Decatur Eagle, Volume 1, Number 23, Decatur, Adams County, 17 July 1857 — Page 1

THE DFCAT TI R F A GT, F v r*. _l_ U 11 1 j /i. U Id iJj e

VOL. L

THE DECATUR EAGLE. |BprBLISIIED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING. Office on Main Street, in the old School House, 9K one Square North of J. & P Crabs’ Store. Terms of Subscription : Torone year,sl 50, in advance; $1 75, v ithin months; s‘2 00, after the year has expired. aS.- No paper will be discontinued until all arreiagi s are paid, except at the option of the j|blisher. Terms of Advertising: Spue Square, thi’ee insertions, $1 Oil subsequent insertion, 25' s®LtNo advertisement will be considered less jßin one square; over one square «ill be coun»ed and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. JOB PRINTING. ■ffe are prepared to du all kinds of JOB WORK, in a neat and workmanlike manner, on the most reasonable terms. Our material for tft completion of Job-work, being new and of the latest styles, we are confidenfrthat satisfaction can be given. BJ.aw of Newspapers. . Subscribers whodo not give express notice i he contrary, are considered as wishing to con inue their subscriptio is. K. If subscribers order the discontinuance of ihbir p ipers, the publisher may continueto send thbm until all arrearages are paid. is'iS. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their pstoers front the office they are held responsible till they have settled the bill and ordered the piper discontinued. Oj. If subscribers remove tootherplaces with out informing the publisher, and the paper is I »tfl’sent to the former direction,they are held responsible. ■j-The Court have decided that refusing of take a paper from the office, or removed and leaving it uncalled foriseaiMA facie evidence of int' ntional fraud. •|n the MORNING SOW THY SEED.’’ BY MRS. L 11. SIGOURNEY B Yes—sow your seed at morning, Before advancing day Comes in its plentitude of power To bear your hopes away— Before the quickly-rooted weeds, That ask no culture’s toil, Spring up, ami who their mushroom growth Usurp the yielding soil. ■ Yes —sow good at morning, k AJui’.a.isn the world is strong ■ To set in dark array the plants Os violence and wrong— Thorns hath it too, and brambles, And tares that mock the trust, And Sodom’s apples only fill’d With bitterness and dust. Sied sowers! ye are blessed — A glorious right ye hold, A kingly power the immortal sound Like plastic wax to mould— Come forth, before the sparkle Os the first dew is dry, And train Heaven’s angelic bowers, That which can never die. j Why is a woman in love like a man of ■ profound knowledge? Because she un-1 derstands the arts and sigh-ences. Why wouldn’t you sell anything to a man in bed? Because a cash business is best and it is evident that he would be buying on lick. III Ti Hl ■ •Do you like novels?’ asked Miss. Fitzgerald of her backwoods lover. I can l say,’ he replied, ‘I never ate any; but 11 tell you I’m death on possums.’ Short Memories—There are no memories so short as those of the parvenu, and the ungrateful man; the first forgets him- i self, and the second his friends. Society.—‘Be prosperous and happy, never require our services, and we will remain your friends.’ This is not what society says, but it is the princple on which it acts. Woman, bv the decree of nature, has smiles like the kind heavens, for all creation; and when clonds intervene, and she is sad, her very tears like rain and dew ire equally beneficial. ‘Oh, dear, Mr. Foster, you jest, when you sav my baby is the handsomest one you ever saw; you must be soft-soaping it. ‘Well, madam, 1 thought it needed soap of some kind.’ They dress cool down East. A young lady being asked if she would not wear a bonnet to church, replied ‘that she would not wear anything else.’ If she did go to church on tint occasion, we think she barely got there. Love-Humbolt notices that the streams in America run languidly in the night, and await the rising of the sun to quicken their flight. Love is to the heart what the sun is to our American streams —it moves languidly in its absence. A wag says, it is a folly to expect a girl to love a man whom everybody speaks well of. Get up a persecution, and her affection with cling so fast that a dozen ; guardians cannot begin to remove to; them.

HEARTS AT REST. BY MARY W. STANLDY GIBSON. CHAPTER 1. ‘ln the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin’s breast: In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another nest; In the spring a livelier irisli changes on the burnished dove; In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’ The Eastman farm’ was the handsomest in all the country round. Two hundred acres of the best kind of land, and kept in perfect order by Mr. Eastman, his two sons, Charley and James, and b*vo hired men. Every one admired the farm, and every one liked the house. It was a pleasant, home looking kind of a place. The house itself was a large, square building, which had once been yellow, but which had grown gray with time.— There were patches of moss upon the roof and wooden doorsteps, and the trees that had been planted by Charley Eastman’s I grandfather, when the house was first built, now overtopped the roof, and threw their giant arms high up into the sky. The square front yard was filled with rose bushes, and syringas, and locust trees: I and the broad, walk that led up to the door was paved with the blue flag stones, and ! boarded, on either side, with box and ■ | mignionette. There were heart-shaped! beds of pinks and violets, and round beds of tulips, and square beds of daffodiles and monkshood, and at each corner of the i vard, at regular intervales alongthe walk, great peonys or ‘pinys,’ as the country people call them, that were the pride and glory of old Mrs. Eastman’s heart. The old front yard was full of dim and fragrant recesses, and quiet nooks that held rustic seats, put by Charley—in short, the most delicious place in the world, for a flirtation or courtship—and so Charley j found it to his cost. An orphan cousin named Susan, lived in the family as one of the children.— She had come there when Charley was a little boy, and Mrs. Eastman, who had no daughters, had grown attached to her, and refused to part with her. She was a pretty, innocent looking girl, with black ■ f-yt?s find dfvrU l»air> tl»o nvih' er of her age in all the country round.— 1 ' But surely, Charley Eastman, handsome,' ' eager and merry, as ho was, need never ' 'had fancied himself in love with her! This was the way it happened. The spring of Charley’s eighteenth year, was a beautiful one. The snow vanished early, and in the latter part of April, the i back door of the farmhouse was set wide I open, for the bright sunshine to stream jin upon the yellow floor. Charley had j been closeted in the dark parlor, even I since breakfast, intent upon finishing ‘a ; novel’ which he had borrowed of a friend 'in the village. As a matter of course the I lovers were made happy at its close. He I left the youthful Edgar and Belinda stand- ■ ing at the altar, and sauntering out through the kitchen, stood a moment in in the door. The soft, warm sunshine fell all about him—the birds were singing merrily in the garden beyond the stone wall—the hens were scratching in the fresh, moist earth, and croaking to each other in a subdued kind of a tone — and’-all seemed full of fresh and beautiful | life. The spring time of nature was on earth around him; and the spring time of life within his soul. He thought it must be beautiful to bo loved, and thinking thus, he turned and watched his cousin Susan, as she flitted up and down the ! kitchen, sweeping and dusting. She was ! young, and pretty, and graceful. He marked her fresh, fair face—her rounded ' figure, her taper ancle and plump little : foot, and felt, in his heart, the first stirrings of an indefinite trouble. Poor boy! he thought it love! His resolve was taken. ‘Susan, come here!’ he called. The young girl came, and leaning upon her broom as she stood before him, look'edup in his face. She bad never looked i prettier than then, with the flush of I healthful exercise on her cheek, and the I joy of an active, even temperament sparkj lino 1 in her eyes; and the inflammable heart of her cousin beat fast and quick. ‘Put down the broom, Susy, and sit down here with me.• He spoke so gravely, that she looked in his face with surprise—but obeyed him without a word. He took her small brown hand in his. ilt had been darkened and hardened by ! constant labor, but he only thought of its pretty shape, and how well a plain gold ring would look upon the third finger. ‘Susv,’ he said, plunging, ‘in media res’ at once, like a brave fellow, ‘I have been thinking that I should like to get married.’ Susan blushed and played with her i apron string. ‘And I want you for my wife, ’ pursued her eager wooer. ‘Why, Charley Eastman, what nonsense you are a talking!’ I' The sunburned cheek of the girl flushed ■to a deeper red, though, as she spoke, 1 and Charley saw by the half smile that

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

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, JULY 17, 1857.

played around her mouth, that she was I not very seriously offended. ‘lt isn’t nonsense, Susan. lam in I earnest, and I wish you would be. Come Susan, say yes.’ I ‘Nonsense—let me go.’ •I ‘Not till you answer me,' said Charley, resolutely, holding fast the. hand that : tried to free itself. See—there is father coming up from the barn after me. Now ! before he gets here, you must give me , !an answer. Which shall it be, Susy—i yes or no?’ The girl was silent till the farmer had nearly reached them. Then she tried to escape again. ‘Let me go, Charley—let me go.’ ‘Tell me then which it shall be.’ , ‘Oh, dear—what will uncle say!—Well —yes —then, if you ( will have it so. Now let me go.’ | ‘Give me a kiss first;’ and catching his betrothed bride in his arms, he kissed her, very unceremoniously, much to the astonishment of his father, who reached the doorstep, just as the blushing Susan snatched up her broom and ran away. ‘Charles, my son, what does this mean? | j asked the farmer, looking stearnly at the I boy. j ‘Nothing, father—only you are a going to have Susy for for a daughter one of j these days.’ ‘Ah.’ The farmer paused to digest the idea, and smiled graciously. But turning jto his son, who was going whistling toward the field with his hands in his pocket, he added sagely—‘For all that sir—l am very glad you think of marrying the girl but you may as well do your kissing in the house, in future.’ ‘All right, sir!' and Charley walked off, thinking what a simple affair courtship | was, after all, and wondering how ‘Edgar ' and Belinda’ made use of so many large words aud fine phrases, when a simple 1 question and answer would have done quite as well. It was known all over the village, before long, that Charley and Susan were to be married. Charley was considered a luckey fellow, by all who knew the nota l ble qualities of his bride elect;—l suppose Ihe considered himselt so, likewise. lie knew Susan would make a good wife—- ' but he did wish, sometimes, that she ■ would not think so often of the churning or baking, when she was with him, or j leave him so often, to see to pickles and preserves, when he felt particulary affectionate and romantic. Still, the two years slipped by and not a doubt of her fitness for the place she was about to fill, or his affection for her, entered Charley’s mind, til! the Sunday before his wedding day. lie was sitting between Susan and his father, in the old-fashioned pew at church, with his mind running a long way from the sermon which the good minister bad just commenced, when his eyes, in wandering over the seats, fell upon a face that made him start. It was that of a girl some eighteen years of age, who sat in the deacon’s pew, besides the deacon’s daughter, Ellen Clark. She did not look like Mr. Clark, or any of the family.— Hecould see, even where she was sitting down that she was tall, and slender, and elegantly formed—he saw, moreover that one of the whitest and smallest bands, ungloved, and with a diamond ring sparkling on the third finger, supported her j oval cheek. Her face was not beautiful : —but it was intellectual—dreamy —everything he had fancied in the ideal woman |he had once loved—her hair, of a soft, light brown, waved over her broad temI pies in heavy bands, and her dark, blue I eyes were fixed thoughtfully upon the floor, as if her thoughts were also far I away. Charley gazed at her with bis i soul in his eyes. The deacon was not ia ; his pew, and a portly, middle-aged gen- | tieman who occupied his place, was sound ( j asleep, so their was no one to rebuke him., i At once the secret of his indifference to j I his betrothed wife rose up before him.— I He had never really loved her, and now. meeting the woman who was his fete, he ; could not stir to win her. He cursed the ; hour in which he first thought of love, j and wiped the cold dew from his forehead as be gazed at the stranger. She roused herself from her reverie, with a gentle sigh, and those dark, blue eyes, glancing round at the congregation, met those off Charley Eastman. Ido not know what she read in those hazel orbs—but at first she looked astonished, and then a deep crimson glow suffused her face. She turned away, and Charley dropped his eyes, fearful of giving her pain. But all throngh the sermon, that face was in his mind, and he was saying to himself —‘Oh, if I bad only seen her before —if I were only free to try to win her now!’ When the service was ended, and every one turned to go home, he looked once more towards the deacon’s pew. The lady had risen, and the portly gentleman was folding her silken scarf over shoulders a sculptor would have envied for a model, lie saw her draw on her white kid gloves, and come down the aisle, leaning on the arm of ’he gentleman. !!•' waited, with

i Susan standing close beside him, and as j she passed, the fringe of her scarf caught in his pew. With trembling fingers he disengaged it, and the lady looking up to thank him, met his eyes once more.— I Again that crimson tide flushed her face, I but she bowed coldly and passed on.— Charley went home in a state of mind bordering on distraction. He did not even know her name, and on tile following Wednesday be was to be married. . But Susan was more fortunate. Calling CMa» k’s on lite >v'ik>«ring day, she was introduced to the stranger from New York, and left an invitation for her < to attend the wedding. Poor Charley knew nothing of this, and it did not. detract from his embaressment, when on ; the wedding evening, he entered the par- [ lor of the old homestead, with his bride, i to see the lady of whom he had thought and dreamed constantly, leaning quietly on the arm of the old gentleman whom he had begun to hate, and waiting to see him married! The room seemed to whirl before him, and he was pale and silent as he stood before the clergyman. How could he speak the vows that bound him Ito another, while she was so near him!-- ■ But it was done, and standing like one in a dream, besides his bride, Charley received the congratulations . of the com-! pany. She stood before him, and kissing the bride, bowed gracefully to him.— Charley gazed upon her in anguish—she was lost to him forever. ‘Bless me.’ said Susan, in a bustling way that jarred painfully upon his excited nerves, ‘1 forgot to intro luce you to outnew friends. Mr. Charles Eestman— Mr. and Mrs. Edward Vane.’ Charley bowed, but turned still paler than ever. She, too, was married—the man he had taken for a father or uncle ; was her husband! The color forsook his lips and cheek—he staggered and fell, ! fainting, at her feet. There was a terrible confusion in the 1 room, for a fainting fit, among these strong men and women, was a most unusual oc- 1 currence. When Charley opened his eyes, his head was resting on Susan’s bosom, and the white hand of Mrs. Vane wac hnti, •■‘S, silo vvmyivo HtUC. Due when she saw that he was conscious, she lose up and passed into the garden, with his brother James. It was but a few moments’ work for him to overrule all the objections of Susan, and invite all the company there. He saw them scatter through the quiet walks —and saw Susan, arm in arm with Ellen Clark, before he started in search of Mrs. Vane. He found her alone leaning against the stone wall, with a cluster of white rose in her hand. ‘You here!’ she said, in astonishment, looking up in his pale face. ‘Yes—will you give me one of those roses?’ he asked, abruptly. She gave it with a careless smile, and drew her shawl around her with a slight shiver. ‘lt is cold,’she said turning away.— ‘Where are they all?’ ‘Stay one moment,’ murmured Charley forgetting everything. But she did not hear him, and gliding gracefully along the walk, she went to meet her husband, who was approaching, aud taking his arm, ; went into the house. Charley Eastman sank down against' the cold stone wall, and pressed the white rose to his lips. ‘lt is the only token I shall ever have of her,’he murmured. ‘But if God had willed it how I might have loved that woman. Calmed and soothed by the burning tears that had bedewed the poor, pale flower, he placed it next his heart, and returned to the house. The guest were departing, and he was just in time to sec her wave her hand, as she rode away in 1 Deacon Clark’s great wagon, by the side of her husband. She had an elegant home in the gay city of New York. He knew that she was to return to it on the I morrow, aud that it was improbably that i they should ever meet again. He gazed ! after her, and sighed; then followed Susan ! into the parlor where his father and mother sat, and closed the door. He shut out ! love aud beauty —but he bad had his wish. | He was a raarieu man. CHAPTER 11. Morn close his footsteps winds T! .j.agic music iu bis heart Beats quicK aud quicker, till he find The quiet sleeper, far apart. Ilisspirits flutters like a lark— He stoops to kiss her—on his knee. ‘Love, if they tresses be so Jars, How darx those hidden eyes must be!’ T KWNYSON. The married life of Charley Eastman was what might have been expected from his wedding-day. As the years went on, his parents died, and his younger brother married Ellen Clark, the Deacon’s daugh ter, and he and Susan were left alone in the old homestead, They had no children. Perhaps they might have loved

I each other better had such been the case. I ■ As it was, they «< re a quiet, sober couple, ' living peaceably if not happily, together, and fast laying up those riches, which to (lie dreamy Charley were of little account. I He superintended the farm, it is true, but ■it was evident his heart was not in his i i work. His happiest hours were spent in j the old parlor al home, over his books, :'or in the house of his brother James. A I little child, with dark-blue eves and sunI n y Lair, often sat upon his - i-ik be wis there, and praiUod to him withuui fear. His little niece was named George, < after the friend Ellen had loved so well. llt might be for this reason that he held '' ■ the child so often upon his knee, and kiss- ! I cd its fair, open forehead. To Susan, he was always kind and ini diligent. No word have ever passed Ins i lips tocause her unhappiness. She thought I ! herself his first and only love, and was j | perfectly satisfied with the quiet way ini ! which he showed his affection. It was well for her that she could not look into ! the heart, upon which her head had so i often rested. But though Charley could . : not quite forget the vision that had dawn- i ied upon him, only to fade, he never let ' i her suspect his secret—never let her know ’ (that in the private drawer of his secretary I I a faded and withered white rose, encased ! lin a golden locket, was treasured as the; dearest thing he held on earth. For twelve years, Susan was the presiding divinity of his home; but death comes i ! alike to the busy and the idle. It came ' toiler, while all her household duties were around her. Her husband enteri ed the parlor one morning, where she was I lying sick, with a cluster of roses and; violets for her. She smiled faintly—‘They are very pretty, Charley—but | the roseleaves are good to dry. I am | glad you got them, though. I He stooped down and kissed her, as he laid the flowers upon her pillows. She ! smiled—put her feeble arm around his neck, and closed her eyes with a sigh of 1 satisfaction. He did not move lest he i should disturb her. But by and by the ■ slack arm fell, of its own accord, and cheek pressed against his own, grew cold. Shi I 1... J frr».p tr ill- - ly. lie tlruiiKvil O<hl 1X)1 vii <t— —<m<.i the last act of his during her life had been a kindness and a caress for her. It would be wrong to say he did not mourn for his wife when the grave had covered her from his sight. For twelve years they had never been seperated, and he was lonely and lost in his great house, when her coflin was carried out All the memory of her kindness came up before him too forcibly to be borne. His brother James returned with his family to take possession of the old homestead; and the widower set out on a long and aimless jousney—that in seeing new places and persons he might forget his sorrow. Two years had passed away before he returned. His carriage topped at the village tavern, whose landlord though one of his old playmates, failed to recognize him under the disguised of a luxuriant beard and moustache. A sudden whim ! seized him. He would visit his family as ' a stranger, and see if they would iccog- 1 nize him. No sooner had he conceived this plan than he hastened to put it in i execution. j It was twilight when he lifted the latch |of the front yard gate. A boy some six years old was playing among the shrubbery with a little girl of three in whom Charley had no difficulty in rcognizing his pet, little George. He stopped and looked at them. ‘Where is your father, my lad?’ he asked carelessly. ‘My father? He died when I was only a little baby,’said the lad, shaking his brown hair from his forehead, and looking up in astonishment. Charley started she met those deep blue eyes. It was the faithful copy of her face that was smiling on him now. He passed his hand over his eyes, indignant at his own weekness. ‘lf you would like to see my mother,’ continued the boy, who was uneasy at the stranger’s silence, ‘she is it; the parlor yonder,’ and he pointed to the half-open door. ‘Shall I show you the way?’ ‘No—yes,’ said charley, hastily, while I hope, too wild, ' thought, to be real, I shot through the heart. ‘I can find my way, and you must stay here to play with i the little girl. What is your name, my . boy?’ I ’Char'ey, sir/ Charley! His own name! Could it be she had also remembered him? He sprang up the path, entered the parlor, impatient to know- his face. But he choked himself upon the threshold, as the golden light of the dying day showed him the occupant of the room. Georgia had been reading, sitting upon a low stool, with her book lying in a great easy chair before her. But the warmth of the day, the solitude of the room, or the stupidity of the author, had sent her -sound asleep, and she was lying then before him with her head bowed upon her clasped Lands, and resting on the book

He walked softly across the' room and stood beside her, so that he could see her face, .-he looked a little older, but tin: color on lip and cheek was bright as ever her brown hair, slightly losened, Lad fallen ovei her while neck, and the hand that lay so listlessly beneath her cheek, was still white and elegantly formed, and glitering with the diamond which had been her wedding ring But for the dress of black, and the boy with blue eyes was playing in the garden, he could sc.ircelv h.,,.,. , , -, passed over that graceful head and slender iorm—that fourteen years had striven in vain to drive her iuiige from his constant heart. He forgot that in that very room he had been mariied to another—that the coffin of his dead wife had rested almost where Georgia was now slumbering so sweetly—he only remembered that the only woman he had ever’loved was then before him, and that he was free. He sank down upon his knee and watched her. Her warm, light breath was upon his cheek, intoxicating him with joy.—Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he came closer—closer—and pressed his lips to hers in a long lingering kiss. She started ia her sleep—he sprang to his feel, and when she opened her eyes he stood upon the threshold of the open door With the kiss, of which she had supposed she dreamed, still lingering upon her lips, she rose hurriedly, and came forward to meet tl.< stranger. In the imperfect light she failed to recognize him. He took the chair she gave him, and sat down beside her. ‘Have I the pleasure of speaking to Mrs. Vane formerly of New York? he asked, in an assumed voice. ‘You have, sir.’ ‘My errand is with you. Have you any recollection of the former owner of this house?’ ‘Do yo mean Char Mr. Eastman?’ she asked. ‘Charley Eastman—yes,’ replied the stranger. ‘You remember he went on a long journey, two years ago.’ ‘I do.’ ‘Hina* j-nil ever hpar.t Lin. .1n,1n... lito XYfudtlill . ‘Not directly—though I have sometimes seen his letters to bis brother.— But what do all these questions mean?’ ‘Be patient, and you shall know. Do you remember his last interview with you, on his wedding-day, some fourteen years ago?’ The widow blushed deeply, ‘1 do.’ ‘ I ou gave him a single white rose. ‘How came you to know al) this—and why do you ask all these questions?’ site ask nervously. ‘Because i have come to bring you back that rose. It was his wish.’ ‘He placed the locket in the hand that was mechaniclly extended to lecieve it, and rose as if to go. ‘Stay,’ she gasped—‘tell me more.’ ‘He loved you, Mrs. Vane, with all bis heart. But he was married and sowas you, and honor kept him silent. What ne suffered, only God and himself can know. Keep the rose, if only in respect to the unfortunate passion you inspired.’ ‘Where is he?’ she asked eagerly. The stranger looked at her sadly. ‘What if Le were dead, Mrs. Vane!’ The color faded from lip and cheek in a moment, and she bent her head upon the faded rose with a bitter cry. ‘Dead! dead! And he never knew how I loved him!’ In a second, Charley was i at her feet. | ‘Oh, Georgia—my life—my love—can it be possible? Forgive me—l 1 dbly i wished to try my fate. I never dreamed ■ you loved me. Look up, tny darling, and I smile on me!’ ‘Charley—Charley, is it indeed you?’ The sudden surprise was too much—she threw her arms around his neck, and wept, it was long before they were calm ; again. I ‘But I never dreamed you loved me,’ repeated Charley, when they were sitting [side by side for the first time. never would have known it, had iwc not both been free,’ she answered, I with a sad smile. ‘I tried to forget you I —l had a kind and gentle husband, and I tried to give him al! my thoughts. Wo i were happy, and he lovod me dearly.— Hid he in - . -;..,d she livec?, 1 should never have seen you again; but now thank God—uvw it is no sin I’ ‘Thank God, it is no sin!’ repeated the happy lover, as he drew her graceful head upon the breast where he had never thought it would lie! The two brothers still live in the old homestead, and the little Charley and Georgia are constant playmates. It is the dream and hope of Ellen Eastman’s life, thaUthey may grow up to love each other but Georgia, the cider, only smiles at the idea. And Charley is happy. There are no more vague repinings—no unsatisfied yearnings to torment Lis heart. His

NO. 23.