Decatur Eagle, Volume 2, Number 2, Decatur, Adams County, 19 February 1858 — Page 1

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VOL. 2.

TH E EAGLE. PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING. Offios, on Main Street, in the old School House, l one Square North of J. & J? Crabs' Store. ; Terms of Subscription : For one vear. $1 50, in advance; $1 75, within ] six months; $2 00, after the year has expired. D* No paper will be discontinued until all! arreragee are paid, extent at the option of the Fublishct. — Tenijs of Advertising: (kvcsqUßre, three insertions, $! 00 ■ Kach subsequent insertion, _ 251 K)*No advertisement will be considered les;;) than one square; over one square will be conn- . ted and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. . JOB PRINTING. Wo are prepared to do all kinds of JOB WORK, it: a neat and workmanlike manner, on the most, reasonble terms. Our material for ths completion of Job-work, being new and of i the latest styles, we are confident that satisfaction cau.be given. Law of Newspapers. 1. Sab’Cribers whodonot give express notice I to the contrary, are considered as wishing to i continue their subscriptions. 2. If subscribers order the discontinuance of) their pipers, the publisher may continueto send ( them until all arrearages are paid. 3. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their papers from the office they are held responsible | till they have settled the bill and ordered the i paper discontinued. ■I. If subscribers remove Io other places with out informing the publisher, and the paper is still sent to the form.-r direction,they are held i responsible. 3-.rT.he Court h.tvo decided that refusing of > take a paper from the office, or removed and leaving it uncalled furisr&lMA facie evidence of; intentional fraud. THE VIKKING’S BRIDE. On the gulden cushions lying, where the woven silks are vying, With l.< r cheeks and tresses bright. Graceful a» a 'illy tender, couched in waves with sunset splendor, Ml alight, 1* the fair and gentle bride, Rosebud lipped and violet eyed. FieshjoU fresh as spring's first blossom, naked. B new-born at earth’s bosom, Sh" doth seem Strangely sweet as rich plants blooming, mystic ' magic groves perfuming Ina dr. t-m, When the d'ow-y brain d .tli ravel Haunting ialvS of wondrous travel. Should you look at her for hours you should think of nought but flowers. Nothing else, You might fancy every parting breath would set sweet life upstarting, Buds and belle; Only earthly doth she ssem. In that she is like to them. «SF-T ~ He that lends an easy and credulous ear to calumny, is either a man of very ill morals, or has no more sense and understanding than a child. Love And Vanity—Hall the errors attributed to love have their source in vanity; and many a person has made sacrifices to this unworthy passion, who would have successfully resisted the pleading of affection. Fickle Man.—There is, generally, speaking, so much is a man’s nature that is incomprehensible to a woman, that it is always a daring task for her to weigh his actions, or to attempt the diviniation of his feelings. His love is seldom her love; his faith is not her faith; his life is nut her life—only in moments of existence which shine out briefly and brightly in the dark expanse of memory, like stars on the purple firmament, does it seem that love and sympathy can raise the curtain. and let one soul perceive the other. For if woman knows not man, neither can he, except in rarest instances, regulate the spring of her faults, or discover the fountain ol her virtues. Never do it. —Never ask the age of an unmarried lady when she is past five -) and-twenty. Never expose your poverty to a rich relation, if you would have him treat you as a cousin. Never let it come to the ears of a rich j and childless relative thnt you secretly pray for his sudden and premature dissolution. Never speak so the gallows to a man whose father or grandfather has been hanged; nor of the corruption of office-hol-ders to a Government defaulter. Never speak of the ‘time that tried ; men’s souk’ to one of Tory ancestry; nor of the battle of New Orleans to one who thinks the army of England invincible. Never attempt to quiz a man in company who might retort by kicking you down stairs. Never let your friend know, when you drop in to take a friendly dinner with him, that your landlady ‘blocked the game’ on you, because you had not paid over your last week's board. Never impose secresy upon a man to whom you communicate- anything in con fidence; lie is sure to tell it to some fiiend! if you do.

MODERN PIIAKISEEISX ! OR, i True Charity and False. — BYMARY C. VAUGH AX. i t ‘Good by, my daughter, take good care of your health, and be sure and come I home on Saturday.’ ‘And Jennie, don’t forget to match the I plum-colored silk, and buy three yards of j lavender ribbon two inches and tbree- ! quarters wide, and no more. And Jen I nie, don’t be forward with the young men at Cousin Nancy’s but keep them at a j proper distance.’ j ‘And daughter, don’t above all, forget I that the old lather will be lonely at home I when his little girl is away. And here’s I a little more money, for your purse, to) buy laces and whim-whams. j ‘Tiss Willie, Aur.tJennie, and ’member | the little pony for I. So, with farewells and kisses from mother, and father, and ancient aunt, and weetoddling nephew, Jennie Latham started one summer after-nooon for the city. A ilongdiive of several miles along the ; smooth roads, beneath the forest arcades, iin the golden slanting sunrays, or the dewy, silent twilight, beside Henry Lowe, j I her lover and soon to be her husdand, brought her to the landing, where she was to take passage in the night-boat down j the river. For several hours the two waited there in the little passengers’ room by the river . side, speaking together of ‘.he future that lay so beautiful and hopeful bey ond the I chasm of this short parting. At length I ' the boat, like a huge puffing monster, was seen coming round a headland which hid the long reach ot the river above them and soon glided up the waif. Then theie j was a parting such as need not be dis- ) leribed here, for there are few who have; I not known the mingled anguish and de- i I light of lovers’ farewells, and then Jennie) . was k-lt on board the boat, which floated • • I ) out into the stream again, and passed on ■ its downward way. Soon she was sleep < i ing soundly in her berth, w ith rosy dreams ; i that would not be frightened away by the j '■ strange sounds which fell indistinctly up-1 on her ear; while Henry rode drowsily ■ back, feeling ail the more lonely for his j I pleasant companionship. In the morning Jennie awoke and found ) ' the boat lying beside its dock in New ) 1 iYork, while the passengers were already ) taking their departure. She dressed quickly and hurried ashore through the crowd of hackmen, apple-women, newsboys and itinerant venders of small wares that thronged the dock. She entered a carriage upon which her little trunk was placed, and was driven away in the di- . reclion of the residence of the cousin with whom she intended to stay. The street was far up town, and as they drove along Jennie observed the strange, unfamiliar sights of the city.— As the reeking, fetid smells rose up from the gutters filled with a foul flood, she ) thought of the dewy freshness of the j morning at Hillside, and contrasted the lazy clerks, slowly removing shutters and | opening doors, the slipshod servants liur- ! rying to market, or lolling over Area rail- j iings gossipping with their neighbors, I with the spruce farm laborers and neat ' dairy-maids at home. The contrast was) unfavorable, and Jennie owned to herself a little pang of home-sickness even before i the carriage drove up to the spacious res -) idcnce of her cousin. Alas! could she) have forseen the sufferings of the coming j hours how quickly would she have re-) traced her steps toward that sheltering . home. The driver alighted, and while Jennie j watched him, with a vague anxiety for which she could not account., be rang and knocked at the closed door. There was no sign of life in the establishment, and the driver came back to tell her that he could not gain admittance. Poor Jennie, simple Jennie, had entire-' i ly overlooked the necessity of informing Cousin Nancy of her proposed visit. — She had never corresponded with this cousin, who had been married from her i father’s house before she was born, and who was in the habit of reminding them of her existance only by long summer visits, frequently in company with a troop of noisy, ill-bred children She came unannounced usually, and Jennie, therefore, might well be pardoned if, in her country simplicity, she did the same. ; But she had timed her visit unfortunately. Cousin Nancy had made her 1 usual summer flitting with her family.— ’ I Her household was dispersed, and her house closed. This they learned from a servant next door, and that was all. Jennie was quite at a loss. Her cousin - wat her sole acquaintance in the city, and ’ there was no other roof of all the inyr- ' iads along the city streets to whose shel- l ter she had the slightest claim. By the bac'kman’s advice, therefore, she was driven to a hotel in one of the by-streets, a clean and quiet place where Jennie ] ' thought she might remain pleasantly du- ( rirg l-sr slay. But sad and very home- <

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

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, FEB, 19, 1858.

sick she alighted and went in. The clerk came obsequiously to show her into a parlor, and tne driver followed with her trunk and claimed his fare. Jennie paused upon the landing of the staircase and put her hand into her pocket to draw out her purse. But her countenance turned pale with affright as the drew it back empty. Her purse with all her little stock of money -was gone! ’ < Iler little basket was searched in vain. It was too surely gone, and the girl stood there penniless. The glances of the two men were fixed upon her at first with surprise, then with a strange mingling of compassion and suspicion. She burst into tears, and their eyes expressed sympathy. But when she conquered the emotion, by a powerful effort, and told of her loss, simple and touching as were her words, the old hard look of suspicion came ) back. The two were too much learned in the cold, cruel lessons of city life to )be able fully to appreciate her simple j ) story. The scene ended by the driver shouldering her trunk and conveying it away upon his back tn payment, as he jsaid, of a double fare; while the clerk went off, leaving the girl" still upon the landing, to tell the story to his employer., Leaning her hands upon the windowsill she stood and gazed out upon the paved court below, while the tears streamed down her pale cheeks She looked but saw nothing of the bustle and stir below, for her thoughts were far away in her Hillside home. Here, the clerk, coming back with the landlord, found her, and Seven their hearts, from beneath the hard strata of greed and suspicion, were stirred—just slightly stirred by her evident ) sorrow. Both were astonished at the unwonted emotion, and its only outward ex--1 pression was a request, on the part of the landlord, that she would take some breakfast before she left his house. He even ) insisted upon it, but when at length the ) poor girl rose from the table, where she had vainly attempted to eat a few mor- ) seis ol the food which she really needed, ) and prepared to go forth, she knew not | whither, into the great brick wilderness )in which so many beasts of prey roam, )he let her go, in spite of the still sorrow 1 and dumb trouble written on her face, ) without a word. Out into the streets, that looked so I strangely alike and led she knew not where, she went. A vague feeling that she might here of her lost purse, or gain some aid or comfort there, impelled her to seek the boat upon which she had been a passenger. Here and there she stopped to gain directions. But sometimes they were given mickingly, or, if in good faith, so vaguely, and with such heedlessness of her utter ignorance of city localities, that she only grew more and more confused, and wandered farther and farther from her course. All that morning she paced the close city streets. The sun rose higher and ) higher in the heavens, and shed bis ) scorching rays down over the tall houses, i and roused the noisome exhalations from i gutters and dens of unimaginable filth. ) Noon came and passed, and still the girl ) plodded on weary, and faint, and sad.— I The burning pavements blistered her poor feet, and the sun beat upon her unsheltered lace. Mocking answers met | her inquires, and when, unable lunger to restrain her tears, she burst into an uni controllable* fit of weeping, a crowd of | rude children gathered round and jeered I and hooted at her, and plucked her gari ments with their soiled hands, and peered i into her face with distorted dirt-grimed I countenances til) she was forced to move on to avoid them. Midway that long summer afternoon she found herself passing an office in a narrow down-town street. It was a publishing office, or something of that kind, 'and, in a narrow closet-like apartment railed off from the principal entrance upon the first floor, she saw, through the ' open window, women employed in writing. Something promttd her to enter, and she quickly made her way into the little close room, where six girls, under the superintendence of one some years older than themselves, were at work. Her pallid face attracted attention and j sympathy, and her request for water was ) the signal for a general uprising. They gathered around her and moved her bonnet and bathed het heated brow, and 1 held the ice-cool goblet to her lips. And when she told her story, amid many tears i their sympathy was unbounded. Andi they looked at each other in mute questioning, or consulted in low tones as to what they might do to aid her. They were poor, and few of them had | other homes than the dark nook in some fourth-rate boarding-house where, fora sum which left but the means to procure the plainest clothing front their small wages, they were permitted to sleep.— But they were rich in sympathy. At length the superintendent offered her advice —for she, 100, was poor, and | could give no more substantial evidence of her sympathy, without trenching up -n

i the claims of those who lived in the home she sustained by her labor. ‘There is an institution in this city, ’ said slje, composed of benevolent women, with thfi avowed object of aiding friendless ones of theirown six. Though your case may not come precisely within the scope of their efforts, I see not how '.hey can well refuse to aid one who has been |A'hrown unprotected and peculiarly exposed to the perils of city life. They will, doubtless, afford you a shelter until you can write to your friends, and obtain from them the means of returning home. ‘Tell me where I can find these excellent ladies, and I will seek them at once, said Jennie. ‘My father will well reward them for any kindness to me, dear lady, ) ; and these kind girls shall not be forgot.-) 1 ten ’ ‘There is no occasion for gratitude to us,’ replied the lady; ‘we have but done what the comunity dictated. I will give you a note to the matron of the institution, with whom I am somewhat acquainted, and then put you in the way ofreach- ' ing them.’ Jennie reiterated her thanks, while the lady was penning a brief note. As soon as she had finished it, she put on her bon- ’ net and shawl and asked Jennie to accompany her, which she willingly did, after a grateful farewell to the young girls who had been so kind to her. Jennie’s friend procured her some simple refreshments at ajconfectioner’s and ) then led the way to the great thoroughfare— Brodway. Here, while waiting for an omnibus, she put into Jennie’s hand the note she had written, and then, as if impelled by some sudden after thought, her own card with her address. I o ’ _ ‘Take this also, my dear child,’ she said, ‘and if the ladies cannot receive you come to me. I will not refuse you the shelter of my very humble home if it can save you from the temptations and dan- ) gers of this modern Sodom. And here I is money for your fare; and remember—street, and you will find the name of the : institution above the door. Nay, no thanks, she resumed, as Jennie endeavored to pour out all her gratitude; ‘1 have ' but done a simple duty.’ ' In a moment more the stage rolled ) away, and Jennie soon lost sight of the ) sweet, earnest face of her new friend. ') After much rumbling and jolting, she ) found herself at the place where the stage ' was to leave her. She descended, and ) made her way to the imposing building to which she had been directed. She rang, and was admitted into a small receptionroom upon the ground floor, where a ' j prime-looking woman, of middle age, was j seated, surrounded by several applicants for aid, as their appearance indicated. Jennie gave the note to this person, who desired her to wait until those who i had come first were dismissed, and, pointing to a chair, seemed to forget her presi ence. At length the last person departed, and .Jennie was left alone with the stern woman, whom she already looked upon as, I in some sort, the arbiter of her fate. •Your note, I see.’ said this lady at I length, ‘is directed to the matron. I will j send for her. In the mean time, if you desire our aid. you may tell me your story; ami sue glanced suspiciously at Jenny’s pretty silk dress and tasteful bonnet I dusty and disordered as they were by her ; wearisom wanderings. This was an inauspicious beginning, and Jennie hesitated; and while she wait-1 ) td, the matron entered, and perusued the note which the lady handed her. She was a woman past middle age, whose silvery hair was parted over a brow on | which the lines of past sufferings had been smoothed by the influence resignation. She read the note and handed it I to the superintendent. ‘From Miss B ,’ she said, simply. Then, turning to Jennie, she spoke to her in a voice so soft, so like her mother’s own that the weary girl was melted once more into tears, I ‘Poor child,’ she said, you have indeed I been unfortunate. You must be very weary.’ Then, turning to the superintendent,) who was reading the note with a hard, , cold eye, she said—‘l suppose there will be no difficulty about receiving this young lady, as it will I probably be but for a few days. i ‘lndeed, I don’t know,’ said the other;' ‘we are so often imposed upon; and real I ly this young person’s story seems hardly credible. Are you quite sure’—to Jennie—‘that you have really been so unfortunate as to lose your purse and trunk? and she fixed her cold, searching look upon the trembling girl. ‘Madam,’ answered Jennie, ‘I do not! know what my kind friend has written, but it is true that my money was stolen as I left the boat this morirng, and the I I hackman carried off my trunk because I ) could not pay bis fare when I did not find my cousin at home. Indeed, I could not tell a falsehood. I never did. ‘But what evidenceean you give us thnt ■ all this strange story is true? How shall

we know that you are not deceiving us? Do not interupt me, my clear miidam,’ she added, turning to the matron, who would have expostulated; ‘we ought to have some proof of her truth. ‘Oh, madam, believe that I have told you the truth, though 1 have nothing but my simple word to give Shelter me ter a lew days only, and write to my father, and he will prove to you not only the truth of my story, but his gratitude and my own. Oh, madam, if you are a Christian, it you are a m--ti.er, do not send me out unprotected into the se streets where, I am told, danger lurks by night around the footsteps of the innocent and i unwary! ) ‘But it is quite against our rules to re- ) ceive persons without some certificate of character. Hush, madam.’ —to the mat-ron—-I desire not to be interrupted.— How are we to know tiny, you have not some sinister design in seeking to gain ) admittance here? I have decided. We i cannot receive you. You have, no doubt I in spite of your plausible tale, both friends and money. At any rate, we cannot keep you.’ While she spoke, the matron had been called away. She went reluctantly, and not without casting upon Jennie a compassionate and significant glance, which, ' I however, the poor girl did not observe.— ) And, as the lady finished, she, too, rose and prepared to leave the room. At the ) door she paused, and Jennie understood ! by her gesture that she desired her also 1 , to leave the room and house; and, with a i heavy heart, she followed her to the outer ,) door. ‘lf you will come to us penitefit,’ were the lady’s last words, confessing the er- ; rorofyour ways, and truthfully desiring the- meads of reformation, we will gladly ' receive you. Till then, good bye. i She disappeared; the door shut with a ■; sullen clang; and Jenny was alone, •i The twilight had already fallen as she ■ found herself once more in the streets of ■ the great city. Mechanically she wr.n- --> dered on for several blocks, before she ■ remembered the card of her kind friend. ; Then, by the light of a lamp, under j which she was passing, she read it. II ‘Miss B ,91 street, Brook- ■ lyn. I The times she read it, almost without > ■) comprehending it. And then the desire i seized her to find her way to Brooklyn. But how? She knew not where she was, * ior in which direction to proceed! i She asked a passing schoolboy the way to Brooklyn, and he told her to keep on, i) and she would reach it as s'on as she i had time to circumnavigate the globe.— ) She asked a laborer, returning from his | : work, and lie told her to turn about and go toward the river. She asked a woman 1 who met her, leading a child, and the womsn turned away scornfully while the child only looked at her with great, won - I dering eyes. Sheasked, timidly, a young man with a profession of chains ami brilliant jewelry , and he said that for a kiss he ) would put her in an omnibus that would I take her to the Brooklyn ferry; and the i i poor girl broke from his detaining grasp j and hurried wildly away into the gathering darkness. At length she asked and old woman, ) sitting by her humble stall; and the good creature after one glance at the tear-stain-ed, terrified face, arose and left her wares and soon placed the grateful child in a ) passing stage. On and on she went, the huge vehicle thundering and crashing over the pavement; and it was not until they reached ) the ferry that Jennie remembered that she had no money. Then when the driver gruffly asked her if she wished to return, i she prepared to alight. ‘Your fare if yo please,’ he said: and ) ' then Jennie was forced to the confession The man swore a little, but a glimpse of her face somewhat softened him, and he let her go. The same difficulty occured at the ferry. But Jennie was nerved to I desperation now, and begged to pass un-l I til the man opened the gate and she went through. We can nolonger detail her wanderings ; Late at night she reached the house of! I her friend, and was received with cordial , welcome. Poverty had laid its stern seal upon the narrow abode; but there were hearts within it too warmly beating with I Christain charily to turn the unfortunate and the wanderer from their door. And ) she who could find no shelter beneath) i the roof erected by the benevolence of 'he people for the protection of the unfor-) tunate and the erring of her own sex, : slept, watched and tended by 'he kindest' I care, that night within the poor home of ) her new-found friends Here we will leave her with the good ; Samaritans, who were ready to bind up the wounds of her spirit, and to adminis- ' ter succor to her distress. On them fell; the blessing of the good God, we may not ■ uoubl, rather than on those whose deeds were in the mouths of the people, and yet ) sent forth an innocent girl, to encounter, ; unprotected, arl the perils of that fearful night.

The same hand that guided her through 'all, and raised up for her such friends, restored her once more to the dear home ;of her childhood and the friends of her ; heart. And surrounded by father, and mother, and lover, she has often related 1 the story of her escape and sufferings to those who inclined to believe that all the goodness, all the benevolence, all the C’hristam graces of the city centre only in institutions, forgetting the humble benevolence that works its mission in stillness, seeking no earthly reward, and looking only to the great future, where all the people of earth will be known and judged. Sure Sources of Comfort. It is the privilege of thinking being to withdraw from the object that solicit his senses, and turn his thoughts inward on 1 himself. For my own part, I often mitigate the pain arising from the little misI lorlunes and disappointments that checker human life, by this introversion ofmv faculties, wherein I regard my own soul as the image <«t her Creator, and receive great consolation from beholding those perfections which testify her divine original, and lead me into some knowledge of her everlasting archetype. But there is not any property or circumstance of my being that 1 contemplate with more joy than my immortality. I can easily overlook any present momen- ' tary sorrow, when I reflect that' it is in my power to be happy a thousand years hence. If it were not for this thought, I had rather be an oyster than a man, the most stupid and senseless of animals, than a reasonable mind, tortured with an extreme innate desire of that perfection which it despair to obtain. It is with great pleasure that 1 behold instinct, reason, and faith, enueurring to attest this comfortable truth. It is revealed from heaven, it is discovered by philo.-phers; and the ignorant unenlightened part of mankind have a natural propensity to believe it. It is an agreeable entertainment to reflect on the various shapes under which this doctriiwe has appeared in the world. The Pythagorean transmigration, the sensual hnbitations of the Alahometan, and the shadv realms of Pluto, do all agree in the main points the .continuation of our tXrslence, and the distribution of rewards and punishments, proportion to the merits or demerits of men in this life. But in all these schemes there is some- ) thing gross and improbable, reasonable , and speculative mind. Whereas nothing ean be more rational and sublime than the Christain idea of a future state. ‘Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath ;it entered into the heart of man to conceive the things which God hath prepared for those that love him.’ The above mentioned schemes are narrow transcripts of our present state: but in this indefinite description there is something ineffably great and noble. The mind of man must be raised to a higher pitch, not only to partake the enjoyments of the Christain paradise, but even to be able to flame ) any notion of them. ' Nevertheless, in order to gratify our imagination, and byway of condescension to our low way of thinking, the ideas of ) light, glory, a crown, Ac. are made Use of to foreshadow that which we cannot directly understand. ‘The lamb which is in in the midst of the throne shall feed ) them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe lawny all tears from their eyes. And there shall be no more death, neither sorI row, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things are passed away, and behold ail things are new. There shall be no night there, and I they need no candle, neither light of the sun: for the Lord God giveth them light, and shall make them drink of the river of his pleasures,• and they shall reign forever and ever. They shall receive a orown of glory which fadeth not away.’ These arc cheering reflections; and I have often wondered that men could bo found so dull and phlegmatic, as to prei fer the thought of anihilation before them; ior so rD-netured, as to endeavor to peri suade mankind to the disbelief of what ii so pleasing and profitable even in the prospect; or so blind, as not to see that there is a Deity, and if there be, that this scheme of things flows, from his atlribater and evidently corresponds with the other parts of his creation. A Christian Philosopher. Live Uprightly. —The pittance of seventy years is not worth being a viliian for. What matter is it if your neighbor lies in a splendid tomb? Sleep you with innol cence. Look behind through the track of time; avast desert lies open in retrospect; through this desert your fathers have journeyed; wearied with tears and sorrows they sink from the walks of man. You must leave them where they fall, and you are to go a little father, where you will find eternal rest. What business does every young tnw under twenty-one years of sge follow? Ana —They are s’l minor, (miners )

NO. 2,