Ainslie. j The whole village was ringing with her ' praises. One told how had ' greeted her, and iiow she had insisted on j making her a present of a beautiful book ‘ muslin —anothar displayed a set of corrls, as a token of her liberality, a third waxed eloquent in her favor over a spleni did annua], which had just been received — and a fourth went into ecstasies at the sight of a portfolio of new music, which I was just what she had been longing for, for many a day. Then, too, the old fam- ! .; iliar furniture oi . e cottage had not been thrown aside for anj’ useless city trumpery; the old easychairs ttnrl pine tables were in their usual places, and some, chance visitor At the cottage had seen | I Mrs Lovelace eating bread and milk out of an old-fashioned pewter porringer, with as great a relish as if sh"lmd never seen 'her magnificent services of silver and Sevres china. If Sarah had tried her best to resume her old f oting in her native place, she bad accomplisned all she wished. But there was one per m whe listened to all these accounts of the pretty nidow, with a lowering br..w. From the day of ! her marriage John Grant had never been 1 known to speak her name. But neither had he been seen to pay any attention to another, though scores of pretty gills were ready and willing to ‘set their caps for him. John was considered, by intriguing mothers, and coquettish daughters, as the best match in the place, and eagerly sought, after on that occount. Rut. the efforts of all were in vain. He was always gallant i and polite, but never tender—and the mere mention of Mrs. Loveloce’s name 1 would drive tho blood from his cheek, and set bis heart to beating so loudly, that he

1 fancied it must be heard on every side of I the room. The wiseacres of the village wagged their heads and smiled knowingly al Mrs. Lovelace’s iciurn. Indeed, one of them went so far as to pour out all these sytnp- ' toins of unswerving lo’’e to their fair object. But much to the good l idy’s astonishI ment, Sarah neither smiled nor blushed I She trembled a little—turned pale, and , 1 then burst into a flood of passionate tears. ‘1 did not come home to be insulted I with stores of—that man, Mrs. Smith,’ i she cried, indignantly. ‘lt you wish to keep my friendship —never, never mention his name to me :: & uin!’ She burred out of the room as she spoke, and left the newsmonger to spread the story as rapidly as she chose. As a j matter of course. John Grant heard it before he was twenty-four hours older.— He turned away with a careless laugh, 1 but still the tale haunted him, and he found himself wondering, a dozen limes! that day, as he followed the plough, what I such strange agitation could mean. — Could it be, after all that, Sarah remembered and loved him? His bea; . leaped ; up within him at the thought. I ‘I will go over there to-night, and ask her like a man,’he said to himself, at ' sunset, as he drove his cattle slowly to- j 1 ward home. 'lt’s no use my trying to j live this way. To see her every day in the : street, or at the window of her room, and ■ j yet to say nothing, is too much for me to I bear. If she will take me, I may yet be a happy m >n —if not—why the sooner I urn off, and far aw.-j lio.u this village, lie better.’ | Having come to this resolution, John , ! Grant saw his cattle safely bestowed for , the nigh* and went up to his own room to | .dress for the eventful intiiview. John i was no city dandy. He was simply a handsome, healthy, and robust young' farmer, and yet when he had doomed his , suit of black broad cloth, and brushed , his curly hair and flowing beard before j I the glass, I doubt ifß raodwny could ;bow 1 a finer specimen of manhood than he.—• i True, his cheek was sunburnt, and his hands were rough and brown, but his heart was in the Fnjit place, and his face, with its honest, fearless expression, was ' such an one as any woman might admire and love. lam sure I should have done so. After .one half satisfied look at himI self, John went down into the kitchen, mid I took bis sea'at his mother’s table. His little sifter had already climbed into the ; high chair beside his own, and wasprattling away about some gift dhe had received ‘The lady gave it to me, John. The lady gave it me,’ she cried holding up a little cornelian heart that hung from her neck. ‘What lady, Hattie.’ ‘The lady that lives to Mr. Ainslie's, and wears a black dress.’ Johnsuddenly bent down closerover the | trinket to hide the flush upon his check. ‘And what did the lady say to you?’ he asked, when he could command his voice. ‘She asked me what my name was,’ re-1 plied the eager child, ‘and when I told ! her, she kissed me and gave me that.— ; But what makes her look so sorry, John? ; II love her—don’t you?’ ‘There, Hattie, don’t talk so fast. Y’ou ' don’t give your brother a chance to eat his supper,’ said Mrs. Grant, whose keen ) eye detected her sons confusion. The little girl, thus admonished, sank | back in her chair, and looked at the heart j with a sigh of ineffable satisfaction that ' made her mother smile. John, relieved j ' from all further importunity, finished his supper in peace, and took his hat from 1 ' the table behind him. ‘What time shallyou be at home, John? ; ! asked his mother, as he went toward the door. For a moment their eyes met, and both ! 'smiled gravely. John had no secrets I from this dear mother. She read his er- ' rand in his eyes. I ‘1 cannot tell;’ berried. ‘I may be nt 1 home in an hour, and 1 may not come in till very late. It will not depend upon myself, you know.’ ‘Well, good luck go with you, mv boy. ‘Thank you; mother. Good-bye.’ He shut the cottage-door, and hurried 1 down the path that led to the road. Th.e i cottage of Mr. Ainslie was not far away, and his mother watching him out of sight | saw, with a beating heart, that he turned towards the house, and went through the little rustic gate that led into the orchard. Here she lost him, and went abou‘ her houshold duties with the prattle of her little girl ringing in her ears. If John Grant had besought favor of Venus, she could not have given him a ] better opportunity to declare his errand j than he had before hirn now. It was the ' custom of the young widow to walk alone in the orchard each evening, just as the brilliant colors of the sunset in the west were melting into lhe clear gray of twilight. It was the hour she loved best of the twenty-four, amt she always spent it alone. What visions passed through her brain, as she paced up and down that graSs-trddden path, it is not lor me to say. At all event;-, she was not thinking of

John, and when he stood sudenly before her, she started as if a serpent had sprang up at her feet. •You here!’ she said coldly, when the first agitation was over. ‘What can we two have to say to each other, Mr. Grant? : Fardvii me—the air is chilly and I must go in.’ ‘No—give me but one moment,’ he said ; hurriedly. ‘Let me speak to you once more, and then, if you will you may leave me forever.’ I ‘lf you had done what I have done I would consent,’ she answered in lhe same old voice. ‘II you had injured me, I . would forgive you. Rut I cannot be for- ' given— it hurts my pride—and that, you know, is the worst part of me.’ i ‘Stay one moment.,’ he pleaded. Tell me one thing.’ ‘Wliat is it.?’ ‘ln all these months, tliat have been ; such months of misery to me, have vou ' been happy, Sarah?’ I She smiled bitterly. ‘I see you wish to wring n confession from me, that you may soothe your wounded vanity with my grief. Mr. Grant, I b.nve been wretched ’ He came near- t, with an eager air, and took her hand. But she drew it away ; angrily.' ‘Because I Lave said that, do you think I will allow you to carry on this farce? Let' me pass, sir. And hereafter never dare to speak tome again. ’ i ‘Sarah—what do you mean.’ ‘1 mean’—she answered defiantly ‘that vou shall never have an opportunity to laugh at my weakness with Rose MeadI ows. She told me when I first came back ! here, that she was going to live in the old , homestead in another year.’ I Th.e lock of wonder and doubt on John Grant’s face, cleared away into a sunnv smile. ‘So she is, Sarah, but it is as my brother ' Richard’s wife.’ I She looked keenly at him. I ‘ls this true?’ 1 ‘lt is. Oh, Sarah, how could you think ! would ever marry any’ woman but you. You are the only woman I have ever loved—and if ■’ ‘Hush! If all this is true—if you havo loved me all the time, why have you avoided me so.’ He hesitated, and looked away. ‘Answer me!’ she said haughtily. ‘Sarnl.,’ he stammered—‘it was—it waa your wealth that kept me away. lam no fortune-hunter. I had made up my mind to go away and foget you—and yet I could not leave you. The young widow looked up to him with a happy smile. “John that wealth that has been such a fright to you, need trouble you, no longer. It is mine no more ’ ‘Thank Heaven for that!’ was the proud ' reply. Now I can speak out bravely. I loved you, Sarah, when we were younger but not so well as I love you now. My home is humble—it is very different from i that you have had—but 1 love you sinIcerely and will try to make you happy.—• Sarah will you forgive me for everything, ! and be my wife?’ j With a beating heart he awaited her answer. Iler face was turned away, but when he bent down, and caught a glimpse ‘of it, it was full of sunshine. “Will you Sarah?’ he repeated. “Yes, John.” He eaught her in his arms, and kissed her passionately. To know that she was all his own, when ho i had so nearly lost her, was almost to much joy. But she shook back the dark hair ; from her face and laughed heartily as she I stole from his arms. ‘John I told you mv wealth was mine ino longer. But I have only made a meni tai transfer of it. It is all yours now.’ ‘Sarah—have you not lost it?’ She made him a graceful little courtesv ‘No, sir—only that I have made it all over to you. Still, if it is likely to prove such a burden to you, 1 presume I can find ways cnongh to get rid of it.’ 1 shall not copy his answer. It might not sound so well upon paper, as it did there. But Sarah leaned her head against i his breast, and looked mound upon the beautiful scene with a smiling heart. It was the same on which she had gazed so discontentedly two years before. ‘A contented mind is a continual feast,’ -he murmured. ‘I could not understand it then—but now I think I fee! the truth of those words, dear John.’ True Dignity. —A woman, examined recently at the session, said—‘l live bv peddling. I sell al! sorts of needle work to ladies. I never sold such low things as lucifer-matches!’ Thus, it seems, there is an aristocracy of peddling—that eschews brimstone! Punch suggests, in anticipation of the • title to !><■ bestowed upon the Qecns physician. Dr. Locock, th.it he be dubbed Lord Deliverus. H — I ’Vhy is a wet umbrella like fat from ’ roast beef? Because its dripping.

NO. 16.