Decatur Eagle, Volume 2, Number 36, Decatur, Adams County, 15 October 1858 — Page 1

... - —— i— — uri , —- -- - ■ , , „ , ._ „ r _ _ ...... THE DECATUR EAGLE.

VOL. 2.

THE EAGLE. FtTBLIBHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY PHILLIPS & SPENCER, Office, on Main Street, in the old School House, on# Square North of J. & P Crabs' Store. Terms of Subscription : For one year, $1 50, in advance; $1 75, within ■ the year, and $2 00 after the year has expired. XT No paper will be discontinued until alii srrerages are paid, except at the option of the : Publishers. — Terms of Advertising: One square, (ten lines) three insertions, $1 00 Each subsequent insertion, 25 •XT No advertisement will be considered less than one square; over one square will be counted and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. JOB P RINTING: We are prepared to do all kinds nf job-work, in a neat and workmanlike manner,on the most■ reasonable terms. Our material for the coinpie-j tion of Job-Work, being new and of the latest : styles, and we feel confident that satisfaction can be elven. g. . ——... ■ : —.l CHILDREN. Come to me, oh, ye children For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Hare vanished quite away, Ye open the eastern windows, That look towaid the suu, Where thoughts are singing swallows, And the brooks of morning run. In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine ' In your thoughts the brooklet’s flow, But ix mine is the wind of Autumn, And the first fall of ths snow Ah' what would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before, What the leaves are to the forest, With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood,— That to the world are children, Through them it feels the glow Os brighter and sunnier climate Thau reaches tho trunks below Come to me, oh, ye children! And whisper in my ear What the birds ami the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. For what, are all ourcontrivings, And the wisdom of our books, ' When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks? Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sungor said: Fur ye are living poems. And all the rest are dead Not Bad. Tho following expresses pretty nearly what every respectable young lady feels when she first sees stage dancing: Two unsophisticated country lasses visited Niblo's, in New York, during the ballet season. When the short skirt gossamer clad nymphs made their appearance on the stage, they became restless and fidgetty. ‘Oh, Annie!’ exclamed one, sotto voce. 'Well, Mary? 'lt a’n’t nice. I don’t like it? 'Hush, the folks will notice you? ‘I don’t care; it ain't nice, and I wonder aunt brought us to such a place. 'Hush, Mary, the folks will laugh at you? After one or two flings and a perouette the blushing Mary said: ‘Ob Annie, let’s go; it ain't nice, and I -don’t feel comfortable? ‘Bo hush, Mary? replied the sister, whose own face was scarlet, though it wore an air of determination; ‘it’s the first time I ever was at a theatre, and I suppose it will be the last, so lam just' going to stay it out if they dance every rag off their backs?’ ■ Rossini had accepted an invitation to dine with a certain lady whose dinners; were known to be arranged on a most' economical scale. The dinner offered' to the maestro formed no exception to the general rule, and he left tho table rather hungry. ‘1 hope you will soon do me the honor to dine again with me, said the lady to him, as he was taking leave of her. ‘lmmediately, if you like,’ he replied. Be slow in choosing a friend, and slow to change him; courteous to all; intimate with few; slight no man for poverty, nor esteem any one for his wealth

DOWN HILL.’* A Life Picture. BY SYLVANUS COBB, JR. Not long since I had occasion to visit one of our courts, and while conversing with a legal friend I heard the nama of John Anderson called. ‘There is a hard case? remarked my ' friend. I I looked upon the man in the prisoner’s •dock. He was standing up, and he plead guilty to the crime of Theft. He was a tall man, but bent and infirm, though i uot old. His garb was torn, scarse, and ! filthy; his face all hloated and bloodshot; his hair matted with dirt; and his bowed form quivering with delirium. Certainly ■ I never saw a more pitiable object. — Surely that man was not born a villain. ; I moved my place to obtain a fairer view of his face. He saw my movement, and j he turned his head. He gazed upon me a single instant, and then, covering his face with his hands, he s-.uk powerless into i his seat. ‘Good Godi’ I involuntarily ejaculated, I starting forward. ‘ ‘Wil ” I Lad half spoken his first name when he quickly raised his head and cast upon 'me a look of such imploring agony that 1 my tongue was tied at once. Then he • . covered his face again. I asked my legal companion if the prisoner had counsel. He said no. I then told him to do all in i his p iwer for the poor fellow’s benefit, land I would pay him. He promised, and I left. I could not remain and see that I man tried. Tears came to my eyes as I I gazed upon him, and it was not until 1 i had gained the street and walked some ; distance that. I could breath freely. John Anderson! Alas! he was ashamled to be known as his mother’s son!— That was not his name; but you shall know him by no other. I will call him ;by the name that now stands upon the • records of the court.. I John Andersen was my schorl-mate; ! and it was not many years ago—not over • twenty —that we left our academy toi gether—he to return to the home of | wealthy parents; I to sit down in the din,gy sanctum of a newspaper office for a few years, and then wander off across the ■ ocean. I was gone some four years, aud , ; when I returned I found John a married Iman. His father was dead and had left ' is only' son a princly fortune. •Ah, C ,” he said to me, as he ■ ; met me at the railway station, 'you shall ; see what a bird I have caged. My Ellen is a lark—a robin—a very princess of all birds that evei looked beautiful or sang sweetly!’ He was enthusiastic, but not mistaken, ' for I found his wife all he had said, sim-, ply omitting the poetry. She was one of the most beautiful women I ever saw — And so good, too—so loving and so kind. Aye—she so loved John that she really loved all his friends. What a lucky fellow to find such a wife. And what a lucky woman to find such a husband; for John Anderson was handsome as she.— Tall, straight, manly, high-browed, with rich chestnut curls, and a face as faultlessly noble and beautiful as ever artist copied. And he was good, too; aud kind, generous, and true. 1 spent a week with them, and I wasj happy all the while. John’s mother lived with them—a fine old lady as ever breathed, and making herself constant I joy and pride in doating upon her “DarI ling Boy,’ as she always called him. I ' gave her an account of my adventures by sea and land in foreign climes, and she kissed me when I left. She said she kiss- [ ed me becaused I loved her “darling? I did not see John again for four years. | I reached bis house in the evening. He | was not in, but his wife and mother were there to receive me, and two curly-head -[ i ed boys were at play about Ellen’s chair j 1 knew at once that they were my friend’s, children. Everything seemed pleasant j until the little ones were a-bed and asleep , and then I could see that Ellen became I troubled. She tried to hide it, but a face < so used to the sunshine of smiles could ; not wear a cloud concealed. AtlengthJohn came. His face wash

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

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, OCT. 15, 1858.

flushed, and his eyes looked inflamed.— He grasped my hand with a heppy laugh called me “Old Fellow? “Old Dog,’— said I must come and live with him, and many other extravagant things. His wife t ried to hide her tears, while his mother shook her head and said—‘He’ll sow his wild oats soon. My darling never can be a bad man. God grant it!’ 1 thought to myself; and I know the same prayer was upon Ellen’s lips. It was late when we retired, and we i might not have done so even then had nos John falleu asleep in his chain | On the following morning I walked out I with my friend. I told him I was sorrv I to see him as I saw him the night before. “Oh? said he, with a laugh, ‘that was nothing. Only a little wine-party. We I had a glorious time, I wish you had been j there? 1 At fit st I thought I would say no more; but was it not my duty? I knew his nature better than he knew it himself. His ; appetites and pleasures bounded his own vision. I knew how kind and generous he was—alas! too kind—too generous! ‘John, could you have seen Ellens’s : face last evening you would have troubled. Can you make her unhappy?’ He stop- ■ me with—‘Don’t be a fool! Why should she be uahappv?’ ‘Because she fears you are going down kill,’ I told him. ‘Did she say so?’ he asked, with a flushed face. ‘No—I read it in her looks? ‘Perhaps a reflection of your own thoughts,’ he suggested. o’ no I surely thought so when you came I home? I replied. Never can I forget the look he gave me then—so full of reproof, of surprise, and ■ of pain. ‘C , I forgive you, for I know you ito be my friend; but never speak to me I again like that. I going down hili? You know better. That can never be. I know my own power. 1 know my own wants. My mother knows Die better than Ellen . does? Ah—had that mother been as wise as she was loving, she would have seen that the ‘wild oats’ which her son was sowing would surely grow up and ripen, only to ; furnish seed for re-sowing! But she , loved him—loved him almost too well— I or, I should say—too blindly. But I could say no more. I only prayed that God would guard him; and then we conversed upon other subjects. I ! could spend but one day with him, but we promised to correspond often. • Three years more passed, during which John Anderson wrote to me at least once [ a month, and sometimes oftener; but at I the end of that time his letters ceased 'coming no more for two years, when I again found mvselfin his native town.— ;It was early in the afternoon when I ar- ' rived, and I took dinner at the hotel. I had finished my meal, and was longi ing in front of the hotel, when I saw a funeral procession winding into a distant church-yard. I asked the landlord whose , , funeral it was. j ‘Mrs. Anderson’s? he said, and as he' spoke, I noticed a slight drooping of the ■ I head, as though it cut him to say so. I ‘What —John Anderson’s wife? I :No? he replied. ‘lt is his mother;’ I and as he said this he turned away; but a gentleman who stood near, and had overheard our conversation, at once took up the theme. ‘Our host don’t seem inclined to con- • verse upon that subject? he remarked, with a shug of the shoulders. ‘Did you lever know John Anderson? i ‘He was a school mate in boyhood, and my bosom friend in youth,’ I told i him. He led me to one side, and spoke as follows: •Poor John! He was the pride of this town six years ago. This man opened ' his hotel at that time, and sought custom I by giving wine suppers. John was pres-. ent at most of them —the gayest of the gay, and the most generous of the party, • In fact, he paid for nearly every one of them Then ho began to go down hill!

• And lie has been going down ever since, i At times true friends have prevailed upon him to stop; but his stops were of short duration. A short season of sunshine would gleam upon home, and the night-came, more r dark and drear than before. He said he would never get drunk again; he would take a glass of wine with a friend! That glass of wine was but the gate that let in ' | the flood. Six years ago he was worth 3 sixty thousand dollars. Yesterday be borrowed fifty dollars to pay his mothers 8 . uneral expenses! That poor mother bore ■ • ..as long as she could. She saw her son j—her ‘Harling Boy? she always called ; him—brought home drunk many times, I and— she even lore blows from, him! But • j she’s at rest now! Her ‘Darling’ wore * | her lile away, and brought her gray hairs in sorow to the grave! Ohl I hope this 1 may reform him!’ ‘But his wife?’ I asked. > ‘Her heavenly love has held her up thus far, but she is only a shadow of the ’ wife that blessed his home six years a<zo 1 My informant was deeply affected, and ’ so was I, and I asked him no more. During the remainder of the afternoon * I debated with myself whether to call up- ■ on John at al). But finally I resolved to go, though I waited till after tea. I found John and his wife alone. They ! had both been weeping, though I could see at a glance that Ellen’s face was beaming 1 with love and hope. But, oh, she was changed—sadly, painfully so. They were ’ ■ glad to see me, and my hand was shaken I warmly. ‘Dear C , don’t say a word of the past? John urged, taking my hand asecI ond time. I know you spoke the truth to )i me five years ago. I was going down | hill! But I’ve gone as far as 1 can. I j stop here at the foot. Everything is gone I but my wife. I have sworn and my oath I shall be kept. Ellen and I are going to i I be happy now? e The poor fellow bust into tears here, i His wife followed suit; and I kept them *: company. I could not help crying like a [child. My God, what a sight! The once II noble, true man so fallen—become a mere broken glass, the last fragment only res j fleeting the image it once bore!—a poor l suppliant at the feet of Hope, begging a > grain of warmth for the hearts of himself > I and wife! And how I had honored aud ? loved that man—and bow I loved him . still! Oh! I hoped—aye, more than hoped—l believed—he would be saved. . And as I gazed upon that wife—so trust- ] ing, so loving, so true and so hopeful still [ even in the midst of living death—l pray- > ed more fervently than ever I prayed before, prayed that God would hold him up i —keep him up—lead him back to the top . of the hill! In the morning I saw the children— I grown to two intelligent boys now—and (hough they looked pale and wan, yet they smiled and seemed happy when there father kissed them. When I went away John I took me by the haad, and the last words he said, were—‘Trust me. Believe me now. I will be a Man henceforth while life lasts!’ A little over two years more had pasI sed, when I read in a newsprint the death of Ellen Anderson. I started lor the I town where they had lived as soon as i possible, for I might help — some one! A fearful presentment had possessed my mind. I stopped at the stately house where I they had dwelt, but strangers occupied it. | ‘Where is John Anderson?’ I asked. 'Don’t know, I'm sure. He’s been gone these three months, his wife died in 1 the mad-house last week!’ ‘And the children?’ ‘Oh, they both died before she did!’ I staggered back, and hurried from the I place. 1 hardly knew which way I went, [ but instinct led me to the church-yard ; I found four graves which had been made [in three years. The mother, the wife, and two children slept in them! ‘And what has done this?’ I asked myself. And a voice answered from the lowly sleeping places — ‘The Demon of the Wine-Table!’ But this was no*, all the work. No, no The next I saw—-O, God!—-was far more

. terriblo! I saw it in the city court-room. I But that was not the last—not the I isl! I saw ray legal friend on the day fol--1 lowing the trial. He said John Anderson was in prison. 1 hastened to see him. I j The turnkey conducted me to his cell— The key turned in the huge lock—the if* 13 ' “: ponderous door swung with a shai p creak ; upon its hinges—and I saw—a dead body suspended by the neck from g. grating of [ the window! I could see nothing of John Anderson there—but the face I had seen in the court-room was sufficient to con- j ' nect the two; and I knew that this was all that was left on earth of him whom 1 had ' ' I loved so well! J : And this was the last of the Demon's work—the last act in the terrible drama! Ah—from the first sparkle of the red wine it had been down—down—down—until • the foot of the hill bad been finally reached! When I turned away from that cell, and once more walked amid the flashing c? saloons and revel-halls, I wished that my ‘ voice had power to thunder the life-story of which I had been a witness, into the ; Icl ■ 1 ears ot living men! > Practical Joking. j I ‘A few days since, writes an attorney, , ‘as I was sitting with Brother D , in , his office in Court Square, a client came , in and said. j ‘Square D , Wiggins, the livery J stable man, shaved me dreadfully, yesterj day, and I want to come up wuh him? ‘State your case,’ says D > ‘Client—‘l asked him how much he would charge me for a horse and wagon j ) to go to Dedbad. He said one dollar ' 1 and a half I took the team, and when [ I came back, I paid him one dollar and a i half, and he said ha wanted another duli lar and a half for coming back, and made > me pay it. ‘D gave him some legal advice, I . which the client immediately acted upon, i as follows: i ‘He went to th“ stable keeper and said, ! ‘How much will you charge me for a > horse and wagon to go to Salem?’ ‘Wiggins replied, ‘Five dollars.’ ‘Harness him up!’ i ‘Client went to Salem, came back by f railraod, went to the stable sayin’. I ‘Here is your money? paying him five | dollars. i 'Where is my horse and wagon?’says I • Wisrgins. ‘He is at Salem,’ says client, ‘I only 1 ; hired him to go to Salem? Origon of the Horse Kake ‘Sam, I want you to rake all the bar I *’ * [up to-day. lam going away, and will' I not be back before night? said farmer I Kissam, near fifty years ago. , ‘Yes, massa; have ’em all up light, an’ i no mistake? Sam and his sable companions took their rakes and proceeded to the hay j field in good earnest but as the sun rose higher and shone hotter and hotter, they essayed just to stop a bit under the inviting shade of an apple tree. Here they beguiled the time awav so pleasantly lis- i tening to Sam’s marvelous stories, that before they were aware, the horn sounded ' I for dinner—and the hay not half raked.; Here was a dilemma! If master should j return and find the hay unraked, a settlement would be the result. What waste j be done? ‘I teli you what, Jack, I think we can ! make a big rake like our hand rakes, and j hitch de sorrel to it, and make him help [us. Massa has one alright stick, an’l | will bore him full ob holes, an’ you saw j some pins about two feet long an’ put in ! [de middle to hold him by. Tom, get old [ [ sorrel and tie his traces to de end of de stick wid a rope, an’ vre’U bab de hay up ; yet afore night? And, sure enough, they did get up a hay rake, and scratched the hay together [in a hurry. When the boss came home • he noticed a singular-looking contrivance in the lot, and on examining it he saw at once they had introduced a new idea, and calling the aid of a carpenter, he con- ' structed the first horse rake in the UniI ted States—so the story goes. Said ( [ horse rake was made in the town of Jamaica, Long Island, and the lazy negroes were the inventors.— American Agricul- i 1 tnralist. , <

How To Make up a QuarrelWilliam Ladd was the President of the American Peace Society, nnJhe believed that the principle of -peace, carried out, would maintain good will among neighbors as well as among nations. But there was a time when he had not fully consid ‘ ered this subject—had not thought much ; about it—as I dare say my young read I era have not, and he believed that if n ; man struck him a blow, it was best and i fair to strike right back again, considering if there was not some better way of I overcoming the offender; or, if a man I did him an injury, why, as people com- ; monly say, he would ‘give him as good as 'he sent? He then had a farm, and a poor man, who lived on land adjoining his, neglected to keep up a fence which was his business : to keep in order, and in consequence, his sheep got into William Ladd’s wheat field and did much mischief. William Ladd told his man Sam to go to the neighbor, and tell him be must mend the fence and keep the sheep out. But the sheep came again, mid Willian Ladd, who is a very I orderly man himself, was provoked. ‘Sam? said he. ‘go to that man and tell him if he don’t keep his sheep out of my wheatfield that I'll have them shot? Even this did not do—the sheep were in again. o ‘Sam? said William Ladd, ‘take my gun and shoot those sheep? ‘I would rather not? said Sam. ‘Rather not, Sam?’ Wbv, there’s bat three; it’s no great job? ‘No, sir; but the poor man has but (three in the world, and I’m not the perI son that likes to shoot a poor man's ; sheep? ‘Then the poor man should take proper • care of them. I gave him warning; why did he not mund his fence?’ I ‘Well, sir, I guess, it was because you sent him a rough kind of a message; it made him mad, and so he wouldn’t do it? ‘I considered a few minutes? said William Ladd, ‘and then I told Sam to put the horse in the buggy ’ ‘Shall I put in the gun? said Sam. ‘No? said I. ‘I saw he half smiled; but [said nothing. I got into my buggy and I drove up to my nvi.fhbor. He lived a ' mile off, and I had a good deal of thme to [think the matter over. When I drove up to the house the man i was chopping wood. There were a few I sticks of wood and the house was poor, I and my heart was softened. ‘Neighborl’ ; I called out. The man looked sulky, and did not raise his head. ‘Come, come, neighbor? said I, ‘I have come with friendlv feelings to you, and [ you must meet me half way? He perceived that I was in earnest, ; laid down his axe and came to the on? •Now, neighbor,’ said I, ‘we have both been in the; you neglected vour fence, and I got angry, and sent you a provoking message. Now let us face about and both do right. I'll forgive you.— I Now let’s shake hands? He didn’t feel quite like giving me his hand, but he let me take it. ‘Now? said I, 'neighbor, drive your sheep down to my pasture. They shall share with my sheep till next spring; and you shall have all the jield, and next summer we shall start fair. His hand was no longer dead in mine, and he gave me a good friendly grasp.— The tears came into his eyes, and he said I guess you are Christian, William Ladd, ! after all? 'And the little fracas with my neighbor about the sheep was? said William Ladd, ‘the first step to my devoting myself to the Peace Society? A Generous Deed.—The Washington Union states that Mr. John C. Rives has made a present, of Upwards of five thou - sand dollars to one of his employees, Mr. Michael Caton, as a token of appreciation of hi? faithful services. Air. Caton has been in Mr. Rives’ office for more than twenty-five years, he is now a venerable old man of about sixtv vewfg

NO. 36.