Decatur Eagle, Volume 2, Number 21, Decatur, Adams County, 2 July 1858 — Page 1

TIIE 1) ECA T I R EA G L E

“VOL. 2,

THE EAGLE. J P<TBtIBHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY 1 PHILLIPS & SPENCER, Office, on Main Street, in the old School House, i one Square North of J. & P Crabs’ Store. Terms of Subscription : For cue year, $1 50, in advance; $1 75, within the fear, and $2 00 after the year has expiled. IJ”No paper will be discontinued until all arrerasfes are paid, except at the option of the Publishers. Terms of Advertising: One square, (ten lines) three insertions, $1 00; Each subsequent insertion, 25 0"No advertisement will be considered less than one square: over one square will be conn ted and charged as two; over two, as three, etc, j JOB PRINTING: We are prepared to do all kinds of job work. 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 confide. t that satisfaction , can be eiven THE REFINER Tin sweet to think that he who tries The silver, takes his seat Beside the tire which purifies. RLest too intense a heat, Ra sed tocomsmne the base alloy, EThe precious metal to destroy. •Ti - good to think how well he knows ®WThe silver's power to bear Th' 1 ordeal through which it goes, WRpAnd that with skill and care He’ll take it from the fire when fit, Jr With His own hands to polish it. •Tis blessedness to know that He K The piece He has begun Vs'ill not forsake, till he can see ' w' The work well done— An Iniiige by its brightness shown, 1 he pstfeef likeness of his own. But ah’ how much of earthly mold, p al k relics of the mine, 1_..-t frem the ore—must he behold, How long must he refine, Ere in the silver he can trace The first faint resemblance of bis face. , Thou great Refiner! sit thou by V” Thy purpose to fulfil; ''Alfred by thine hand—beneath thine eye And melted at thy will. O! may thy work forever shine Reflecting beautv pure as thine. - ■ A storv is told of a prime young lady of peculiarly strong smelling faculties, on the Detroit and Milwaukee cars, the other dav, with Conductor Norris. At Pontiac a'gentleman well known to Norris, got aboard and took a seat immediately opposite a nice, sensitive young lady. He I was addicted to the use of tobacco, and j Was endeavoring to break himself of the habit, so he kept an unlighted cigar in his mouth. When Norris came along to collect and examine the tickets, ,the young lady verv pettishly requested him to “have that young man stop puffing that Sfsty cigar, or put him out of the cars.” '“Why, madame,” said Notris blandly, i “the cigar is not lighted.” “Well, it has ' been,” she snapped out, “and he’s been puffing the nasty smoke in my face.” IM? Norris reached around and took the cigar Irom his friend’s mouth and presen tibg it to Madatne Squeamish quietly as ked. “Which end of it was lighted, madam.-?” There was a general roar among the passengers, and the young lady willled. :(j® Hints to Married Men.—Peppergrass ! +avs that if he stays out late at night, and < wishes to avoid a scolding, or a curtain lecture from Mrs. P., he generally waits , out to the ‘wee sma’ hours ayont the > tW ill.’ when the anger of his better half Subsides into fears for his personal safety. IT'- goes out ‘on business,’ with a promise to be home at nine. Half-past nine, Mrs. > J< uneasy; ten, positively enraged, and Rehearses to herself an address for Pep* ■F 'd rass’ especial edification, filled with putting reproaches; eleven, vague uneasiBe accompanied by an indefinite fear JihaL‘something musk have happened;’: imdf-past eleven, nervous apprehension—tears take the place of withering glances; ■twelve o’clock, unendurable suspense — if she only knew the worst; one o’clock, is •completely worked up, has the ‘conniption,’ and is about going off the handle when Peppergrass arrives; throws herself into his arms, overjoyed to see him, as she /was so (raid some accident must have happened to him.’ & A yout>g lady thus explodes on the jdeath of her grandmother: Shocking intelligence, how it thrilled my nature, and caused the veay frame to tremble.' That .venerable form who, in days gone by, with .paternal fondness, the pre.ycious one who gave me birth, lies in the ■t<dd damp of Nature's mortal strife. Every rose hasils thorn; you never Efind a woman y itpout pins apd needles f. e j.

UNCLE FRANK’S DESK. OR, The Secreted Will. ■ ■ 1 ■ BY COHA BELL. “Alice, my beloved, do not leave me to die alone. Alice! Alice! come to me, ! was uttered in the most planitive accents of human misery. It was a small garret room, ih one of the most crowded and neglected alleys of Manchester. Poverty —that dire poverty that bows down the loftiest spirit., and leaves the soul crushed and paralyzed by jits depressing influence —was there.— ! The great fireless, thought in the depth i : of an inclement winter; the black, decay- ! !ed boards, the cold, damp walls, from j which the moisture hung in heavy drops; not even the tew sordid articles of furniture visible, which are usually seer, in 1 ■ the dwellings of the very poor, for every- 1 .tiling had been parted with to sustaiji the ' afflicted occupants of that miserable chain - , ber. Such was the home of a Manchester op- j erative—a man yet in the early sumraei of life, but who had toiled from chidhood | ; upwards for a subsistence, and who now,. I stricken with typhus fever, contracted in ■ j his overcrowded, ill-ventilated abode,' ! had nothing but miserable parish dole to ; i sustain him. ■ Stretched on the pallet from which the ; corpses of his two children had been ta- ! ken the previous week, for weary days i and nights the strong man had vented ' i the anguish of a broken heart in the wild ravings of delirium, yet still be lived on. j His wife—his tender, loving wife—was even denied the solace of setting by him to wet his parched lips, or support Lis j fainting head on her fond bosom.— Through the weary hours of the day he ' was left to solitude and neglect, for the ! poor womam worked at the factory, and without the pittance her daily' exertions i procured, they would be unable to susj lain their miserable existance. j It was not yet evening, though all was i darkness in the room; for light, blessed j light, that God sends down untaxed to j the poor, was doled out to these wretcli--led dwelling in modicums that barely en- ‘ ! abled one to discern objects in the noon-; I day. A sickly gleam of white, though, l j come from the narrow dormer window formed by the piled-up snow upon the opposite roofs, which drifted into fantastic shapes, looked like ghosts peering in- I to that abode of sorrow. Tiie house was crowded, and the thin walls echoed with ihe sounds of coarse, brutal voices, mingled with oaths and I drunken imprecations, but audible over al! was the ceaseless, monotonous beat- i I ing of the sleet against the shattered j casement, and the fitful blasts of wind, as it swept along the chimnies. “Alice, Alice,’ that deep, hollow voice j i had uttered more and more feebly, and ; vet she came not; but the latch teas at last raised, and ‘Dear Frank, 1 will be with you now,’ was softly said. A light; was struck, and a faded, fragile form bent jin trembling anxiety over the bed. “Oh, Alice,’ said the man, attemptihg! to raise himself from the pillow, ‘I thought j you would never come. 1 am dying. — | 1 Have yon got anything to give me—one drop of wine, beer, tea, anything that: would take this cold, terrible sinking’ from my heart.’ The girl—for though thin and careworn, she was very young —looked at j ! him a moment in silent, speechless anjguish, then, wringing her hands, she said, wildly-—‘Nothing, nothing—l could ! get nothing. The faettory clerk said 1 j ■ was late these two days, and lie would ! not give me even a shilling, and Mr. Seris I is gone out of town. “God help us,’ gasped the man, faintly. ‘Oh, Alice, if I could only die soon, you might go back to service, away from this horrid plac.e. When 1 called out for you, Alice, I thought I was going; alone in this dark room so long, something heavy seemed pressing down my brain, and twice 1 felt an icy iiand grasp my heart. The young wife wept in agony, while she murmured distinctly, ‘Oh, I rank, you are dying for want of nourishment.; The doctor told me you would recover if you got that, now that the fever is gone. Oh, he knew well enough 1 could get nothing out of the parish allowance; since ' my poor babe’s death, they have reduced even that. “Our case is no new thing to him,’ ■ said the man; ‘it is one of thousands. — Look at all that were struck down with the fever when be came here last year. He told me that there was one dead in I everv room, and now ’ The wife shuddered and hid her face in her hands. She had paid her tax to the King of Terrors, but what if this sole beloved one was taken from her, too. “Oh I am selfish, Alice; see how wet you are, my poor girl, and you have no ° r -Yes— there is a little wood left; I will! kindle it now,' and die patient creature

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

DECATUR, ADAM COUNTY, INDIANA, JULY 2,,1858.

shook the sice l , off her faded shawl, and ■ mechanically wrung the moisture from her auburn hair. In a few moments a scanty wood fire sen! forth a transitory glow She had , hardly done, when a faint tap was beard at the door. Alice opened it, and a tiny ! child’s form could be desciied in the dim light. •‘ls that Patty? said the woman. “Nes—it’s only me,’murmured a faint,l timid voice. . “I have brought you a lit-: tie milk for Mr. Trevor. “God bless you, was tffb tearful response, as the child’s slender form glided back into the darkness. “Poor little Patty; did I say I was alone > 1 p.ll day?’ said the sick man. ‘That sweet . child sat by me a long time, and gave me j i waler when 1 was nigh fainting. She, j wanted to light the fire, but I knew it! would go out again, and I was afraid to | keep her, lest the old man would beat her. “He is sick, and has not gone out with | the organ these two days, said the wife, j “Ah, he’s a bad man to treat that dear i child so savagely. “Yes, Alice, I’m glad our children are ' ■gone. Cold, hunger and oppression is the only lot of the poor man’s child. Oh j that I had left this country when 1 was ' strong,’ murmured the man, in bitter, de- ■ spending tones. ‘From the cradle to the ! ' grave, the worker is ground down to a bondage more unremitting than the beasts i of burthen, and when old age or sickness . falls on him, he must die or go to the parish. : Alice had warmed the milk, the com- j passionate gift of that oppressed child, and now held it to her husband’s lips.— i But the poor fellow pushedit feebly aside, saying—j ' “Take some of it first, Alice, you are i cold and wet. “No, Frank, I’m strong. I never feel! pain or suffering only for you.’ The poor wife watched him with anxious tenderness I as, between gasp of weekness that almost | impeded his breath, he drank the liquid , off. A sigh of anguish escaped her. She ! had no food for him, and could he endure ! the night without it? Oh, she bad toiled ' .during the long™weary hours, when her j tortured spirit had longed to be with that j ’ beloved husband, and after all she conld ' ’ not procure him a morsel of food. She i i had even stooped to sue for chai it v, and . had been refused. AVe have said that the apartment was i destitute of furnature, but the flickering ■ ; candle now revealed a small desk of for- j J eign wood, curiously carved in the Indian ; style, which lay on an old ricketty table I beneath the window. To this desk the ■ J girl’s eyes wandered coutinually, sometimes with an abstracted naze, that had no speculation in it, at others with an ea-. I ger. hasty glance,- as if suddenly struck | with some idea connected with it. The sufl'erer had fallen into a kind of doze. He opened bis eyes,and extending his wasted hand, said — ! “Sit beside me, Alice. Come closer, i for this icy, shuddering weakness seems 1 to leave me when you are near. The girl crept into the bed, and passed her hand caressingly over her husband’s I forehead, parting the damp, heavy hair which lay in disordered masses upon it. : A sickly smile played over his pallid sea- ■ lures, and he gazed with unutterable tenderness upon the pale, sad face before I him. “Dear Frank,’ said she at length, in a ■ hesitating tone, ‘would you let me sell the 1 old desk? The man that bought the i chairs offered me a pound for it. A shade of vexation momentarily swept across the sick man’s face. “Ah, Alice, did I not beforesay that I would rather die of hunger than part with my poor old uncle’s gift. In all my pov-! erty I have kept that.’ “But Frank, this is for my life,’ said the girl calmly. “I’m too faint and weak to work to-morrow without getting some j food. Uncle would have been glad that i anything he bad was of use to you. “Oh my poor wife, you are weak and j faint - ’ cried the man, ‘and I’m so selfish, 1 I I only think of myself. Take it take it, i Alice, dear. Why should we keep it? j Strangers will have it when we are gone, j She did not wait for him to recall the words, but with a wild eagerness that was painful to witness, left the room. i In a few minutes she returned, accompanied by a man with a coarse apron and . a paper cap. “How are you since, poor fellow? said he, approaching the bed, and speaking in rough but kindly accents. “Poorly, sir, poorly; always longing ■ for a breath of the pure air. “I reckon these ere old houses come a little too close to the window, to give it much chance to get at you,’ said the man. “Ah, it’s hard not to give the poor light and fr*'-h air. But keep good heart, friend; it won’t be always so.’ lie counted the money into Alice’s hand, and shouldered the desk, after j which poor Frank sent a glance of ill-; dissembled nnguish

With the rapidity that only loving ■handscan effect, the decayed embers of I the fire were brightened up, and a hit of white bread and a glass of warm wine were held by the tender wile to the trembling lips of her husband, who partook ■of the unwonted refreshment with a de- ■ vouring eagerness that plainly revealed jhe was indeed perishing for lack of sub- ; sisttnee. ! “Olt, that is so good!’ murmured the I invalid, sinking back upon the pillow K..r. a sigh of relief. “But, Alice,’ said he, in accents of tender reproach,‘it was me, not yourself, ■ you thought of. Oh! let me see you before my t yes, drink some of that wine;; it’s done me good already. | The girl smiled sadly She poured a i small quantity of the wine into a cup, and ; ! drank it off. “Tel! me, are you angry with me, Frank, about the desk? I “No, my poor child; why should I be ; angry with you? It’s you have reason to hate me, for I brought you out of comfort into all this misery; but God knows’ how hard I’ve worked, both late and 1 'early, to make a home for you. I’m ' glad uncle is not alive to see us in this i strait, now. “Wasn’t he killed, Frank? inquired the wife. “Yes, Alice.’ He was silent—then spoke after a pause — ' “Long years of misery and sorrow, ' have passed since then; yet it seems but as yesterday since my dear uncle came i into our place with that old desk. He was, as 1 told you, my mother’s only brother; he had gone to sea when she was a little child, but be loved her deatly, and after years of travel in foreign climes, ihe came back to find all dead in the old home in his native village. He heard ! that my mother had married a weaver here in Manchester, and he came and ! found her out. My father (oh, God i grant there be none like me, who can rei peated the sacred name of father without ] one emotion of tenderness or respect to I hollow its memory), was idle, savage, and I intemperate, and treated my poor, patient ; mother like a brute. Before my uncle came, she worked all day long al the j factory, so that household duties were 'neglected, which irritated him a good ; deal, though they were not neglected ei- ■ , their; for I have often known mother to ; sit up, after a hard day’s work, for sevi eral nights together, washing and mend- ' ing our clothes, for I had four brothers and sisters, who, poor things, al) fell vicI tims to being forced to work too young. I Oh! the innumerable sufferings of my ’ childhood, at that time, crowd upon my j mind, and almost overpower it. “Do not tell me any more, Frank; you ■ will lose the little strength you have gained. • I’ve been silent all day, Alice; it will! dome no harm,’ continued the young man. ‘I remember well how my young I sisters used to cry when father roused j ; them at the first sound of the factory bell, and drove them out shivering of a dismal i winter’s morning, when it was as black as midnight. And after all, the united I energies of us young ones would some- j times only amount to a few shillings.— i But cold,’hunger, and protracted labor gradually killed them all, and I was left alone. “When my undo came all was chang- ■ 'ed for the better. He paid well and reg- ! ularly for his board, on condition that mother should go no more to work.— | ■ This pleased my father well enough, for ■ ; it increased his comforts, and self was all | he cared for. I was called after, uncle, ■ and to him I owe the little I know. He ! j taught me to read and cipher, brought me with him to church, andon Sabbath evenings I used to sit beside him at that old desk, copying from memory the text and such portions of the morning’s sermon as I could remember, all of which Uncle Frank carefullly sewed in a book I and kept by him. Home was something |like a home then. But my p'oor mother died—then my uncle offered father to 'take me; but he did not want to lose the : I old man, for he suspected he had money;' I so he raged and swore that I should nev- < jer go with him. Uncle never spoke an--1 other word on the subject, but he looked paler and sadder than he used. Dear j old man, he used to tell me unceasingly of the wonders of the New W orld, and of , the noble homes that lay awaiting the I hand of industry in the Far West. He made me promise to go to America when 1 was a man. Oh, how I’ve longed ail my life to collect the means to do so.— Uncle was fond of being on the quays; one day, a load of timber from a wagon fell on him, crushing him fearfully. He ' only spoke a few words before he died, and these were—“My old desk—Frank ’ “Father hastened to it, hoping that it contained a lot of treasure; but when he ■ found only a few tracts and a small pack age of money neatly labeled, ‘Lor my bu rial,’he raged and cursed, and would' ' have broken it up bu-t 1 implored him not.

J “Latterly 1 had been at school, but the I day after uncle’s death 1 was sent apprentice to the weaving. Since then, dear Alice, you know my fate. They slept after a day of sickness, toil, and misery—that wretched pair—wretched despite of the riches of mutual love I and tenderness glowing in their hearts; ; Adiee had risen early, and was giving I her husband a cup of tea, preparatory to leaving him for the day, when the door j abrubtly opened, and the cabinet-maker who had bought the desk entered the ■ room with a paper in his hand. “Are you Frank Trevor, of Cornfield? said he. “Yes, sir,’ said (he sick man, in some- > what agitated tones, while the poor wife 1 started forward and gazed at the man i with nervous terror, fearful that he had \ repented of his bargain, and was going to j ' return the desk. “Then I think if this is right, said ihe man, holding up what appeared a sealed : parchment, ‘l’ve good news for you. I was putting c new back in that eie old ’ desk when I spied a false panel—l slipj ped in my band, and found this. It was : hidden right cute. .. , ! “What is it?’ said Frank, anxiously. | “A will leaving you five hundred I pounds (2,500.) It’s dated ten years bacK but if the money’s right, that’s nothing. That moment the doctor entered the * room. j ‘Whats the matter?’ said he, glancing at the excited faces of the party. I ‘This, sir,’ Frank, handing him ‘die paper. ‘Tell me what it means, though 1 think I can see all now. My dear uncle left me this. He denied himself the pleasure of home to be with me to the last. , ‘lt means, my man,’ said the doctor, gaily, ‘that you mu-t get well as fast as you can now. You are heir to five hun- I dred pounds, and, by the date of this pa- i per, must have accumulated to some-| thing more. The copy of this is lodged with respectable solicitors in London, who j I doubt not, have advertised for you.— 1 will write for you to them to day, so make yourself easy, my good fellow.’ The otter of some money to supply ' needful comforts was gladly accot pted by j Alice, who now recognized a superintend -; ing providence in the physicians previous < indifference. The following week a letter arrived | from the solicitors, saying that they had drawn up such a will at the time mentioned, and had since made every inquiry both for it and the heir, but could not succeed in their search. They would send a business man to investigate. All proved satistactory, and the money ! was paid. Joy cures rapidly. Frank Trevor rose from his bed with a heart! . throbbing with gratitude and delight. The ' beloved desk was recovered unmutilated; : and Patty, the little organ girl, whose! savage father had died, was taken to the = arms of the grateful pair. In a few weeks i the little party bade an eternal adieu to the stifling air of Manchester, and embarked for America. In the fertile and ; beautiful West, the gift of patient, selfdenying Uncle Frank enabled them to ! purchase land and a pleasant home.— ' f Here they reared a happy family, the youngest member of which was taught to look with love and reverence upon Uncle Frank's Desk. ... There are many persons who have beard so much of family government that ; they think that there can not be too much j of it. They imprison their chiklreh in 1 ••.till rooms, where a fly is a band of music in the empty silence, and govern at morn- ! ing, and govern at. night; and the child ! goes all day long like a shuttle in the ! loom, back and forward, hit at b >th ends Children subjected to such treatment are j apt to grow up infidels through mere dis- ' trust. A man named Wm. Simcock, of Washington county, Pa., recently lost his wife, in the morning—was arrested by the constable at eleven o’clock—married his second wile before night —and followed ! the remains of his first wife, in company i with the second, to the grave the day after. An administrator on the estate of a deceased female, in New Hampshire, advertises for sale at auction ‘The wearing j apparel of Mrs. A O , deceased, consisting of one bed, two carpets, and one sleigh. a , Some of our Southern exchanges estimate the damage to plantations, in consequence of the rise of the Mississippi, at thirty millions of dollars. i The young lady who put her floor-cloth i in the cradle, and scrubbed the floor with : her baby has since joined the Mormons. It is said that the Orangemen of Can-. ada intend celebrating the Anniversary ‘of the Battle of the Boyne on the 12th of July.

Pizano and his Resting Place. An officer or. board the United States .steamer Vandalia writes from Callao to the Philadelphia Gazette as follows: ‘On Sunday morning, therefore, we 'took our seats in a railroad caniarje—: o . fancy us going to the city of Pizarro by tai!— and in less than half an hour wu ; were, landed again. After resting a short i time at the hotel, we took up our line Os marcii—preferring walking to riding for various reasons—crossing the rive ‘Run< u’ on the very bridge built by Pizarro himself, and which has not undergone 1 any repairs since. So old is the stone that it is quite polished in many places, from the friction of the water, and from ! that of peoples arms leaning on its para- ■ pets. The river is nothing but a bold' mountain torrent, dashing along through the heart of the town, irrogating the coun- . try around and finnally reaching the sea in the shape of small brook. In the morning we went around to see more churches, Pizzarro’s chapel among them, a small but unassuming edifice. To cap the trip : all went to the cathedra], for the purposes of having a look at the body of the con-' queror himself. He is laid in a large ' vault, just the state he was when the old cathedral was destroyed; and in fact that he was in when laid out after his murder tn the Archbishop’s palace, now no more. The body is perfctly well preserved, the . skin is dry and hard, and the flesh of course all dried up, but the position is natural and good. One of the shoes is still on—a. regular old fashioned thing, j such as you see in pictures ot that day.— I took a small piece of a sort of silken robe round him, which is so old as to be in’ i shreds. This I enclose to you. Don’t be afraid of it for these mortal remains smell’ ot nothing but dust. I I Place for Bachelors. | A sprightly, amusing American corj respondent in Paris thus describes ths ■ rage kissing in ‘La Belle France:’ •The almost universal custom of kissing in Paris seems, at first; singular to a stranger coming from a country where the proprieties of life rarely permit you to take a lady’s hand—much i less to salute her. In France, to kiss » lady with whom you are not intimate, on i meeting her, is very common , especially is this the ca«e if she is a married ladv I Not only the members of the family, but all the guests, expect to salute the lady of the house on coming down in the morn ing. But, though the modest American may, perhaps, escape the ceremony on ! ordinary occasions, yet, on New Year’s morning it is imperative. On that morn ing 1 came down to my coffee about nine ) o’clock. ‘I sat down, quietly, bidding Madame boujour as on ordinary occasions. In a few minutes she was at my elbow. •Mons. 8., I am angry with you.’ ‘1 expressed, of course, my regret and ignorance ol having given her any reason. ‘Ah’’said she, ‘you know very well the reason. It is because you did not embrace me this morning when you camo down.’ ‘Madame was a lady of, perhaps, twenty- eight, with jet black, glossy hair, and a clear, fair complexion. She was very beautiful; had she been plain, I should, have felt less embarrassed. She waited as though expecting me to atone for my neglect: but how could I before the whole table? 1 sat all this time trembling in my ! seat. At length Madame said ‘Mons. 8., emcrasez moi.'' i ‘The worst had come. Larose tremblingly, put my white, bloodless lips, all | greasy with butter (for in my embarrasi ment I had dropped my napkin) to those iof Madame. This was my first French kiss.’ • n A Quick Quarter. —A boy worked j hard al! for a quarter of a dollar. With |(1,.-» zp.nvfr.w 1, npptpQ tAnV them to town and sold them on the street fur a dollar. With the dt llar he bought a sheep. The sheep brought him a iamb, and her fleece brought him another dollar. With the dollar he bought him another sheep. The next spring he had two sheep, two lambs and a yearling sheep. The three fleeces he sold for three more sheep. He took the choicest care of them, and soon had a flock.— Their wool enabled him to buy a pasture for them, and by the time he was twenty--1 one he had a fair start in lite, and all from the quarter earned in one day. ‘You need a little sun and air,’ said a ; physician to a maiden patient. ‘lf I do,’ was the ente reply, ‘l’ll' wait till I get married.’ It’s a good sign to see a man doing an I act of charity to his fellows; it is a bad sign to hear him boasting of it. God hears ths heart without words, hut He never hears the words without . the heart. The mug of a fool is known by there being nothing in it.

NO. 21.