Decatur Eagle, Volume 1, Number 52, Decatur, Adams County, 5 February 1858 — Page 1

TH E D I CAT CII IIG L E

VOL. 1.

■th e eagle. I W PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING. | jfflea, on Miin Street, in the old School Home, I one Square North of J. & P Crabs’ Store. I Terms of Subscription : ■ fo-nne rear. $1 50, in advance; $1 75, within ■gx months; $2 00, after the year has expired. ■i JT N" paper will be discontinued until all I sre/ages are paid, except at the option of the Wublislier. | Terms of Advertising: BjOnc square, three insertions, $! 00 Mpiach subsequent insertion, ‘--5 ■IT No advertisement will be considered less ■ $ "111! SijUrre: O’.'w square -.- ill beconn- ■#.! and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. I JOB PRINTING. ■We are prepared to do all kinds of JOB BfORK, in a neat and workmanlike manner, on ■ tin' most reasonble terms. Our material for ■tbe completion of Job-work, being new and of I (he latest styles, we are confident that satisfac- ■ ticn can be given. I Law of Newspapers. I J. Subscribers whodo not give express notice Ito the contrary, are considered as wishing to ■ tontinue their subscriptions. ’f subscribers order the discontinuance of I their papers, the publisher may continueto send I them until all arrearages are paid. ■|~3 If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their I capers from the office they are held responsible I fill thrv have settled the bill and ordered the ■ pop r discontinued. ■54 If subscribers remove to other places with- ■ jut informing the publisher, and the paper is ■ pill sent to the former direction,they are held ■ n«p»nsible. ■ I U"The Court have decided that refusing of ■ feke a paper from the office, or removed and ■ fearing it uncalled forispaiMA facie evidence of ■ intentional fraud. I A LOVER’S SERNADE. BY THOMAS WYAT. The stars from heaven are peeping Less beautiful than thee; Come while the world is sleeping, To change love’s vows with me. Come with thy bright eyes beaming, Brightly in beauty’s spell; Come while theearte is dreaming, Our tale of love to tell. Night’s holiest guards are keeping Their vigil round thy tower; Then while the world is sleeping. Sweet lady, quit thy bower. i The stars from Heaven are beaming Less beautiful than thee; Come while the earth is dreaming, To change love’s vows with me. TO THE WORLD! BY EMMA ALICE BROWNE. ■Sing for the blessed and tender declaring ■ That shines in the beamy of innocent eyes; ■Sing for the glory of winning and wearing ■ Fate in in its loftiest and lowliest guise! ■ling when the daybreaks of bliss over-sky thee; Sing when their sunsets of splendor depart! ■ Sing when the angel of death, passing by thee, ■ Knocks at the door of some cherished one's | heart! ■ for the strength that hath crowned thee 1 H victorious ■ O’er the wild armies of sorrow and pain; for the woes that have made thy life gioI rious—--8 Sing! for none sorrow and suffer in rain! when the heart bleeds thy song shall be | sweetest, Mourn fiilest music is born in the night! throught the storm of eacli battle thou 1 meetest— for the beautiful promise of light! when the sands of the grave overblowed I thee; ■ Sing when earth’s shadow lies furtherst and I dim! ■-? when the rivers of death overflow thee— of all is the victor’s last him! ■ ‘Samuel, my darling, my darling little I^fcnny,’said an aged mother, ‘l’ve not e^B tn your book for several days or more is it?’ , ■ '1 know where ■ ‘Well, where?’ it’s only lost kinder, in the barn j^B r °und out doors, summers, I guess; a ps its in the garret, or ahind the wood Two Fires. —-Two weasels an egg. The question was, which have it. us not fight for it,’ said the elder „iB e , asel > ‘but enter into partnership.’ s 'H Agreed,’ quoth weasel, junior. 1 these sleek skinned animals . e ?" between them, and each either end. H «y children,’ said Mr. Attorney Red1 ‘though you have but one client beJ’ ol *, see that you make the most of ir. ■ —-—. — - 0 whether a Woman is pas2 Bid* 1 * or a uju< * ato

THE LILY’S MISTAKE. Love’s Blossom and its Fruit. BY AN OLD CONTRIBUTOR* 'Mr Henderson, will you give me Alice? I love her, and wish to make her my wife.’ Mr. Henderson had lowered the newspaper, that he was reading by the shaded gas light, to nod to the youthful pair who stole into the library. He seemed a little surprised at the intrusion, but reverted at once to the ‘shipping list' which he was reading. ‘Brig J. F. Henderson,’ he murmured, ‘Larkins, from Chicago, 12HO bushels wheat, pretty good cargo that, will pay well. Ha! what do you want, Allie? ‘Father!’ ‘Mr. Henderson, will you give me Alice? I love her, and wish to make her my wife. ‘Your wife! You love Alice, and wish to make her your wife! returned Mr. Hendrson, with, a startled air and lowering brow. He looked scrutinizing! y for several moments at the two who, hand clasped in hand, knelt at Ids feet Very bandsome they looked, perfect types it seemed to him, of masculine and feminine beauty. The unsuned morning snow-wreath which the night-clouds twine about the casement, is not fairer than was her pure brow tier eyes were of the deepest and darkest blue, with a wondrous power of change that puzzled the chance recipient of their glowing glances to decide upon their hue; and, most rare accompaniment ot that exquisite complexion, masses of raven hair, in clustering bands, framed the perfect oval of her face. Her petite figure, cast in the most exquisite mould of feminine proportions, with its own peculiar swaying grace, reminded one of nothing so much as the lily, that loveliest of flowers, and had gained her the pet name of ‘Lily, among all her friends. Mark Stanford’s fair, regular features, , Ids glossy, curling hair of sunny brown, his light and rather restless eyes, were very beautiful, but a wondrous contrast to the pure, noble lineaments of the ‘Lily bent there by Ids side. An impression of a want of power in Mark, a vague, general impression of his unworthiness of Abce, came into Mr. Henderson’s mind as he gazed. Hitherto he had seen little and known little of Mark Stanford. He recollected now that, when, after reading the evening papers and perhaps writing a lettler or two, he strolled into the draw-ing-room to ask Alice for a little music, he had several times been annoyed by finding Mark Stanford sitting beside her upon the sofa, and so evidently monopolizing her thoughts and conversation that be could not, with politeness, make bis anticipated request. He remembered, also, that though Alice would start, upon seeing his annoyed expression, and move towards the piano-forte, yet there was an evident reluctance, new, and till now unaccounted for, in the movement.

He knew it all now, saw everything. Maik Stanford’s frequent visits and their cause, the Lily’s reluctance to give him his evening treat of music, which, lor years, had blotted out, with the divine harmonies of inspired composers the thousand jangling discon's ol the Babies of comme r cc, among which his days were passed, and sent him to pleasant dreams upon his nightly pillow. He saw it all now, saw that his life was about to be made desolate, nav, already was desolate, saw that this weak, fair-faced youth, had wiled w.th a few honied words, the love of that fresh young heart quite away from him, from his wife, from the home of her childhood and womanhood; had caused passionate visions of delight to pass across the unsuned mirror of her maiden soul, visions t hat should never meet their beautiful realization. With a great, but repressed pang the merchant averted his gaze from the restless eves of Mark Stanford, and looked straight into the deep orbs of his Lily. ‘Doyou love Mark Stanford?’ he said very softly, ‘and do you wish to take him fur vour husband? ‘Father! That simple word was all she uttered, but the swift, rosy blushes, that rose to her white brow were not more eloquent. He bent forward and touched with his lips the snowy, veined eyelids that closed beneath the gentle, loving pressure; he clasped for a moment the tiny handin his broad palm. Then he said, in a voice from which he vainly sought to banish all traces of emotion. •Go now, my Lily I will speak with you again. Ask your mother to come to me my, darling. Then, as if half reluctantly, he gave his hand to Mr. Stanford, in silance, and sinking back in his chair saw the two move down the long, dusky room, hand in hand, and disappeared in the shadows I that filled its lower space. The murmur of some low spoken words in Mark Stan-1 ford’s roice, and a half-broken sob that

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

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, FEB, 5, 1858.

he knew was from tbe Lily’s full heart, reached his ear. Then the door opened for a moment the two, with hands still enclasped, stood framed in the arched and carved doorplace, through which the light from the hall beyond was streamin'/, and looked back at him. The., they silently turned and Went out, the door was clos ed. and he was alone. Alone, and sad and desolate! The thought had come to him Vaguely, sometimes, that. Alice would marry, but lie had never contemplated her marriage as an inevitable occurrence, a fixed fact, until now. Under any, the most (avora Lie circumstances, !>e would have looked upon her marriage sadly, but now he was more than sad. It was not even that he knew nothing of Mark Stanforlh, the needed knowledge might be gained, but (hat be feared much. There was no power, and but negative goodness expressed in his face, while the restless movement of his beautiful eyes, and the delicate flexile lines of his smiling mouth and smooth chin betokened an unstable character

With his paper lying forgotten upon the floor, where he had dropped it in bis surprise, Mr. Henderson sat leaning his head upon his hands in deep thought, until the opening of the door again aroused him. Mrs. Henderson came hurrying in, with a perplexed and pained expression upon her fair and usually placid lace, an I advanced straight towards her husband. — She took his outstretched hand, and dropping into a chair by his side, burst into tears. ‘Laura, did you know anything of this? was Mr. Henderson’s first question. — 'Have you suspected that, an attachment was growing up between Mark Stanford and your Lily? 'Never, husband; the thought has not once occurred to me, but you know how much I have been engaged of late in nursing my dear mother. ■True, mv love. Ido not think of blaming you replied Mr, Henderson with a reassuring glance, for Mrs. Henderson’s words implied an apology. ‘But how did he gain the entr-e of the house? You know I leave all matters of that kind to you. and when 1 have seen him here, he seemed so insignificant that I never thought of inquiring about him. Bae! 1 have always despised pretty men, and shall do so more than ever the remainder of my days. ‘Het’s wry handsome, Mrs. Henderson replied, with a little sigh. ‘But. really, I do not see that he is to blame for that. He is very young still, and be may improve and settle down to business. •So voir do know something of him. — Tel! me what roti know.

‘Only this, husband. His mother was a sister of Judge Black. She is dead, and Mark is an orphan. The Judge was always very fond of him in his life-time, and left him a little proper'v, and, besides that left his fortunes to Mrs Black’s charge. She is very fond of him, too. and has him down here whenever he can be spared from business, for he is clerk for a wholesale firm in New Y’ork, and his aunt intends to advance the sum ntcessarv lor a partnership before long — Mrs. Black brought him here, a year ago. when he was visiting her, to A lice’s birthday party; and, as she lias Alice frequently with her. the two have seen a good deal of each other. And I have been so occupied with other things, that I never thought of its coming to this, or I might have prevent <1 il, perhaps.’ The very doubtful tone in which Mrs Henderson pronounced the last word of her little speech, brought a shadowy smile to her husband’s lips. ‘There spoke volumes fo r the omnipo tence of young Love, mv dear, he said.— 'A’oiing Love that ‘laughs at locksmiths, and eludes the vigilance of duennas and careful mammas. But,’ and the shadow of sadness again settled upon his face, ‘it stems that the mischief is done tow, and 'he falling in love of this young pair cannot be prevented. Their marriage can possibly. Is il belter to try to prevent it?

‘lndeed I cannot tell. hu«bind I feel 'that our Lily is worthy of a more sterling man. 1 te<l sine that in some respects her highest development, as a moral and intellectual being, will not, cannot be attained as the wife of Mark Stanford; and I have a strange fear that, if she marries ' him. she will find that she has made her whole life, henceforth, a long mistake.— ! But she believes that she loves him now. and is ready to put the utmost faith in him, even to the extent of taking him for her temporal guide and companion. ■With true womanly trust, Laura, and with all love’s blindness! Well, poor child, she is only fulfilling her destiny. Would that it might have been a brighter one, for though, in point of fortune and posi- ! tion. I have no right to look higher for j Alice, yet I have a distrust of the young man which at present I am unable toovercome. I will make inquiries to-morrow. 1 and if I firn* that Stanford's character is

■ nottentirely irreproachable. I will not al- j I low the engagement to take place ‘Yet you must be cautious, husband. Yol know that people will talk about it if we dismiss Mirk Stanford, they will say 1 tl.nt il Alice had been our own child we wolld have done differently, that we wish to prevent her marriage, and to keep her for our own companionship. ‘Laura, do you think it possible that such vety foolish and malicious things . can be said of us? Is not Alice in all 1 respect, as our own child? Could any fat .er ivt his daughter more? ‘I think not, indeed, mv dear: and no mother loves her child more fondly, I am ; sure, than I have loved Alice since I first took her in my arms, a pretty, smiling infant of a twelve-inonth’s age. Forsev- | enleen years she has filled up that, great. I bl ink of our childless existence. How I used to long, as 1 sit alone in th“se great! . j rooms, lor the prattle of a child’s merry ; ■ | voice, and the pressure of little dimpled ' I j hands, and how 1 used to dream at night i ■ ■ of cherub faces and rosy lips saving, lisp- * , ingly, ‘Mamma,’ till we took Lily from a I 11 a, oV m i» I 1> ~ , I «i » 1. . II I

O - ■ ’ - ~ num . the arms of her dying mother and brought her home to be our own. Oh, husband, how can we give her up, and see her go from us now? Mr. Henderson drew his weeping wife to bis bosom, and said, soothingly: — ‘Let us still hope tha*. she may not go from us. Our Ldly must, have lived ou> her woman’s destiny, only 1 had honed to give her to one eminently worthy of her If we find Mark Stanford unworthy, let us hope that she will be willing to resist this infatuation and remain in the sanctuary of her home. Let us go now to the dining room, and find if she loves this Mark Stanford so well as to be willing to trust him more than us.’ ****** A month later Mr. Henderson sat in his library at evening and read his papers. But it was not the shipping-list which nuv fixed his attention. He had read and re-read, and each time lhe expression of his compressed mouth grew deeper in sadness, the following announcement: — ‘Mai tied, on the 16th inst., by the Rev. James Fastbind, Mi. Mark Stanford, of New York, to Miss Alice Henderson, adopted daughter of J. F. Henderson, of this city. ‘Mrs. Mark Stanford,’ the old man murmured, ‘Alice Henderson, only my adopted daughter, and so that popinjay came and stole her away, and left me very sad ami desolate—yes, desolate, Le ad led, stretching out his hand to his wife, who just then entered the room, ‘and utterly lonely but for you. Remember this, Laura, if I should die before you, a home must be always kept for our Lily here.—

. God grant she may not be forced to fly to it from sorrow and despair. ‘Amen, said Mrs. Henderson, faintly, and then there was a silence until the 1 clock upon the landing outside pealed , forth the hour for retiring, and they went through the dim luxurious rooms, that ‘ seemed so empty now of all but sha.lows and stillness, to the couch where rest w-is chased away by vague, but not the L-ss anxious fears for her who but yesterday 1 had gone from them a bride. Mr Henderson had made every necessary inquiry in rel ition to Mark Stanford, and had learned nothing essentially to his disadvantage. That was the utmost that ! ’ could be said. The young man’s cliarac- , ter was one of negative good, no positive ■ evil could be asserted ot him, and in the same way neither could any po-i,ive good. And so, when Alice clung to her first love with all the ardor o! her deep, passionate nature, from which the icy exI terior had ail melted away in the warmth oi lhe hidden tires kindled by the touch !of love. Mr. and Mrs. Henderson could only consent, with trembling anxiety for - the result, to her marriage. And so, all trustingly, she had placed her hand in that ot Mark Stanford, and, turning her back upon her home, —leaving‘father and mother —’ she had gone out with him. to walk in his world, far apart from all the ' beautiful associations and the hallowed affections of her youth. For a time she was verv happy, wildly

I happy, coining home at unexpected times ■ j for tit ing visits, with her beautiful face i radiant with jov and hope. Then lollowI'rd a change, slight, at first 1 and only to be discerned by the eyes of watchful love, I and these noting it strove, with wellII meant self-deception, to hope it was but • the shadow of her new-found maternal cares. But soon after there e»me whispers of reckless extravagance, of dissipai tion, insane in its extent at times, of high ' play and siren influence too'easily gaining sway over a weak mind, and all these i whispers Rumor connected with the wine of Mark Stanford. Years passed on and whispers came no more; but instead. Rumor, trmnpettongued, heralded far and wide the errors. • and the vices, and the crimes of Mark Stanford. t told of bankruptcy, of ruin ous play, of drunken debauchery, of a ’ luxurious establishment that was not the 1 thehome of his wife it told of pot-

erty for wife and children, lightly enough to be borne if instead of coldness, and neglect, and blows, and curses, there had been but love in the poor shelter to which they had flown. So passed away more bitter years, and Alice still clung to her unworthy husband and resisted all entreaties to return to lhe the dear old home, where the warmest welcome and the most loving care awaited her. From that liome, ere iho.-e years had passed the kind old man, yearn ing over his drooping, broken Lily like a loving father, passed awav, with his last strength exacting once again from his weeping wife her ancient promise to preserve that last refuge for the one. He died lamenting to tile last poor Lily’s fatal marriage, vet never dreaming of infliclin<r the worldly penally of. neglect and blame upon lhe misfortune from which he would have warned her. But al last Mark Stanford’s course was run. d II trace* of his former self had long been lust —all beauty, all even of negative worthfnlness, everything but the restless love of change, the facile disposition that could resist no new influence, especially if, after the first step had been taken, its direction was evil. He died, and l.ilv shed some hot tears over the bloated face, so unlike the beautiful features of lhe Mark Stanford she had learned, in her girlhood’s home to love. She cut awav one of the mated nut-brown

curls, now thickly streaked with silver threads—tokens not of age, but ot rest less scheming and unholy passions, and then, when they had borne him awayti his plain, but decent funeral, she took her little ones by the hand, and left forever the poor shelter which she need no more call home. She went back to the home that awaited her, and the lender mother-love of Mrs - Henderson—went ‘home’ to be very happy in that love, bu‘. to miss the tones o’ one kindly voice, the pressure of one loving hand, the kiss of gentle lipk that she should never, never hear nor feel again. But she carried there to those dim rooms, who.,e luxuries appointments had. during years of waning lor her coming; been shrouded from lhe light, the merry sound of children's voices, aud pattering feet, that renewed the age of the seß-etyled grandmother, and caused her to live over, in many a simple memory and childish story, tie days of her Lilly’s childhood The robes of her widowhood were worn the customary period, ami then, throwing them aside, A' ce mice more entered society. So much respect she had rendered to the dead, for custom’s and her children's sake, but she was too truthful to keep up the farce of mournful devotion to memory of a man who, in outraging her dignity, and wounding herself respect had forever destroyed the existence of her love for him. She condemned l.erselt, therefore, to no forced seclusion, but came back to society with the zest caused by long abstinence. The Lily was more beautiful than in her girlhood. The suffering that had elevated her character had added new graces to her person. She was still young, still greatly admired, ami once more she loved—not with the feverish passion that had linked her young life with Mark Stanford’s, but with a deep and intense devotion tc a noble character—fitting mate to her own, and giving full guarantee, in a spotless life of ceaseless and worthy activity, that now she had not mistaken the true means of happiness.

The Lily’s only s rrow, on her second we Iding day, was, that she missed the approving smile which she knew would have dwelt on one dear face, and the fervent blessing of lips that death had si 1 lenced Many’ peaceful, many happy years have I ( passed since that day. Lily’s eldest . daughter has asked her molhei’» permis- I sion to marry a man strangelv like Mark ( Stanford, and that mothers warning words , and the sad history of her first mistake, : have saved the young girl from what . might have been the saddest fate that can befall a woman—a mistake in the bestowal of her early affections. Thus Lily’s! life and sorrows have not been all in vain, ‘ 1 and she is even grateful, at times, for the experience that gives her words lhe solemnity of the deep utterances of an oracle—the power to warn and to save. Punch slanderously says: ‘The sun is called masculine from its supporting and sustaining the moon, and finding her lhe wherewithal to ehine away as she does of a night, and from his bring obliged to keep such a family ot stars. The moon is feminine, because she is constantly changing, as a ship is blown about by every wind. The church is feminine because she is married to the State, and , Time is masculine because he is trifled | with by lhe ladies. Mrs Partington inquires what kind of razors are used in shaving notes? The spirit of departed Paul replies. 'laises of zsouteyU

Cure For Baulky Horses. , We saw an operation in " ater street t yesterday which we never heard of be j > fore. A man, with a stout I,envy horse in a lumber wagon, was trying to get his I animai to start. He was apparently I afraid to use the the whip, and so contefl--1 ted himself with coaxing. The horse capered and cut a variety of shines indie1 alive of a contrary disposition, but would not budge more than an inch or two out of his tracks. A red headed, comical looking genius, who had been looking on, and evidently enjoying the -ight, finally interposed, and besought the man to ‘let him show him how to make a baulky go.’ With some hesitation the man gave liitn the lines, and the bystanders began to chuckle, expecting soon to see a regular muss But the result showed that tbe chap knew wiiat he was about. He Slip* > ped lhe ends of the lines around the fetlock of the animal’s near forte foot and gave it a smart lift; then, taking him by ‘the bits, and giving the loot another jerk, told him he must start — and start he did forthwith. While the horse was in motion, ! the lines were quickly taken from the foot, and handed to the man in the wagand away went the baulky nag at a rapid rate. Red head immediately disappeared, and the spectators burst into a loud laugh at seeing his success and and the spiteful speed ot his hoarse. XI in

The Root of the Matter—An inv’ali irisent for his physician, and after detailing to him ihc whole catalogue 1 of his pains and a chess, he deliberately summed up thus.— Now, doctor, you have humbugged me j long enough with your good for-nothing : pills, and worthless syrups and trash — they don’t begin to touch the real difficulty. I wish you to strike the real cause of my ailment, if it is in your power to ; reach it.’ ■ I ‘With all my heart.’ said the doctor, ‘it ; shall be done!’ Then lifting his cane, wilh one blow lie demolished a decanter of brandv that stood upon the side boardl i ‘There,’ said he, ’drink only of heavens distillery—pure rain waler, and you wou't • I need my syrups.' : Guess doctors would be honest mtn |if their patients would let them! Even ■ so would priests, by the same rule; and lawyers, too, all — all become honest men 11 if a stupid world would let them. So . much for cause and effect. Conthadivtion vs. Expansion. — A lady inquired al o e of our our dry goods stores, lately for whalebone. The gentleman in attendence produced bundle alter bundle, but all to short, by several feet, for the purpose required. Another of the clerks seeing the difficulty and determining not to be outdone, made a search through the store in a Imps i of discovering the article of the required longitude. He was unsuccessful, however in a polite speech to the fair customer, ■ endeavored to explain how lhe case stood, ! by statingi — ‘That the extraordinary expansion of the ladies causing *0 great a demand lor long whalebones, all lhe big whales had I been kil'ed and used up, and there were none but little ones now in the ocean — but, madam, they’ll grow!’ Juvenile Logic—A boy leturned . home one evening from school, and told I his aunt that the teacher read out of the Bible a story about ‘a man (Elijah) ascending to heaven on a chariot of fire; and he said the man never died neither!’

Aunt—'Well, what of that?’ Bov—‘Nothing; only I know it’s a lie!’ Aunt—‘Are you so sure of that?’ Bov-—‘Yes; for don’t you see, wouldn’ he have been singed?’A very natural deduction, indeed, and one which aunty could neither deny nor yet explain—she having swallowed ths story wholesale from the ehurcli catechism like too many others, and which never could > xplain. Poor aunty retired muttering, something about ‘progressive age,’ and the sin of being ‘wise above what is written!’ Mr. Jones.—That is a fine horse you're leading Patrick. He carries his head well. Pat—That’s thrue. An’fl’s a grand thail he carries behind him. Jones.—Behind him! everything that carries a tail carry it behind? I’at.—No, your honor. Jones.—No? what don’t? Pat —A cint, sure. It carries its thail on one side, and its head on t'other. A man came into a printing office to beg a paper, ‘because* said he, ‘we like to read newspapers very much, but our neighbors are all too stingy to take one. Was this ‘measuring his neighbors’ corn by his own bushel?’ A piece of candle mav be made to burn all night, where a dull light is wished, by putting finely powdered salt on the candle until it reaches the black part of the wick. In this way a mild and steady light may be kept through tbe night, from a small pier* of caiid'e

NO. 52,