Decatur Eagle, Volume 2, Number 16, Decatur, Adams County, 28 May 1858 — Page 1

T II E DE C A I I R E A l. I E.

VOL. 2.

THE E A ( A T.E. PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY PHILLIPS & SPENCER, Office, on Main Street, in the old School House, ono Square North of J. & P Crabs’ Store. Terms of Subscription : For one year, $1 50, in advance; $1 75, within the vear, and $2 00 after the year has expiied. r>No paper will be discontinued until all arrerages are paid, except at the option of the Publishers. Terms of Advertising: One square, (ten lines) three insertions, $1 00 Each subsequent insertion, 25 Bj'No advertisement will be considered less than one square; over one square will be counted and charged as two; over two, as three, eb . JOB PRINTING: We are prepared to do all kinds of job w ork, in a neat and workmanlike manner,on the most reasonable terms. Our material for the completion of Job-Work, being new and of the latest styles, and we feel confident that satisfaction can be given. ji*. i “——— - A KISS AT THE DOOR. DY AMiNIDAB STIGGINS. The clock struck ten: I seixed my hat And bade good night to ail, Except the lass I courted, who Came with me through the hall. She stood within the portal. And I gazed upon her charms, And, oh! I longed that moment To clasp her in my arms. She spoke about the moon and stars How dear an.l bright they shone; I said I thought the crops would fail, Unless we had rain soon. Then I edged a little closer, I‘ut my arms around her waist, And gazed upon those rosy lips J long so much to taste. Said I, “my dearest Susy, I’ll never ‘test contented— If I leave to-night without a kiss, I’ll surely grow demented ” Then up she turned her rosy mouth. Ami every thing was handy; Quick from her lips I seized a kiss— Oh, Yankee Doodle Dandy ! 7 hen ofl for home I started, I could no longer stay; With a light heart and breeches thin, 1 whistled all the way. Hence learn this truth.ye bashful youths, Who seek for wedded bliss, No lass will love until you move Her feelings with a kiss. s ■ a ..I ■ IIJ He is learned enough who knows how to live well. ‘Pat where do you intend to locate?’ 'ln Callyforny, shure.’ ‘ln what county?’ ‘There arc no counties in Callyforny, yeic honor— there all Sktates. 'Mrs. Grimes, lend nte your tub.’ — ‘Can’t do it—all the hoops are off—it’s full of suds; besides, 1 never had one —1 washes in a barrel.’ We heard of an economical man who takes his nteals in front of a mirror; he docs this to double the dishes. If that is not philosophy, we would like to know what is. ‘Pray: Mr. Professor, what is a periE~p; phasis?’ ‘Madam, it is simply a circumlocutory circle of oratorical senorosity, T7> : - circumscribing an atom of ideality, lost in a verbal profundity.’ ‘Thank you, sir.’ ■When a woman,’ says Mrs. Partington •has once married with a cong-ealintr heart, and one that beats responsible to her her own, she will never want to enter the maritime state again.’ -*• Many a person thinks he is honest be-! cause he has never cheated. Instead of that, he is only honest because he has never been tempted. What the world calls ‘inate goodness” is verv often a full stomach, and whit it terms vice is quite as frequently an empty bread basket. The Journal is very much annoyed about the position of Mr. English. His compromise of the Kansas question wor- i ries the whole Republican party. If Mr. - - English had proved a traitor to his party,' Black Republicanism would have been n-i't jubilant. He has been faithful, and the • Republican party arc excessively indignant thereat.— State Sentinel. yd • The New York Post says:—'Bishop I • Potter held a confirmation recently in this -- >-’■ city, at which a lady presented herself, to whom, he was quite sure, he had administered the rite before. As she approached, he asked her if she Lad never been r confirmed. Oh, law, yes. Doctor,’ she replied, ‘you have confirmed me twice,, aud 1 want you to conifirra me agaiu; it , is so good for my rheumatism.

MY RHEUMATIC FRIEND. An Alpine Adventure. I BY SYLVANUS COBB, JR. Barton had a great lime among the Alps. He is of a romantic, adventurous i turn, and the scenery of Switzerland i just suited him. His letters continued to come regularly, and his promise to keep me informed of his movements was religiously kept. From Geneva lie crossed . ; the Lake to Villenueva, and thence, by the Rhone, to Sion. Then he came back to Martigny, and thence started to the j southward for. the great St. Bernard, in-1 tending to visit the Hospice ol the AuI gustine monks in that celebrated moun-l i tain pass, and also to view the place! where Charlemagne, Frederic Barbarossa: and Napoleon Bunapart, and the old Romans before them, crossed with their J mighty armiqs. But before reaching this J place, he had an adventure, which is' worth transcribing. His letter, giving me an account of it, was dated at the 1 Hospice of St. Bernatd, and ran as follows: ‘When I got into that scrape in Paris, I I think I told you I would steer char of all such dangers for the future; but a man who is traveling here, and means to examine as he goes, runs the risk of ! strange encounters. We left Martigny iu the forenoon, and, at the distance of j ten miles, came to the little village of St. Pierre, which stands at the confluence of the entremont and a brisk mountain; stream from the eastward. Though the I distance from here to the Hospice of St. j ; Bernard was only seven miles, yet the climb was tedious; so we resolved to wait and get some dinner. After the meal ; was over—and an abomuible one it was. I by the way—l strolled out for a walk In the court 1 met an old muleteer, who informed me that there were two or three very pretty vineyards on the little mountain stream, and also that I might find some game in the valley. I returned at once to the house; but none of the others would accompany me. They were too tired. Fo I just made up my mind that I would go alone. Accordingly I took my gun and started off. The whole : stream was not more than eight miles! long, dashing down from the mountains ; that flank the Vai de Bagnes, and I left! my horse to rest, choosing to make the ' i excursic n on foot. 'I found the valley wild and romantic eno’jirh. On the south the stream washr* ed the very base of the ragged mountain, while to the north swept up a narrow strip of arable land, on which the vines grew luxuriantly. I bad gone two miles or more, without seeing anything to fire at, when I came to a point where the stream had cut its way through a solid mountain spur. Over this I climbed, by ,' a good mule path, and beyond I saw an- , other plain, partially covered with wood, where goats were feeding. A little furth- ' er on I saw n path which led to the left, through a lovely wood, and into this I turned; and here I found some game. 1 . ! shot two large birds, and had just brought down a splendid hare, when a strange ; sound struck upon my ear. It was like I the cry of a person in distress, and seemed • , to be a little distance ahead. I had heard ; , of animals w hose cries were like the human voice, and I wondered if I had one of them here. But upon listening more attentively, I became assured that some ; fellow creature was really in suffering; not far off. ‘I bagged the hare, and then hurried forward. I was still in the forest patli, ' which was here quite wide, and in a few j moments I came upon the owner of the distressed voice. It was a girl, not more I ‘ than sixteen years of age, and belonging,' apparently, to the poorer class of goatherds. Her face was brown from expos-I 1 ure, and though her features were home•iy enough, yet there was nothing repul-1 sive in them. Her head and feet were i bare, and a mass of brown curls hung loosely over her full shoulders. She was ' groaning piteously, and holding her right ankle with both her hands. “What is the matter? I asked, in French. ‘‘She seemed to understand me, though she replied in German: ‘‘Oh, sir—l have hurt me so badly.— My ankle is broken, I fear.’ “But how did you do it?’ I returned. “1 was climbing this tree after bloss-1 oms, sir; and 1 slipped and fell. Oh! oh! “Then I must help you,’ I said. Where do you live?’ “Only a little distance from here, sir, right through the wood. 1 had come out to pick some berries for my poor fath- , er, and the foolish bloosoms tempted me. , “Not very foolish either, for a girl,’ said I. But tell me—could you walk, ! think; by leaning on my arm? “I can try, sir,’ she answered, with a ! grateful look. “Then let me help you up.’ And thus ' speaking, I took her carefully by the arm ‘ and helped her to her feel. Al first she

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

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, MAY 28, 1858.

did not venture to put her right foot to; the ground, but finally she let it down, and. leaning heavily upon my arm, she limped along. “1 think 1 can walk so, sir,’ she said, ‘if it will not be too much trouble for you. “I assured her that it was no trouble to me. On the contrary, I should feel it as a pleasure, aside from a duty, to help her to her home. She seemed very grateful, and thanked the Virgin Mother that 1 had come. She groaned deeply with pain, though I thought, as we progressed, that she moved along more easily. As I noticed this, I asked herifher ankled pained her as much as ever. “No, sir,’ she replied. ‘lt seems to be t better from the exercise. But I don’t live much farther, sir.’ “You say vou live with your father,’ 1 remarked, after a few minutes of silence.’! “Yes, sir. He and I live al! alone. “AVhatdoes he do for a living? “Alas! nothing, kind sir. He is unable to work, or even to walk about. He can’t even stand. He is as helpless as a sucking babe.’ “What is the matter with him? “Rheumatism, sir. He has been sick with it for years; so sick that mostofthe time I have to feed him. His hands and arms are utterly useless. Alas! it is very hard, sir. “And you are his only support,’ I said ; in pity. “Yes, sir. But it is a pleasure to me. He cared for me when I was helpless, and I should be unkind, indeed, did 1 refuse now to care for him. “The girl really loiked pretty now. — Her devotion and truth siione through the bronzed skin with a beautifying halo. I was interested in her. “There is our humble cot, sir,’ she cried, as we emerged into a narrow opening in a sort of a mountain gorge. It was a log hut, built in wigwam fashion, and plastered with mud and moss. A few vines were creeping over it, and a cow was feeding at no great distance. “You will come in and see my ppor father,’ she urged. •‘Of course I will,’ I replied. “The interior of the but was very com-j I sortable, and upon one side, near an open ! window, sat a man, a little past the midI die age, whose firms and legs weredrawd i iupin an awkward shape. His head was! large and massive, though exceedingly; jflat on top; and lie must have been a' strong man in his dav, tor his shoulders were broad, and his chest deep and full. His chair was very large and heavy, and sat upon four small wooden trucks, so! that bis child could wheel him about al pleasure. “What is the matter with my darling? he asked, as his quick eye caught his daughtei’s limp. , “Only a fall, papa,’ she bravely re ! turned. ‘I shall soon have it well. Still I don’t know what I should have done if, it hadn’t been for this kind gentleman — He found me by the roadside, and has helped me home. He has been very good ; to me papa.’ “As this naturally turned his attention to myself, we exchanged salutations; but! before I entered into any conversation j with him I turned to the maiden, and i asked her if 1 could be of any further as - ’ sistance to her. I told her I was some thing of a doctor, and could possibly help her. But she assured me there was no| need. She said the ankle was already' better, and a little swathing would be all! that was necessary. With this she limped into a little bedroom in one corner, which was partitioned off with upright poles covered with birch bark, and I turned my attention to the invalid. “AVe spoke of his child, whom he professed to love very much; and then we spoke of the romantic spot, in which he! had chosen a home. At lenght I touch-j ed upon his sickness, and he informed | me that he had been utterly helpless for! over six years. His legs and arms were wholly paralyzed, and he could only move from place to place by beiug dragged in his chair, or carried upon the back of a mule. The man gazed at me sharply as he spoke, and there was something in the light of his greenish eyes almost painful. But this, I thought, was the result of pain. “My host had just concluded anac-i count ot some of the troubles he had ex-1 perienced, when the quick cry of a bird fell upon my ear. I knew by the sound that some of the feathered tribe had got into a bit of a row. I jumped up and burried to the little square window by the invalid’s chair, and saw a hawk and two smaller birds dodging around over the trees. But this was not all I saw.--! Something moving along upon the ground close under the window, attracted my attention, and upon bending my eyes in that direction I saw the girl whom I had helped home gliding by like a squirrel. She was in a stooping posture, and her bare feet moved as readily and freely as ever feet moved! I took a second look : as she was disappearing, and I was not mistaken in the person.

“What did this mean? Surely such a i lameness could not have departed so ! quickly. There was a mystery here, and as I stood there by the window 1 went iuto it with all my might. My adventure with the body-snatchers al Paris was present to my mind, and it led me al once to think of dangers and deception. That the girl had feigned all her lameness was io me a simple fact for I knew enough of the human frame to know that euoh a sprain as she had professed to have, or, for that matter, auy sprain at all, could not have been cured so suddenly. “Now, if the daughter was deceiving ' me, might, not the father be doing the same? All this passed through my mind in a very few seconds, and I resolved to, i return to my seat and watch the move- ! ments of my rheumatic friend. His eyes ; burned as before, though, more uneasily. ! 1 now kept a sharp eye upon his hands, ; and was not long in believing that they ' were as strong and serviceable as my own. ' They had not that peculiar nervious appearance which always attends a limb long in pain; and the painful twitches' were too artful and spasmodic fur continuous suffering. I watched the fellow, ; keeping up a conversation the while, un- ; til I was morally certain that he was deceiving me, and then 1 reflect upon the : I purpose of it. What could it be but robbery? And would they dare to rob a i roan until they had first taken his life?; 1 Os course not. “But, after all, I might possibly be mistaken, though the enterence of the , girl, limping as painfull]’ as ever, did not help to shake my suspicions. I deter- ' mined, if possible, to watch the two together without their knowledge. “If you will allow my gun to remain here awhile, I should like to take a view from the cliff above your cot,’ 1 said, rising from my seat, and backing politely j towards the door. “Certainly,’ was the response. ‘You will not be gone long. “I cannot, for 1 must return to St.! Pierre ere lung,’ 1 responded. | “I went out, and hurried up the cliff j back of the hut, but instead of stopping i there, I slipped down through the thick wood, until 1 had reached a point oppo- ' aite the open window of the dwelling, | where I climbed up into a tree. I had . ! calculated to a charm, for I soon gained : a perch from whence I could look direct i ly into the cot, without the danger of be- ; ing seen in return, the foliage thoroughly screening me. “Can you guess what I saw? But I; j was not disappointed, nor yet surprised. I saw my rheumatic friend upon h's feet, j as straight and strong as a stag! His legs and aims worked nimbly enough, and his daughter was stepping briskly about. i They were talking very earnestly, and , ' pretty soon I saw the man take from what ! seemed to be a locker in the side of the i wall a short, heavy club, which he ran down within the bosom of his frock. Then j some arrangements were made with the ! scanty furnature, and after this the fei- , ! low sat down in his chair, and the female interesting creature! limped and laughed.' I “I needed no prophet to tell me the rest of the plot. It was perfectly plain, ias was the course I would pursue. 1 I came down from the tree and examined ;my revolver, and then put it where 11 i could keep my band upon it without ex- • citing suspicion. I made my way back ■ to the hut over the cliff’, and when I eni tered the man was curled up in his great! chair, and Miss Devotion sat upon a low stool rubbing her shin. The chair, however, had been slightly moved, so that the man now sat with his face to the win-! <low, a little upon one side of it, and about i four feet off. My fowling-piece was in the •corner where 1 left it. “The view is charming from that cliff,’ I remarked, as I sat down. “It must be,’ returned my host, I ! ‘though it has been long years since I have enjoyed such scenes. Ah, ’tis hard to be shut up like this! “I said it must be. “At this point the affectionate daughter limped to the window and looked out. “O!—My soul!’ she cried, clasping her hands,‘what a curious animal! 0, sir, Jo come and see!’ • “Os course I went and looked; and of : course, too, I knew what the movement | meant. As I passed the big chair I gave ; a secret, sidelong glance that way, and : saw the hand lifted to the bosom. 1 ! reached the window, and made a motion j ; as though 1 would look out, but 1 did no such thing. With a quick, stiong movement 1 burled the girl from me, and turnled like lightning upon the man. He was ! already upon his feet, and the short oaken club, with a ponderous leaden head, was half raised. “Drop that, villain!’ I shouted, with the muzzle of my pistol in his very face. ‘Drop it, or you die upon the spot! 1 know you!’ “The rascal shrank back, and in a few I seconds his club fell to the floor. He , trembled from head to foot, and his face . ' looked ghastly. The girl stopped till sbe

, saw the club fall, and then she lied fiom i the place. “it was only a joke, good sir,’ the man gasped trying to look cheerful “1 know it, said 1, ‘and 1 am going to carry the joke out. So lie down upon your belly. Mark you —1 have six bullets here and 1 could pul, them all through your body, one after the other, in as many seconds. If you hesitate to move as 1 tell you, vou shall have Vhe whole of them through your head. Now down upon your belly, flat on the floor'.’ •‘But for what?’ he asked trying to ' avoid the ugly looking muzzle of my pis- ■ tol. “I’ll tell you,’l returned. ‘lf 1 leave ■you free, 1 fear you may shoot me as 1 i go out. “But 1 have no gun, sir. ■ “1 won’t trust, you, for 1 know you lie ; to me. So down, as 1 bid you, and when ' 1 am gone, your daughter can come and untie you if she will.’ “The fellow saw my determination, and ; he saw my pistol, and pretty soon he got i down upon the floor like a calf. 1 seized ! a coil of stout cord which 1 had seen hanging by the window, and lashed the villian’s wrists behind him as firmly as 1 could. He groaned, and swore, and ! threatened, but my pistol kept him in due . ! submission. “But why tie my legs?’ he demanded, ; as 1 went at work in that direction. . “It is my pleasure,’l said. ‘You had better have your legs tied than have a bullet through your head. Your interesting daughter can cut the cord, if she 1 cannot untie it. “1 lashed bis ankles as firmly as 1 had , bis wrists, and feeling quite confident that he bad net the power to free himself, 1 took my gun and left the hut. As 1 pass- ! ied out, 1 saw the girl run around the i corner, and, with all my speed, 1 put after her. 1 caught her at the edge of the wood, and presented my pistol to her I head. I “O, sir—don't! 1 wont set him free till you are quietly away!’ ‘I don’t think you will, my devoted girl, for I mean to take you to Saint Pi- ; erre with me. So mind you: — One! movement out of the way and pop goes I a bullet through your head! lamin no I mood for trifling now. lamina hurry, ! and you must move quickly. So now fog along—come!’ ‘She begged and pleaded, but all to no I purpose. 1 had no heart for her wo, and ;no sympathy for her filial distress; and i pretty soon we were in motion. She' wept and implored often upon the way, but when she at length fodnd that my ! heart was not to be touched a second time she became silent and savage, and J walked along without further opposition, i ‘We reached St. Pierre just as my companions, tired of wailing forme, had mounted for St. Bernard; but when they heard my story they concluded to wait. \Ve easily found some of the officers of police, and when I had told them of what . I had seen and done, they wee astonish- . Several travelers had been lost in that 1 same gorge and no clua to their fate had ever been found. The poor rheumatic had been visited, and asked foi informa- : lion, but no suspicion had rested upon so i seemingly a helpless being. ‘The girl was lodged in a place of safety, and then we rode back to the hut, where we found my rheumatic friend just as I had left him, save that he had rolled I about the floor some. Mein Gott! exclaimed one of the officers ‘this is the lame man! Ab,old fellow we’ve fonnd you, eh? ‘The man protested ’twas all a joke, A>ut no one would believe him; and he was marched back to the village and locked up That night the girl, who gave her name as Julia Metzen, made a lull ! confession. Fhe was no relation of the i man’s but he had found her in Sion, where ; her mother had led a dissolate life. She had been with Robert Mongartz (such was the villian’s name) five years, and during that time he had murdered full twenty travelers; and she had decoved most of them to his hut. But he had not done all this at St. Pierre—he had oper- ■ ated in various other places ns well.When he had rifled the bodies of his ictims be buried them under great rocks and trees, aad did it so carefully that ! scarcely any trace was left. In short, she gave all the particulars she could remember, and they were horrible enough. { ‘On the following morning the girl was taken out to the hut by the officers, and the bodies—or remains—of four men were found in spots where Mongartz had hurried them. The village was all ex-! citement when 1 left. The girl, who has evidently been op- ! erated upon more by fear of her master ! than by any desire for crime, is to be sent to an asylum, er penitentiary, of some sort; but Master Robert Mongartz i is the property of the hangman .{sure. “Down the mountain for Italy to-mor-row; and you may rest assured that 1 i shall look out for all*boy-messetigers and lame wood-nymphs in future.’

A Queer Yankee Story. •1 remember one Silas gay, a queer fellow, a citizen of the world who, when he heard a travelers tale, always chimed in with one extraordinary still. Such as this: Did you ever go to the Rocky Mountains? Weill wonderat that. Y'ou may be sure you don’t know the world. My ancestors came from there, and in my younger days we used often totalk about an old uncle that was living there about a century ago. He was a crack shot, and when he camo down to see grandfather. ' brought a particular gun with him. I thought 1 might as well go and see what 1 they bad done with the old man. Well, do you know, that district is so remarkably healthy, high up in the air. I that people never die. They get old and j shrivelled, and lose their faculties pretty much, and then the neighbors tie them :up in a sack, and ticket them, and then I hang them up the chbrch. So when 1 got to the place I went to the church and asked the man that had charga if he knew what had become of my old uncle.— ' The man said lie didn‘t know, but if I would come along with him, we’d see.— So we went round and examined the sacks a precious lot of them. Sure enough, there was my uncles name on one. So the man asked me if I wished to speak to ! him. I told him I wanted particularly to I do it. ! AVell, he took down the sack, and inI side there was my uncle as dry as a mummy. He put him into warm water, and after awhile the old nun began to open his eyes and sneeze. At last, says I well uncle, can you speak? and he said be ] could. So I began to chat with him ! about our relations." The old man presently got tired, and began to yawn.—• Says he, if you have anything particular !io ask about, I guess you had better make haste, as lam getting tired, and I want to be hung up again. vVell, then, ' uncle, says I, I do just want to know what i became of a particular long gun you used to have. Look, says he, under the thatch at the north-west corner of the house, and i you’ll find it. Thankee, uncle, says I; and we tied the old man up again. Well II found the gun, and loaded it with a pound of powder and six pounds of shot. In my country the pigions are so plentiI ful that unless you drive them away, they eat all the grain. Somebody has |to be out every morning to shoot them. Well, I was very anxious for my turn. — jSo 1 got up very early, long before day ; light, and 1 laid the gun along a fence. I just to sweep the field as 1 thought. I sat down to wait for morning, but someI how fell fast asleep When I woke the I ground was litterally plastered with pigeons. But the gun swept just over their ; heads; and 'twas no use going at them as ■ they lay; but I thought that was no great matter, made ready. Halloo! says 1, and up they flew. I let fly, but the hundredth of a second too late. Not a bird did I kill, but we picked up two bushels and a . half of legs and feet on the ground.—Kelfend's Translantic Sketches. Obscure Passages in the liilile. A gentleman who visits with regularity the Philadelphia penitenitiary, the inmates of which his piety prompts him to ! instruct, had given a Bible to a convict, who asked him at ench visit, with much shrewdness, some difficult question formed from passages of the sacred volume, each time declaring he would not go on iif this was not explained to him. The gentleman was unable to persuade him that it would be best for him first to dwell upon those passages which he could easily understand, and which plainly applied to his situation. After many fruitless trials to induce the convict to this course, his friendly teacher said: ‘What would you think of a very hungry man who had nut eaten a morsel of food for the last twenty - four hours, and was asked by a charitable man to come in and sit down ata richly covered table, on which were large dishes of choice meat, and also covered ones, the centents of which the hungry man did not know. Instead of satifying his exhausted body with the former, he ! raises one cover after another, and insists on finding out what these unknown dishes are composed of. In spite of all the advice of the charitable man to partake first of the more substantial dishes, ihe dwells with obstinate inquiry on nicer compounds, until, overcome by ex- ! haustion, Le drops down. What do you think of such a man?’ ‘He is a fool,’ said the convict, ‘and 1 will be one no longer: I understand you well.’ Bright Boy.—Not long since some la- ; dies walking in the garden of an eminent divine, who was classed among the i transcendentalists, saw his little boy scraping up the gravel path with an old table spoon. ‘What are you doing, my little boy? inquired one of the ladies. Oh. said the young offshoot of transcendental ism, ‘l’m digging aftei the Infinite.’—JY 7 . K Post. The only things you can safely put off I until to-morrow are idleness and vic«.

NO. 16.