Decatur Eagle, Volume 1, Number 37, Decatur, Adams County, 23 October 1857 — Page 1

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VOL. 1.

THE DECA TUR EAGLE. PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING. Office, on Main Street, in the old School House, one Square North of J.& P Crabs’ Store. Terms of Subscription : For one year, $ I 50, in advance; $1 75, within six months; $2 00, after the year has expired. O' Nopaper will be discontinued untilall arrerages are paid, excent at the option of the Publisher. Terms of Advertising: One square, three insertions, $1 Ou j Each subsequent insertion, 25 ' O’No advertisement will be considered less I than one square; over one square will becoun- | •ted and charged as two, over two, as three, etc. | JOB PRINTING. are prepared lodo all kinds of JOB WORN, in a neat and workmanlike manner, on the most reasonble terms. Our material for the completion of Job-work, being new and of the latest styles, we are couli lent that satisfaction can be given. Haw of Newspapers. 1. Subscribers whodo 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 continueto send I them untilall arrearages are paid. 3. If subscribers neglect oi refuse to take their papers from the office they are held responsible [ till they have settled the bill and ordered the ; paper discontinued. [, ■l. If subscribers remove to other places with- : out informing the publisher, and the paper is I *still sent to liie former direction,they are held responsible. (EFThe Court have decided that refusing of take a paper from the office, or removed and leaving itnncall ;d foriseaiMA facie evidence of intentional fraud. —— — 1 CANNOT LOVE HIM. MOTHER. BY ANNA MARIA WELBY. _ I I cannot love him, mother, Though the Earlie’s son is he He should wed him with some other. Who hath acres broad in fee For bis brow the hauteur weareth, I That becomes him, of his line, And his eye like falcon glareth— ’ 'Neath its proud light I should pine. 1 1 cannot love him, mother. t I cannot love him, mother, I Though his voice is soft and clear, < I am dreaming of another i While its music fills my ear; t V'mi. mv chr><>l-,au'f brow are biirninp . And my eyes 1 dare not raise, ; For the light within them spurning S All the truth of what he says. 1 1 cannot love him, mother. I cannot love him, mother. Though his titled home is fair, Though the peasant is my brother, I would not be lady there! i For, were wreathed among my tresses All the jewels of his race, They would light for his caresses, But a poor, pale, mournful face. I cannot love him, mother. I cannot love him, mother, Though he loves me well, I trow! And he’s gone, I know not whither, Who hath won.myjgirlish vow, Who, though st ately hall or castle. He hath none in all the laud; Os this heart hath made his vassal, Though the Earlie wins my hand. I cannot love him. mother. I cannot love him, mother, Though he doubts not, in his pride, That a silken garb would smother All the grief my heart would hide; Yet beside him, in my slumber. If one face should haunt my dream Ju that pictured room and sombre, ’Twould be his I dare not name. I cannot love him, mother. I cannot love him, mother, Though my Jamie—he is poor, I would rather roam the heather Where his borne is—on the moor! Or, where light the young fawn b«ra» i Through the greenwood wander wide Where my hunter’s bugle soundeth, Than lobe the Eadie's bride. I cannot love him, mother. im-" Mean.—To torment helpless cats, or superanuated horses —to enjoy pelting unoffending frogs, or tying tin pans to the tails of dogs; to rob birds’ nests, or terrify little girls half out of their wits; to snarl up old maids’ knitting cotton, turn their work boxes upside down, or ever to ask them why they don’t get married, to impose upon people who are in your power; to try to ‘put down one w horn you once treated as an equal, solely because he has been so unfortunate as to become your employee. The nature which can domineer over and insult the unfortunate or helpless is ignoble to the last degree such people are not worthy of humanity, imperfect as it is. It is said that the kind mothers of the east are growing so aticctioDhte that v»ej give their children chloroform previous to whipping them. — Ex. When will these slanders cease?

“Coining buck Soon!” ‘You are coming back soon?’ every one says to the eager boy who is going out from the quiet of his native village to make his way in the bustling world beyond. ‘Oh, yes —as soon as I have made mv fortune,’ is the laughing reply, and the good-byes are exchanged, and the yellow stage-coach rolls off, bearing more hope i and happiness upon its back seat, than, I with the same occupant, it will ever brino-’\ ’ back again. ° I ‘Coming back soon.’ The boy little , knows that he never can come back! Something may come that will be taller, and more graceful, and more attractive’ and call his parents father and mother—something that will look, half-sadly, and half-contemptously, on the old familiar places where his youth was spent —but the boy—happy, eager, hopeful and innocent, has gone forever! ‘Coming back soon!’ Is this young lady, ringlected and flounced and gloved’ who plays the piano to a charm, and looks ■ askance at a kitchen towel and n. broom, ( the sunbrowned, good natured little Mag- | I gie, with whom he romped in early day's? | Maggie wore her brown hair in curls, fly ing in the summer wind—but this young I lady’s looks are pomatumed, scented, and : carefully ‘d me up,’ according to the last[ fashion. Maggie wore a blue gingham' frock, which has always danced before | his vision as the most champing thing in ; existence; but ‘Miss Marguerite’ arrays • her dainty limbs in Che most expensive ! silks, and' wears hoops of such vast circumference that he can only look on and , admire at a respectful distance. Some- ■ times, as they sit side by side, he remem- ' b.-rs the old times, and half wishes they j could come back again—but his first I glance at the composed face of the 1 lady beside him annihilates the idea, and 1 he heaves a kind of rueful sigh, and lets I it pass away. By-and-by. ‘Miss Mar-i guerit’ is married to a bald-headed, rich j old man—old enough to be her grandfath-1 er. He goes to her wedding, and drinks \ her health in the best of wine—he begins to dream himself of a wealthy wife; and to think it won’t do to be foolish, and that he must have an eye to business when he gives himself away. The fast young man and the woman of fashion meet often in their gay, city life—but the b;>y and girl to school, have ( strawberry fields and daised pastures long ; ago, and no one thinks of saying to them— , ■You are coming back soon?’ Coming back? Who ever yet came ' back, and’ found all things unchanged? i Drive up the long remembered roads, and j you will miss here a tree, here a patch of daisies and butercups and here an old grey farmhouse, which you had fondly hoped would outlast your day and generation. — Enter the town which was once a ‘happy valley’ to you, and what do you see?— Only a puny little village, with the pleasant walks you used to love turned into ■ ambitious sidewalks, and paved with the i roughest of stones, with the old familiar , houses and fences re-modeled and new painted, till you lose all the old landmarks with everything changed, and you. it may be most of all! Sit down, then, if you will, in your lonely room; call up I the forms of those you loved, who are now scattered far away, and try to people the dusty streets with more beloved faces.— Can you succeed? Is it not a poor, phantom that you strive to press to your aching heart? Was it wise in you, after all, this ‘coming back?’ Oh, the past is beautiful to look at, afar off but when we strecth out our hands to bring it nearer, it vanishes, and leaves nothing in our grasp, but thin and unsubstantial air! Strange! I sit in my lonely room to i day, and miss something familiar—some- * thing sweet —something very dear! It . will never linger here again; the sunlight i falling through the casement, will never tflav UDon that soft, fair hair; the white I hand will never gather these oiusu ruses; i the large blue eyes will shine upon me here no more. One page of lifes romance has been read; shut the volume and put it away. Much that might have blessed me —much I might have loved much that might have loved me—and much I can never hope to meet again—has consecrated this little—has passed away like a dream of beauty, and—alas that I should write it!—will beam and brighten here no more; is not, cannot be ‘coming back soon.’ But there is a land—thank Godl—there is a land, where all the lost light j and loveliness of life shall cluster around i us, with ten-fold the gold it has woin foi ! I us’here! There is a land where we shall ’ j sin and sorrow no more; where there shall ibe no more partings and no more tears; I where the young and the old, the happy I and the wrecthed, the bond and the free, shall alike know the loving kindness and tender mercy of a God whose divinest attribute is Love! I “0 Land, O Land for all the broken hearted! The mildest herald by onr fate allotted. i Beckens, and with inverted torch doth stand, j To lead us, with agentle hand Into the land of the great departed—- ) Into the Silent Land!”

“Our Country’s Good shall ever be our

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNIT, INDIANA, OCT. 23, 1857.

THE.GKEEI) OF G MX; OR, Elbert Bronson’s Example. BY MARY C. VAUGHAN. Elbert Bronson and his pretty little wife, Louise, were seated together one morning, about six months after marriage. I at the breasfast table, in their handsome new house on G Square. Everythin;' was very elegant in their new home, and Uie dining-rootn in which they sat was fitted up with furniture of oak and green, t and carved bullets, and uak-pannelled ceilings and walls, while there was pleaty of silver, and crystal, and French jna, glittering upon shelves and table.— * The toilet of Louise was fresh and beautiful, and one would have supposed that not i a single want could have crept into that i luxurious mansion. But while Elbert reads his newspaper, and, in his great interest in the money [ article, forgets to drink his coffee until it I grows quite cold, Louise sits opposite to I • him, behind the tray with its beautiful 1 breakfast service, in an equallv forgetful mood. She wants something, and is try-1 j ing to gain nerve to ask for it. By-and-bye Elbert lays down the news-' ! paper, and turns his attention to his neg-; ! lected breakfast. ‘I declare, Lou,’ he says,’ my coffee is I quite cold. Give me another cup, sweet J and strong. Ah, that’s right. Now for! 'au egg, and a bit of toast. I wi: h I had ' left the newspaper alone until I Lad fin- . isbed my breakfast. I’ve a hard day be-! I fore me, I expect, for old Mumpus has I I read that money article, as well as myself, \ I by this time.’ Louise opened her eyes very wide.— j She had never heard money articles dis- ! ‘ cussed at her father’s table, and did not tn the least comprehend her husband’s remark So she simply said—‘Have you so much to do, my dear, that you cannot take a drive with me this morning? I want your taste in the selection of some fall dresses. You know 11 have had nothing new since 1 was married, and have positively nothing to wear. ‘lf you’ll get ready at once, Lou, I can go with you; though what you can want of any more clothes, I cannot imagine, when 1 call to mind the wUn Cape May. last summer. Still, if you must have the things, I’ll go with you, and tell you what I like, though I can assure you my sisters i never could persuade me to bore myself i with their shopping excursions.’ ‘Ah, but you know a wife is very different from sisters. Mrs. Elbert Bronson, yon know, must have a new costume in which to receive visitors in her own house, and no person is more critical in such matters than her husband. ‘True, true, my pet; but don’t stop to ! talk. Finish your breakfast and be off at ! once, if you want ray company.’ Thus adjured, Louis hurriedly, and, if| I truth must be told, rather nervously drank j her coffee, and finished her meal. There j was something else upon her mind, which ( she had not spoken, but knew she must ! speak. Her purse had been well supplied, at the time of her marriage, by the forethought of her father; but she had used its contents with her usual liberality, and now it was empty. Her husband had given her money for their housekeeping expense —the sum which, by bisj mother’s calculations, was necessary for the first month. But he had never in-1 quired whether she needed anything for her personal expenditure, nor offered to replenish her purse. And she, accustomed only to receive money from the bands of her parents, hesitated, in a mariner which to coarser minds would probably I have been unaccountable, to make known • her wants. Her father •- . '' J "”>d“ known her perplexity, had said—‘You must now look to your husband, my daughter, for the supply of your wants. He is, in every sense, bound to provide for you; and if he has not sufficient delicacy of feeling to supply you with money voluntarily, you need have no delicacy about asking him. 1 could give you moti- : ev for your fall shopping, but Ido not i choose to do so, and thus make a precei' dent which Bronson may recall at some ' future period.’ Louise was silenced. She knew that , her parents had not given their consent I to her marriage with Elbert Bronson, wiih- ■ out many misgivings. They thought I him t>o hard and worldly, too much abI j sorbed in the indurating process of mon- ; ey-getting, and too little accessible to the i better impulses of humanity to be a con- , i genial companion for one who had been [ 1 so tenderly reared, and who was so sen- ■ sitive as Louise. On her marriage, her father bad provi- ■ ded her with an elegant trosseau, and ■ with all the plate and linen necessary for her house; had given her a sum of money I sufficient fur six months’ expenses, and I had paid into the hands of her husband

1 -Willing to Praise and not afraid to Blame.”

wenty thousand dollars. Although he was a wealthy man, he might well feel, itliai while Bronson was entirely prosperous in business, and had alreadv a fine [fortune, Louise had no further pecuniai claims upon him. Elbert Bronson had again taken upt: [newspaper, and did not observe his wife’s uneasiness. She had finished her break-! | fust, and there was no further excuse for; delay. The carriage had been ordered in half an hour, and there was no more than time for her toilet. So she rose, and creeping softly round the table, stood behind his chair. A painful blush spread ; < ver her face, and for the first time in *4>cr life, she fi It awkwardly. But she put ' her arms about her husband’s neck, and bending over him, she kissed his forei head. He moved a little, impatiently, for he was reading, but only said— 1 ‘There, there, run up stairs, Lou, and get ready, for 1 can’t wait.’ I But as she still stood without reply, he ! turned round. I ‘Did you want anything, Lou?’ ‘Yes, dear, there is something I want. Look here;’ and she displayed to him her 1 elegant little puise, open and empty. — 1 He had caught one of her hands, and was ! fondling it, but when he saw the purse, he dropped it, while something like a frown settled upon his brow. ‘Ah, you want money, do you!’ he ex- ! claimed. i ‘How much do you want, eh?’ Louise could not have answered that i j question, uttered in such a bard, busi-! | nessdike voice, if far more than her present needs had depended upon it. She ’ drew back from her husband, sat down, ( and burst into tears. Elbert did not obj serve this for some moments. He was ! rolling and unrolling the bank-notes in his pocket-book. He really did not know how much she required, as he turned to repeat his question. A man of delicate feeling and generons impulses would have J put a sum into the little purse, and han- i j ded it to his wife; but that would not have ; been the business-like way. So he turned to ask his question, and ( saw Louise weeping He really loved his wife. She was almost as dear as his j money, which he worshipped, and he was ! sard,-getting-lip”antr- going CO uei, auu i leaving all bis money upon the table. — ! ‘What - is it, Louise? Anything about i the money? I certainly did wonder what. you had done with the sum I knew you had. But never mind. Here is some in your purse, and 1 will pay your bill at the store. There, kiss me, and don’t cry any more. But let mejustsay tins, now, as she was leaving the room: ‘all I have is invested in business, and our expenses have been very large since our marriage; so we must be as prudent in personal ex- [ penses as possible. To live in this fine [ large house, to keep a carriage, and invite our friends to dine with us, helps to | keep up my position before the communi-' [tv as a successful business man; It is J 'only another way of adyerti-iug. But i we must calculate closely in what we ex- j i pend merely for personal gratification . Do you understand me, my dear?’ Louise bowed her head, she could not j speak, and hurried from the room. She did not, in the least, understand her hus-! band, and she was not aware what thing : she had done to make such a lecture nec- [ essaiy. But she was sweet-tempered and yielding; she had always been guided I by others, and was unaccustomed to any ' responsibility. She was quiet willing to I make her husband’s interests her own, if she could have known how. But she knew that he was rich, and as she had not gone down a step in the social scale in marrying him, she could not rightly understand why she should not still have the luxuries to which she had beeu accustomed, and make her toilet ’ wnn ner dwelling, and other accessories,

( fu cost and richness. I But while she was dressing, the thought i flashed into her mind, ‘perhaps it is be- ' cause he knows how young ami thoughtless I am, that he said those things. I I was foolish to care.’ So she dried her I eyes’ and bathed them, and presently ; went down, all radiant with smiles, in her i pretty carriage dress. Elbert was waiting, and the impatient horses were pawing ’•the pavement before the door, and presently the husband and wife were rolling '! down Broadway, their splendid establish- - 11 ment and their handsome, persons divid- ’ i ing the attention of such promenaders as “‘had leisure to observe what was passing before them. ’ i Arrived at the store, Louise found that ! Elbert exercised his ‘taste’ principally up- ' on the prices of the goods she examined 1 with the view of purchasing.' ‘This is a very handsome piece of silk.’ said the clerk, exhibiting the rich folds as ■ he spoke. 'lt is among our last importa--1 lions, and unique, I assure you, ma’am.’ Louise was just about to order the rer quisite number of yards measured off, I when her husband whispered in her ear: ‘That piece is three dollars a yard, Lou

: and here is one at two and n half, which suits iny ‘taste’ better.’ Louise looked at the piece indicated, and whispered in reply: • That color does not suit mv complexioi>. Elbert. I had rather have theother. •Oh very well, I thought you wanted my taste. Do as you please,’ Mr. Bron [son replied, haughtily turning away. Ihe tears rose to Louise’s eyes, and a bitter thought would make ilstdf heard—’lt is the money he cares for.’ But she i ('pressed both tear ind thought, and turned to her purchases. Another piece of silk was found at two dollars and a half, in colors suited to her complexion, which she called her husband to see, but he pretended to be busy examining some articles at a distant counter. So she laid ! ' aside the piece she had first chosen, with a little sigh, and took the inferior one.— ‘I am sure he will be pleased with that,’, she thought. The same process was • • d in al'. ; her different purchases. S. o inferior I articles were bought, such as her genu- [ ine good taste and knowledge of what bar- ‘ monized with her appointments of house j and equipage, would have led her to re- ' ject. But she could not bear to incure ! again the penally ol that dark frown and haughty reply. At length her purchases [ were completed, and the bill given to Mr. \ i Bronson, by his request. The frown returned, darker than ever, as he looked at its sum total. However, i he was not inclined to make a scene in the ; , presence of the clerks and loungers, so he I paid it, though with an ill grace. Bui, no sooner were the pair again in their car- j riage, than his wrath burst forth. Poor Louise was overwhelmed by his bitter words. She could accuse herself of noth- [ ing; she Lad followed all his suggestions, sacrificing her own wishes to his, in order to make the bill as small as possible; but j when she timidly' told him so, he only re- ' ' peated: ‘After my statement this morning, lj , confess 1 hardly expected such a display of extravagancy.’ [ She sat Mr. Bronson down at Lis place of business, and then drove homewards She bad intended going to her dressmaker’s, but she felt too disnirited. She ' ; alone to tnink oi it, to seek io Know her : ' dutv, and to learn to hear what she fear- i i eri was i.efuic her. When she arrived at ! ! home, she went directly to her room; and when her purchases were brought to her, ‘ | she tossed them into a drawer, without looking at them, and admiring them, as she would have done a few months before, ’ when in her father’s house. The sight , of even the papers that covered them was painful to her now. So she shut them up, and tried to forget that they must be j taken out, and made up, and worn —each i step in the process a remainder of the I first frowns and the first harsh words that | her husband had ever inflicted upon her. When Mr. Bronson returned todinner, |he seemed to have forgotten the occur-1 i renccs ol the morning, and Louise met i I him a little paler, perhaps, than usual, ! and a shade more serious. She had spent ■ . Hie time in thought more serious than she ( [ had ever before entertained. She saw a ! glimpse of the life that was before her; I she sew that trials were her portion — [those secret trials that embitter so many i lives at the beartstonc, where should spring the fountain oi the sweetest joys iof existence. She realized now, for the ' first time, the uncongeniality ol tastes and ; temperaments which het parents had feared. But she still loved her husband

very devotedly. This one shock could ; scarcely weaken such a love; and she trusted and hoped, though vaguely, as a lov- ' ing heart always will, in all hours oftrial She wished, above all things, to d<> riidil, and she resolved with a • ulei Snuuws, that could hardly ' n expected of one who had been lied favorite daughter, and was the idol ized bride of six months, to take no her ' burdens and bear them steadily and cheerfully. She resolved not to make her parents the sharers of her difficulties, judging rightly that their sympathy with , her might lead them to regard her husband with dislike and injustice. So she met her husband quietly and; cheerfully, though she was more silent than was her wont at dinner. But he was , in high spirits. He had gained a decided advantage over ‘old Mumpus,’ in con- . sequence of his early study of the money article—he had made about six times the : ’ amount of his wife’s bill for dresses in one transaction, and could afford to be in exceedingly good humor Meanwhile he was unconscious how he had cast from him the most precious jewel in his life’s ‘ crown —the confidence of the loving heart of his wife. The scenes of that day, modified of course by circumstances, were often repeated. When Louise summoned courage at last to go to her dressmaker’s, with the dresses she had purchased, she found lon taking out her purse, which. «h« had not opened «ince her husband cave '• ■■

to her hands on the morning of her shops : ping exp'dition, that it contained severaliank notes. But on unrolling them, what had beemed to her a generous gift, was | found lo consist of but live one-dollar nuti s—a sum so small as to make it utterly useless to go out to purchase the trimmings which where required. She ‘ was tin refori- forced to allow the dress- ' maker to furnish them, though she had intended, as an act of economy which she I thought her busband would approve, to ' buy them herself. The consequence of this piece of meaness was an item in the dressmaker's bill for ‘extras, which made Mr. Bronson frown, and speak more harshly than he ever did before. These scenes were but the beginning iof the end. Every day and every year added to the burden of sorrowful disappointment which Louise bore. Surroundied by all the outward appliances of Itixu[ry, forced to conform rigidly to appear- ; ances and the demands of station, she was I yet cramped and fettered by the exceeding meanness and aviiee ot her husband. !As children gathered around her, her [trials became more severe and constant, [and especially was this the case as those [children advanced to manhood and womanhood. Every item of her expenditure she was compelled to subject to her husband's i criticism. He exacted luxurious appoint- ; meats of dress and table, and yet grudged the money they cost. Dollars and 'cents were of ten thousand times more I worth in his eyes than the love of Lis wife or the respect of his children. He recog- ! nized no right of Lis w ile in aught that bei longs to him—property, house, furniture, plate—all was his, audit mattered not j that her dower of twenty thousand dollars had doubled and quadrupled itself in his ■hands. To dispute n hoisery bill, to utter tirades about the waste of kitchen ! scraps, to indulge in the harshest language about the chance breaking of a pain lot glass, and thus lacerate the heart of his faithful wife, were common occurrences; while enormous sums were paid for the education of his children—his sons at college, and his daughters in fashionable boarding-schools, because the world which ;of splendid misery until her children had ' nearly all reached years of maturity. She was pale, and wan, and fragile, and her ' friends were predicting the near approach of the time that should behold her release from trials of which she never complained but which they more than suspected. — ! Leaving her eldest daughter to take her place in the household, for a short lime, I she had been induced tu accompany one of her sisters upon a short tour, w hich her friends hoped might revive her sinking ' frame. Bronson had grumbled at the expense this expedition involved, but, for the first ! time, had been awed by the aged father ■of Louisa, who hinted that some account ! might be required of her portion, which ; had been settled upon her and her heirs. I’o these stem words were added some reference to her health, and the expression 'of a belief that he was guilty of a system :of torture which had sapped the springs ! of her life. Bronson yielded, because, as 'he said, he wished every thing done for ' her restoration to health, the failure of I which, he averred, he had not before peri ceived.

Louise was just arousing] to cheerfulness in the pleasant retreat to which her sister had conducted her, when tidings arri'-ed, the shock of which for a time prostrated all her powers of mind and body. Bronson had died suddenly. He had grown harder through years of gree;dy pursuit of riches, and when a poor i debtor, unfortunate in business came to him to beg an extension of lime he denied him, and waxed furious at his appeals and representations. He even so far forgot : himself, in his passion, us to i i-e from his chair and raise his hand for a blow. But an unexpected hand was intel posed--that of death. In his fearful wrath he had burst a • blood-vessel, the crimson stream flowed ‘swiftly from his mouth, and he fell back powerless. Without even being conveyed to his home, for instant death would i have followed his removal, he died in a few hours upon the floor of the office where ; for years, he had pdanned his schemes of wealth. The gloom of that sudden and fearful death was yet hanging over that house- ; hold, when Louise came back to it:— Many weeks had passed, for she hud been very ill since those terrible ridings reached her. The. first shock of such an event had passed away. Her children and friends gathered round her. nnd she soon ; found that, in spite of mourning drapery, in spite of the cessation of visits, except from her own family, she was happiei than ever she had been since the days of her girlhood. She hardly knew what to do with her recovered freedom, it was so stiange to act out her • vn impulses and

NO. 37.