Decatur Eagle, Volume 1, Number 43, Decatur, Adams County, 4 December 1857 — Page 1

t o nffa tr r r a r t f ... ii Ei U 111 I A JL Ult I. A U.L 1.1

VOL, 1,

THE DECITIR EAGLE. PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING. Office, oa Main Street, in the old School House, one Square North of J. & P Crabs’ Store. Terms of Subscription : Foroneyear,sl 50, in advance; $1 75, within tix months; $2 00. after the year has expired. (LT No paper will be discontinued until all erreragvsare paid, except at the option of the Publisher. Terms of Advertising: One square, three insertions, $1 00, Each subsequent insertion, 25 j lETNo advertisement will be considered less than one square; over ene square «ill be counted and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. ; JOB PRINTING. We are prepared to do all kinds of JOB WORK, in a and workmanlike manner, on | the most reasonble terms. Our material for the completion of Job-work, being new and of I the latest styles, we are 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 untilajl arrearages are paid. 3. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their papers from tbeoffice they arc held responsible till they have settled the bill and ordered the paper discontinued. 4. If subscribers remove to other places without informing the publisher, and the paper is still sent to the former direction,they are held responsible. UJ*The Court have decided that refusing of take a paper from the office, or removed and leaving ituncalled fjrisrsiMA facie evidence o intentional fraud. Beauty Spots on the Face, They are endeavoring to lestore, in France, as a mark of exclusive fashionableness, the wearing of 'beauty spots’upon the face. These 'beauty spots,’ as we presume our readers are aware' are small patches of black court-plaster, sometimes cut round and sometimes square. When ' absolutely necessary to conceal a tiny wound, or a temporary imperfection of the skin, they are unobjectionable; but I as a resort for the embellishment ol the female countenance, they are offensive to I good taste in the highest degree, and can i present nothing but the arbitrary dictate' of fashion as an argument for their employment. In Mrs. Hannah Woolly’s Advice to Young Ladles,’ an English work of nearly a century ago, we have a capital description of this silly custum, then extensively in vogue. In that day the patches of court plaster, commencing with a single one placed on the cheek for the sake of eccentricity, increased in number and size until they obscured the lace with black representations of objects of every character. They took the form of half-moons, diamonds, and stars. Anon they assumed the shape of castles, horses elephants; indeed, as Mrs. Wolly observes •such is the pride and vanity of some gentleman that they have, in a manner, abstracted Noah’s ark, and expressed a j compendium on their foreheads and 1 checks; there are birds, beasts, fishes, so I tiiat their faces may be termed a landscape of living creatures ’ The world of fashion is just as preposterous now in its habits as it was then; and if these ‘beauty spots’ once recommence their career among us, they will doubtless be carried, in all respects, to as great a length of extravagance as they ever were in the days of our British great grandmothers.— ■ | Their French origin will only assure us of figures more free and more fantastic. ■ It is little that American woman get from | France and realise no injury Patched I morals, patched notions of religion, patch- ’ ed theories of marital faith and of Christian devotion. Patched cheeks will only be another phase of the same licentious disorder. What a pity it is our wives and daughters do not take more pride in being original, instead of being content to copy the manners and opinions, the cant and hypocrisy, the stale, worn out, flimsy conceptions of an effete nation, incapable of governing itself, and only distinguished by its excesses, its crimes, its corruption, its conceit, and its social irregularities!

"There’s poor Hardy Lee called again! said Mrs. Partington, on a trip to BostonThe wind was ahead, and the vessel had to beat up, and the order to put the helm "hard a-lee* had been heard through the night. "Hardy Lee again! I declare. I should think the poor creetur would be completely exasperated with fatigue, and I’m certain he hasn’t eat a blessed mouthful of anything all the while. Captain, do call the poor creetur down, or human natur’ can’t stand it.’ In passing through the streets a bier was struck against the corner of a house, and the corpse re-animated by the shock. Some years afterwards when the woman died in good earnest, her husband called out to the bearers, ‘I say, gentlemen, be careful in turning the corners.’ Reader, did you ever enjoy the bliss of courting? You didn’t! 1 hen you bad better get a little Gal lan.

THE VILLAGE BRAVO — BY SYLVANOS COBB, JR. Nearly every country village has its ‘bravo.’ We do not mean ‘An Assassin,’ nor ‘A man who murders lor hire,’ as Worcester explains the word; but we mean the one man before whom ail others must give way—the man who can ‘whip anybody in the town’ —the great big animal who thinks his position enviable, and who is envied by men with little bodies and littler brains.

Our villiage had its bravo, at all events and a perfect type of his class he was, too. His name was Jonathan Burke, though I never heard him called ‘Jonathan, bull once, and that was before a justice’s court. ■ Jack Burke was his name‘the world over, as he often said. He was a big, burly 1 fellow; six feet and two inches tall; with broad, massive shoulders; great, long arms; and a head like a small punkin. — His face was characteristic. A low, receding forehead; small, pug nose; thick, heavy lips; and a broad, deep chin. His eyes were of a light gray, verging upon a cat-like green, while his heir, which was coarse and crisp, was of a burnt, sundried color, neither red nor flaxen, nor yet of a dark hue. The only feature in the whole man which tended to detract from his herculean proportions was the ■ flat, or rather hollow, appearence of his I breast. To one skilled in anatomy, or physiology, it would have been at once apparent that he had but little of what is generally denominated ‘bottom,’ and that a long continued physical effort would have reduced his ‘wind’ to a weak point. Jack Burke was born and reared in our villiage, and ever since he had begun to go to school he had been the terror of all unlucky wights who chanced to cross his path. He beat bis companions without mercy, and took delight in being feared. As he grew older, he became more insolent and overbearing, and at the time of I which we write he was disliked by all the I decent people of the place. His voice loud and coarse, and it broke in upon all ' circles which might be gathered near ■ him.

And then this bravo did not possess that spirit of generousity usually betrayed by those who happen to be giants in size and strength. He was. on the contrary, low and mean, taking delight in tormentthe weak, and even lying out his full strength upon those not half his size. In short, he was a coward as well as a bravo He forced himself upon all our gatherings and seemed to take delight in stalking about, and realizing that none of us could ‘put him out.’ He was now twenty-two, and was fast forgetting all of usful knowledge he had ever gained at school. Among the recent accessions to the population of our village was a young doctor, named William Granby. lie was a small, pale-looking man, not over five feet and ten inches in height, and quite slim in frame; but the man who studied him closely would have seen that his paleness was the result of long confinement over bis studies, and was more, after all, a delicate fairness of the skin than a want of health. And it would also have been seen that his slight frame was a very muscular one, and most admirably moulded and put together. William Granby was what the girls of our village called a handsome man, and none of the youth envied him the flattering encomiums he received from the female portion of our community, for as we became acquainted we loved him for the manly and generous qualities we found in him. He was a warm friend, and a noble opponent. And Granby had proved himself an excellent physician, too; and though he had been in our village but a year and a month, yet the confidence reposed in his skill was far greater than had been reposed in the ancient blisterer and phlebotomist who proceded him.

One day some of us went into his study —he was unmarried., but being only threeand twenty, of course not a bachelor—we were invited in as we walked down by his boarding place, and were pleased to accept the invitation. His study" was a gem of a place for comfort, and among articles not absolutely necessary for the study of his profession we detected a rifle;' a set of boxing gloves; a pairof foils; a pair of heavy wooden broad swords; while upon the floor were a pair of dumb balls. I wondered what these latter were f or surely not tor doctor’s use, for I could do nothing with them in my hands, and swing them about at angle of some fortyfive degrees, and I was much heavier than he was. I asked him what he did with them.— ‘Oh,’ he said, smiling, ‘I exercise my muscles with them;’ and as be spoke he took them up and raised them at arm’s length, and there held them for some moments, his fine breast rounded out like a Roman cuirass. Then he threw them up, and out, and around, handling them as i though they had been mere toys. It 1 seemed impossible that so small a body

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

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, DEC. 4, 1857.

could contain so much strength, but he ' assured us that he had gained it all by \ practice. He had labored for years to develop a muscular system, in which lie . had been lacking when a child. And he , also said that by keeping his muscles well hardened and developed, he was better, able to bear the fatigue of his profession,, which called him from his rest often lot several nights in succession. We were making arrangements for a ; grand picnic in our village. The girls were making pies and cakes of all sorMS and shapes, while we youths were pre paring two tables, and clearing up the grove, which was just outside the village, on the bank of the river. They day at length came, and the sun smiled from a cloudless sky, and a fresh breeze came sweeping up the river bearing a greatful coolness upon its bosom. We reached the ground in due season, and only one thing came to mar the pleasures of the occassion. Jack Burke made his appearance upon the ground, in shabby, dirty suit, and with an insolent swagger. A chill ran through the whole crowd. Many of us would gladly have helped put him away, but we shrank from meddling with one who was so strong aud gigantic, and withal, so reckless and merciless in his wrath. We saw the thin, delicate lips of the doctor quiver as he noticed the filthy fellow swaggering about, but he said nothing then. One of our party was a youth named David Singleton. He was a quiet, goodhearted fellow, and beloved by all. He had waited upon Mary Livingston to the nic-nic. Mary was a pretty, blue-eyed

maiden of eighteen, and that she loved I David right fondly, we all knew just as i well as we knew that David loved her. It so happened that Jack Burke bad j offered, on several occasions, to wait upon Mary, and she had as often peremptorily refused him. He bad professed to like her, and had made bis boast that be i would have her yet, and, il 'David Sing- ! leton dared to put his arm in the way he’d drop himl* On the present occasion Jack was not long in seeking Mary’s side. David was nervous and uneasy. He was a light, small-framed youth and looked with dread upon the giant who sought to annoy both him and his fair companion. Mary asked Burke to go away; and as she sooke she turned shuddering from

him. ‘I shan’t go away,’ the burly brute returned. ‘lf you don’t like it you may lump it!’ ‘Come, Mary,’ said young Singleton, trembling, ‘let’s leave him.’ ‘You will, eh?’ cried Burke, seizing Marv by the arm, and drawing her back The affrighted girl uttered a quick cry of alarm, and Singleton started to his feet, quivering at every point. ‘Miserable " brute!’ he exclaimed, ‘let her go!’ In an instant Burke leaped up, and swore he’d ‘whip the youngster to within an inch of his life!’ In an instant all was alarm and confusion; but in the midst of the clamor arose a clear, clarion voice—‘Stand back! Stand back every one of vou! Back, I say—and give me room! The way was quickly cleared, and the young doctor leaped into the open space, his bright eye burning keenly; his face flushed, and his slight, handsome frame erect and stern. •Fellow!’ he thundered, ‘leave this place! Take your foul presence hence at once! Do you understand? What a miserable coward, to insult a girl! Shame! Shame! But go! go!’ For a few moments Burke was completely dumb-founded. There was something in the tones and bearing of the man before him. and in the strangely burning eye that beamed upon him, that awed him for the while. But he measured everything bv its weight and size, and the courage of the brute soon came back to him. ‘Who are vou?’ was his first remark, at the same time shaking his bullet-head threateningly. 'I atn the man who ordered you to leave this place! Your presence is very offensive You were not invited, and if you had any decency you would not be here:’ ‘Look here, my fine dandy!’ bellowed the brute ‘just you say I aint decent again, and I’ll spile that lady-like face of yourn, almighty quick!’ There was a quiet smile upon the doctor’s face as he replied — ‘Your very course now shows that you are devoid of all decency. A decent man would not stay where he knew his presence was offensive!’ With a fierce oath Burke raised his huge fists and darted forward. We would have interfeared, but Granby sternly ordered us back. Still we were fearful. What could the small, gentlemanly physician do against such a giant? But we were soon undeceived. Upon Burke’s first advance, Granby nimbly slipped on one side, and with a quick mo-

lion of his foot caught the giants toes, and sent him at full length upon the ground. Like a mad bull Burke sprang to his feet, and while the curses showered from.bis lips, he started upon Granby as though he wonli annihilate him at once. Calm and serene the young doc-J toi stood, and as the brute came up lie adoritly raised his left elbow, and passed the huge, dirty fist over bis shoulder, and at the same moment he planted his own fist full upon Burke’s face with a blow that knocked Lim completely from his feet. That blow sounded like the crack of a pistol, and was struck by a man who knew how to throw all his power to the best advantage wherever to use it. Jonathan Bmke arose like one hewileered, and so he was. Butina few momants he recovered his senses, and leaped towards Granby again. This lime the doctor performed a feat that was as surprising as it was effective. Like a thing of steel wire and finely tempered springs, bejuroped up and forward, planting both his feet upon the giant’s breast! Burke fell like a log; but his breast was heavily bored, and he was soon on his feet again. ‘Look ye,’ cried Granby, sternly, ‘you have seen enough of me to know that I am not to be trifled with, Now go away, and you shall go unharmed, save that one black eye. But if you trouble me more I shall most assuredly hurt you! 1 have given you warning.’ ‘l’ll lick ye afore I go; if I don’t ’ We will simply add that the remainder of this sentence was composed of fearful oaths, and that, while they yet quivered upon his lips, he clenched his fists and darted forward.

This time the doctor received him in a new fashion. He stopped every blow which Burke madly and clumsly aimed at him, and began to rattle in a shower oi knocks upon his face and head, and breast and arms, and body, that soon completely bewildered him. On they came—heavier and heavier —thicker and faster each one cracking like a pistol, and planted exactly where it was aimed. In a very I short time Burke was not only entirely exhausted, but his whole body, above, the waist, was beaten till the flesh was black and contused. He bellowed like a calf for mercy. ‘Will you leave the the ground at once? ! demanded the doctor. •Yes.’ •And will you promise never to annoy i Mary Livingston again?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then go!’ Like a whipped cur, as he was, the fellow left the ground, and when he was gone the young doctor, who had not even got a scratch, cried out in ringing, hapi py tone — I ‘Come, boys and girls, now to sport.— I’ll go and wash my hands, and then I * join you.’ Ere long cloud was gone and the day I ended amid cheers and smiles, and happy songs. Everybody might have been jealous had everybody wauled to, for everybody’s girl flirted and made love with him and honored him, so everybody was not jealous. Within a week Jonathan Burke left our village, never to enter it again. He couldn’t stand the sneers and gibes that were cast upon him, nor could he bear to I see those who had witnessed the summary punishment he had received. It was a glad day for our village when he left it, and the doctor never gave a more effective nor a more valuable purge than he did when he purged the place ot that incubus. One thing more: Within a week every young man in our villiage had a pair of dumb bells, and such another swinging and dinging, ringing, ami flinging of cold iron for the development of muscle was never seen before nor since, 1 venture boldly to assert. Pity.—Pity has been generally considered as the passion of gentle, benevolent, and virtuous minds; although it is acknowledged to produce only such a pari ticipation of the calamity of others, as upon the whole is pleasing to ourselves, As a lender participation of foreign distress, it has been urged to prove, that , man is endowed with social affections, which, however forcible, are wholly disini terested; and as a pleasing sensation, it , has been deemed an example of unmixed I selfishness and malignity. It has been resolved into that power of imagination, by which we apply the misfortunes of olhers to ourselves. We have been said to pity no longer than we fancy ourselves to suffer, and to be pleased only be reflecting that our sufferings are not real; thus indulging a dream of distress, from which we can awake whenever we please, to ex ult in our security, aud enjoy the comparison of the fiction with truth. Just So. —‘There is no place like home,’ says the poet. Right! unless it's the Lome of the young woman you’re j after.

From the Sandusky Register

A Chapter on Matrimony.

It is a mournful fact that this world is full of young men want in marry, but da-e not. Deny this, as some will, it is nevertheless true, as we can vastly show.— In this town for instance, there are some thirty or forty voung men. well to do in the way of business and salaries, yet they refuse to take the step which they want to take, but do not. Why? The larje majority of them have salaries ranging from five hundred to seven hundred dollars per year. No the first question to be asked by any sane mm, is, cm I properly support a wife if I take one? Then he I counts the cost of living as the woman of I his preference would wish, and 10l he (finds to his amazement that bis income is ; ■ vastly too small to support even a modest; I modern establishment; and, somewhat J maddened by that reflection, he plunges ; into labor and courts business withan assiduity that takes away his health I eventually, in hopes of attaining an income that shall enable him to marry and I have a home of his uwn. And this is the | I secret of the hard, unending toil of the i voung men to day, who are fast approach- ; I ing thirty years of age; this is the reason j iof so many disappointed men and wait- ; ; ing women, deny or hide it as you may. ; •But says some good woman, you do i us injustice, for an}' woman that truly lo>'es a man will adapt herself to his cir- 1 cumstances with the greatest pleasure.— ! B ut, what man of any sensitiveness or high sense of honour, would take a woman from easy circumstances, and a pleasant and well furnished home, to adorn bis 1 four little rooms, and to do his housework, as the first, principles of econemy would demand of him? Few will do it;' for though the woman signifies her wiljlingness to take up with such experience, we are all such creature of circumstances, that there would be complainings on her part, eventually and sickness from over exertion, unhappiness from many cares—all of which would render marriage any- ; thing else than pleasant. An so the young men very wisely think—prefering a few years of single loneliness, in order to obtain money enough tosupporta modest house of between twelve and fifteen hundred dollars a year expense, rather than to place a modernly educated wornfan into the house of six hundred a year, where she must do her own house-work, i Now, what is the remedy! Plainly that woman must fit themselves to be such j wives as the young men must have. Else ■ the young men must fit themselves to be I such husbands as the women want, and ’ spend the very choicest years of their life in the dismal drudgery of a ceaseless toil breaking down health, happiness, energy, | only to give themselves up to marriage when the best of their manhood is gone. The women must choose for themselve which it shall be, for the matter is solely in their hands. Let mothers say to their daughters—put on that calico gown; go j into the kitchen and prepare dinner; take charge of this household, and fit yourself ■to become a wife ami mother Let the young woman cheerfully consent io such i service; and instead of lavishing all thought, and time, and money, upon the adornment of the body, seek to accustom j the hands to proper industry, and to I school the mind to proper tastes. Then there will be no longer complaint that youni/n men ‘can’t afford to nii.rrv,’ and \we shall have beautiful, modest houses ' all around us, and women will have loving husbands, and all life once more have ' somethin? of the truthfulness and virtue ! which it had in the days of our blessed fathers and mothers, when it was womens ambition to become the head of the house and the mother of noble children. There’s some good sense lor you, girls.

The hope of the Aired. No man, however weakened by long life, is so concsious of his own decrepitude, as not to imagine that he may hold his station in the w rid for another year. Os the truth of this remark every day furnishes new confirmation. There is no t'me <.f life in which men, for the most part seem less to expect the stroke of death, than when every other eye sees it impending; or more busy in proving for another year they cannot arrive. Though i every funeral that passes before their eyes evinces the deceitfulness of such expectations, since every man that is borne to the grave thought himself equally certain of living —at least to the next year; the sur- ' vivor still continues to flatter himself, and is never at loss for some reason whv his life should be protracted, and the voracity of death continue to be pacified with some other prey. III 111 A ‘ready reply.— A young man, in a large company, descanting very flippantly on a subject, his knowledge of which was very superficial, the Duchess of Deon shire asked his name. ‘’Tie Scarlet,’ replied a gentleman who stood by.— ‘That may be,’ said her grace, ‘and yet he is not deep read. ——————n tee mi Dtedt are fruits -- words are but leaves.

The Benulics of Mature.

When the mind is tranquil, and the finer sensibilities of our nature attuned to harmony, they seem to be but choids responding to the magic of the beautiful objects that environ us—the strings of an JEolian barp, which vibrate to .-very passing breeze. The very spirit nf beauty seems living and moving around us. The enchantment of sweet sounds steal over the soul, but leaves their nature and their I origin enwrapped in mystery. Most varied are the sources whence this emotion springs: objects differing in the form and proportions—absolutely opposite in ll.eii ■ nature —seem equally fitted to excite and to gratify it. There is the beauty of spring, when nature, busting from her icy ■fetters, assume- her tol’i« her annt.'aljubilee. There is the till more jocund beauty of summer—nature's adolescence —with its brilliant sunshine, and its blossoms big witli promises of future joys — I nere is the sadder beauty of (he autumn, when nature, after bringing forth her flowers, and fruits, dons her russet robe I —a sober matron, less bright and gay, ' j but not less beautiful. Its fairast flowers have withered, and the deep green has passed into the sere and yellow leaf; and yet, with al! 'he sad associations which it brings, and emblematic as it is of man’s '.decay and death, its beauty moves the ' heart as powerful as the brighter hues -' and more gladdening associations of a j gayer season. And winter fins its beaui tie*, too, when nature, arrayed in her i snowy manlic, rests and renews her vigL or. M illlions of diamonds glitter in the i cold, bright sun, and every tree bends - i tinder its feathery load. The trees which ■ filled Aladdin’s cave, bending beneath ; their load of jeweled fruitage, could never ■ vie with these in brightness and in beauty. > , GOLD. r i Gold—bright, beautiful g O ld| What an r I interesting sight to man, "because it fil.ls -1 his heart in the market place— because it causes him to ponder, with brow on hand ’ pit the fire side, when he should hush the I whisperings of his counting-room's prer i siding god, by paying be'ter ed to the ' I sweet voices ot his household deities.

fMd’gold! How many hearts pine for it as bringing honor—how many hands close over it with a more earnest presuio than that which answers the greeiingof a friend—bow many eyes glisten over it that never glistened over tales of wo?— How powerful it is! It brings the gracious nod from leaders of fashion and rank to the owner of bonds and mortgages, be he never so poor in soul, and make dull the vision of such, when spiritual wealth goes by in a brother's form, whose material pockets, alas! know only a shilling. It gives some carriages, and leaves rough ! traveling-boots for labor plodding feet.— It graciously puts out its j'eweled hand to ' help the millionaire up the rounds of soI cial fame, while the poor shilling one lifts up his tattered foot with bitter disappointment for a similar ascent. It takes the life of rarest fish and fowl to gratify the pampered tastes of fastidious favorites, and makes dear Mother Earth find roots and such cheap t hing for her pauper sons. Man will realize the virtue that lies buried in glittering stones; he will not see the balm for stricken hearts which is hid therein, and so revels in selfish luxury and unblessed ease. He makes of it a bed of thorns, when it might give sweet . rest to the weary-hearted, and be to himself a pillow of down when night and memory come. He chooses the bead that rises to the wine-cup's brim, rather than the grateful tear which overflows the eye of blessing poverty. He u-k it | to lead the young and thoughtless through I the path which has a pleasant guide-post, but at the rnd a grave with no light around it, when he might lead them, by its well-used power, to a final restingplace, the way to which would shine with deeds whose brightness would go before . them to God’s throne.

A new cook every month is no unusual average for seven families out tff ten. iln reply to our asking, on one occasion, why’ it was not advertised that employers must bring references, a female Hibernian replied, 'Oh, when things looks agreeable we often take ’em without.’ A friend was accosted by a girl in the street, who desired to have a particular number poin- , ted out. He did so, and saw her going down the area of the house adjoining.-— i\V hen he told her of the supposed mistake she said, ‘Oh, no—it is no mistake; I always inquires the character of a lady from her next door neighbor before going , to live with her.’ A couple named Jerry Better and Louisa Well were lately married. The man who was killed by taking medicine had his epitaph written, ‘I was well, I wished to be better, took phistc, and here I am.’ Louisa could say, ‘1 was Well, I wished to be Better, took Jerry, aud here I am ' A Coffin (said an Irishman) is the house a man lives in when he i dead.

NO. 43.