Decatur Eagle, Volume 2, Number 50, Decatur, Adams County, 21 January 1859 — Page 1

———— II ■ __ _ TII E 1) ECA TI R I. AGL E.

VOL. 2.

■T HE KAGL e. BjLISnED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY lIIIILIPS & SPENCER, ■,7 on Main Street, in the old School House, ■mo Square North of 3. & P Crabs' Store. I Terms of Subscription : ■rone year, $1 50, in advance; $1 75, within L year, and $2 00 after the year has expiied. ■ ETNo paper will be discontinued until all Brerases are paid, except at the option of the ■blisters. Terms of Advertising: se square, (ten lines) three insertions, $1 00 gh subsequent insertion, 25 JTNo advertisement will be considered less sn one square: over one square will be couni and charged as two; over two, as three, etc. JOB PRINTING: tVe are prepared to do all kinds of job-work, j a neat and workmanlike manner,on the most uasonable terms. Our material for the completion of Job-Work, being new and of the latest ity’.es, and we feel contidei t that satisfaction tin be given. HYMN TO THE PEOPLE. BY C. D. STUART, Jfot to be blest with warrior strength, To wield the sword and wear the glaive, Or rue to conqueror’s fame at length, Proclaims the good or makes the brave. To have the power to bide the storm, And rise above the hate and strife Ofthose to wealth and title born, In lhe crown’d courage of our life. What are the swords that prop a king— The banners in his army’s van — To strength of soul, that dares to spring And show the monarch in the ina.i? Kings and the mightiest men of arms, Strong as at head of realms they bide, Sport as they may with fortune’s charms, They are like leaves upon the tide. In dim old sepulchres they lie. The feast of silence and decay, While the true world-heart beateth high And thrones itself upon to-day. Give me the man whose hands have tossed The corn-seed to the mellow soil, Whose feet the forest depths have crossed, Whose brow is nobly crown’d with toil. Hence all your k ings of state may pass, I link me to the lordly soul Whose cot, and herds, and fields of grass, Are monarchy’s sublimest goal! Such in the storm will show their hands. Unsheath the steel in danger’s hour To battle with the patriot bands— Those peasant kings of peerless power. Ye as you like! my courage-man. The proudest one I wot e’er born. Is he who in his strength hath ran, And laughed the king craft all to scorn.

Marriage is a feast, where the grace is sometime better than the dinner. ‘Pleading at the bar,’ says a western editor, ‘is a trying to persuade a bar keeper to trust you for a three cent nipper.* It has been well said of the home of the scolding wife, that ‘it’s a bad house where the hen crows louder than the cock. Miss Dobb says the sweetest line she ever read, was her Simon’s name, written in mol.ases on her front stoop. Aunt Betsey has said many good things among the rest, that a newspaper is like a wife because every man should have one of his own. A countryman was dragging a calf by a rope in a cruel manner. An Irishman asked him if that was the way he treated a fellow creature. A prudent master advised his drunken ■servant to put up his monev for a rainy day. In a few weeks alter, the master asked the man how much he he had added to his store? ‘Faith, nothing at all, said he, ‘it all went yesterday. I did as you bid me; it rained yesterday and it all went.’ Clerical Punning.—Parson Twiss of New Hampshire had just married a lady whose Christian name was Desire, and it being in his course of remark on a certain Sabbath to illustrate the difference between the renewed and unrenewed man in the exersise of love, he delivered himself, to the amusementof his audiance, in this way—‘Formerly I had no Desire to love, but now I have a Desire to love and I love freely.’ The other dav the Recorder’s Court of Chicago was visited by a mad dog. The animal drove the Court, lawyers and loafers to the tables, benches and railings, when a courageous chap seized the quadruped by the tail and pulled him thereby out of the room, and down the stairs, where with the assistance of others he dispatched him

FIRST ANO THIRD MARRIAGE. 'Thus you see, my own Hortense, that I must leave you. I shall provide an income of a hundred louis for your expenses. Look forward constantly to my return, and when fortuue again smiles upon me, I shall come hack never again to be separated until death.’ The weeping wife could not be comforted. It was hard that so soon after her marriage, when the world seem so bright and gay, and when wealth and fortune: smiled so serenely upon her, all should be swept away, and she left like a lone - widow to protect herself. The husband j was almost distracted with the thought of leaving her. His heart had been bound j up in his beautiful Hortense. She had j been his idol from boyhood—the bright dream of his existenne, and when he had attained the distinction of one of the merchant princes of Montreal, he married her and placed her in the verv heart of luxury. ‘ j Misfortunes came on swift wings to the : happy pair. One by one bis possessions : left him, and worse than that, others were' involved in his affairs, who were less able to lose than himself. He could not | look upon the ruin of those around him; for he had a kind heart, and would not I wrong anybody for the world. They that lost by his misfortune admitted that Mr. ' Valentin was a strictly honest man, and I that is great praise for those who are injured by a man’s ill-luck. People are too I apt to call it dishonesty. There was but a single bright spot be- ; fore Mr. Valentin. Australia gleamed up, warm and golden; and with a desperation bora of love for his wife and justice to his creditors, be secretly embarked for i the land of promise. There was a nine day’s wonder as to where he was gone, and to what purpose; and then be died out of the thoughts of the community as thoroughly as though he had been dead and buried. The weeping Hortense removed to an- | other locality; the fashionables who had | strained every nerve to get invited to the I house of the rich merchant never paused . to ask after his wife; and lonely - and miserable, without friends or relatives, Hori tense drooped and pined, until the beauty i her husband so praised changed iutowlimness. She never heard from Air. Valeo- . tin. Not a single word had cheered her solitude since he left her. As month as- , ter month dragged its slow weight along, I and no tidings reached her, her heart utterly sunk within her, and she believed I him dead. What, indeed, could she I think? It was better to think so than be- . lieve him unmindful of her, and day after (day she watered his memory with tears of genuine sorrow, as one sorrows for the I beloved dead.

’’ She put on the deepest mourning, kept her room for months, and when she finally went out again, and that only to church her sorrow was written plainly in the face which, if it had lost some of its beauty, was yet most deeply interesting. So at least thought the young Eugene Stanbury an Englishman of unblemished character and prosperous business. He saw her at church, devised some ingenious expedient to be introduced, and begged the privilege of waiting upon her. The lady pleaded her inability to entertain company, I the impropriety of her receiving gentleI men, and a thousands reasons why he could not visit her. i He overruled them all, besought her to waive all ceremony with him, to consider I him as a deeply attached friend, a broth- > er, anything, in short, if he might be per- ‘ mitted to visit her sometimes;; and Horj lense, weary of her monotonous life, at | last consented. Once having renewed the delicious conI sciousness of a protecting presence, she found it hard to give up for the mere punctilious fear of what the world would say of her. Indeed, she had long since shaken bands with the world, and parted from it. She owed it no favor. It had no right to criticise her conduct. Thus she reasoned while listening to Eugene’s impassioned entreaties that she should i lay aside her sorrow for the dead and become his wife. Still she hesitated. She truly believed in her husband’s death; for would he not have written had he been living! Os the many letters she had written him, the many inquiries she had instituted, no answer could be obtained. No one knew ; anything of Mr. Valentin. _ 1 In an hour of more than usual loneliness and trouble, she whispered to herself, that, should Eugene press his suit anew, she would consent to many him. I She was weary of her own life, caged and cribbed as she was; she longed for freedom from the restraint that poverty and widowhood were constantly imposing up-, I on her; and these combined operated won-' derfully in Eugene’s favor. The mar-; riage was strictly private; and halt Mr., I Stanburv’s frirnds bad no suspicion that I she bad'ever married at all until she be- j i came his wife. 1 He took her to a pleasant home, as

s, Our Country's Good shall ever be our Aim-Willing to Praise and not afraid to Blame."

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, JAN. 21, 1859.

comfortable, if not quite as luxurious, as the one she had shared with Mr. Valentin and that al! she could ask for was showered upon her with generous profusion. Their dwelling, two or threo miles from the heart of Montreal, was surrounded with trees and flowery shrubs of every description. Inside, there was every comfort that a loving heart could suggest.— The heart of Hortense awoke to life, to love to happiness; and to see her thus, rejoiced that of her husband.

Two years of almost unmingled bliss , went by; but the third year commenced j with some alarm for the health of Eugene. I Twice had Hortense seen him draw a handkerchief from his lips, which was steeped in blood; and often his nights were passed in coughing, until nature was exhausted, and the morning sleep found him drenched in the terrible sweats which so surely portended consumption Hortense struggled against this new and 1 terrible sorrow. It was the first time she had watched over One sq near to her. It was the first time that she had seen the . i effects of this insiuous disease; and hope 1 i and (car alternated in her breast, until at 1 length she hoped against all hope, and i the blow came down upon her all the harder that she had not schooled herself to feel its opproach. It was hard to see him part with the mute evidences of his brief happiness.— Every window where he had sat with her, every arbor where they had rested, every tree under whose shades they had walked, or whose trunk he had carved with her name, all received a farewell I look. ‘How can I part with you, dearest?’ he | asked, after his painful jouiney round the : I rooms and the garden. ‘Eugene! do not name it,’ she said, ‘you will break mv heart.’ ‘But you must bear it, Hortense. I cannot stay with you long. Thank Heaven that I leave you above want. Pro--1 raise me, dear, that you will never leave I this home. Trust me, I will be with you in spirit, when the form is laid in the earth; watching, guarding, if possible,, j speaking to you.’ It was his last night on earth. When the morn broke, his eyes were closed in the sumbers of death. Hortense wandered for months about her beautiful home like a perturbed spirit. There was nothing touched by Eugene ■ that had not a solemn and a sacred value in her eyes. The trees he had planted, i the bowers he had formed, all had a meaning to her that no one else could under stand; and yet upon each one of these, i and upon her whole heart and life, seem- i • ed written, ‘the glory has departed!’ It is time to go back to the happy days i of Mr. Valentin, and see what became of.

the found busband and courageous adventurer. At first, he was almost distracted with the thought of parting with Hortense; but once the. Rubicon passed, he became more calm. A few years, he ; thought would find them together, never to part; and perhaps they would be all the 1 happier for the separation. I Full of hope he went to the mines of Australia. Day by day he wroughtthere enduring hardships unheard of before, but bearing them with the courage and , fortitude of a hero. Ever before him was i the word Hortense. It nerved his arm in the rough mines when he struck his iron in the gold-giving soil; it soothed ' him when be lay burning with fever in a rude shanty in the mountains; his thought by day and his dream by night was still his own Hortense. Not a word, however ever reached him from her; and often he shuddered at the fearful probabilities that arose to his mind. Hortense might be sick, suffering; might deem him dead or | unfaithful; no that could never be—she would have faith in him as in the sun.— I Come what would, she would not be shaken in her trust. But as he lay in the miserable shed which held his sick bed, he would have given worlds for one glance I from her eye, one pressure of her hand, to show that he was not forgotten; and as he watched the stars overhead, shining through the crivices of the low roof, he thought that if Hortense was dead, she i would appear to him in his need. The rude miners were too intent on gain to watch beside his bed, and many ' were the days and nights in which he lay untended. Aid came at last in the shape | 'of a child—a young boy whose father was at work in the mines, and whose mother supported herself and child by washing. Hours did the little Ben Cole sit beside him, watching every movement, and trying to give him ease; or bringing water from the spring, he would bathe his fevered forehead with his little hands. A tender nurse, indeed, was little Ben, and - on bis recovery, Mr. Valentin made the laundress happy by providing for the boy Mr. Valentin had been richly rewarded for his enterprise. Gold had showered in upon him in almost fabulous profusion; and now he seriously thought of returnhome. Somewhat enfeebled by his late illness, he was struck with dismay at again being prostrated, and to find that

his disorder was the dreadful small-pox. That he lived through this, was only because his constitution was so excellent that even this enemy would not vanquish it. He did live, but his own mother could net have know him, so deeply scarred and disfigured had he become. With his first returning strength he set out for home. Hortense! Montreal! were now the beginning and end of his aspirations. One thing only marred his joy on the homeward route. Would Hortese love

j the scarred and disfigured face that lookj ed at him from the little glass in the cabin? Would she endure the long, shaggy beard by which he was enabled to cover a part of the deep scars? He had taken parage in an American vessel bound f Or New York. He arrived safely, and the next hour saw him on his , w ”‘s to Monreal. He bent his course to the neighborhood where Hortense proposed going after his departure. He inquired everyvhere lor Madame Valentin. No one knew ler. He himself was not rei cognized, ever, when he haunted the old places of business. Another name, of course, was upm the familiar door; and hither he turned his steps, to see if haply 1 some old friend sf former days might not have heard of her. Even the name was unremembered, ar pretended to be; and yet the person he asked was one whom he remembered as plotting zealously to be invited to his dinner parties. ‘They will remember me when they find I am rich,’ s»id Valentin to himselt, j bitterly. i Ho turned into a by-street, and saw a beggar sitting in the sunshine. It was the most cordial and happy face that had met his gaze since he came back. The man did not ask for any thing either, nor show him the withered arm that hung closely under his coat; and hopeless as the question seemed, be thought that he would ask it. As he dropped money into the ragged hat that lay upon the ground beside the beggar, he said, carelessly: ‘Can you tell me where Madame Valentin lives now, , my man?’ ’ ‘l used to know her when she lived in Queen street. Was that the one?’ It was the street where Mr. Valentin’s grand house stood. ‘She is gone from that bouse, but she i did not forget old Jack, and many’s the j penny she has given me since. " Glad i enough was I when I heard she was mari ried again.’ ‘Married!’ exclaimed Mr. Valentin. ‘Bless you, sir; yes; married to Mr. Stanbury; but poor man, he died a year I ago.’ : ‘Do yousknow where she lives now?’ ‘Somewhere out of town. I don’t go :so far now, lam so old. I think it is in

■ Bloomsbury Place, West Terrace.’ To paint Mr. Valentin’s feelings would 1 be a hopeless task. Hortense married, ’ but still free! A painful revulsion took ’ place in his mind, and he resolved, as all seemed to forget him, that he would not ! yet discover himself. That night he visittd the neighborhood of Hortense, read I ‘Stanbury’ on the door, and managed to 1 secure the next house, which happened to ' be quite empty, and having its garden adjoining hers. The next day he furnished ' it richly, brought a number of servants, bouth a fine carriage and horses, and under the name of Richie he settled down to watch at his leisure the movements of his ’ i neighbor. He chose all his private rooms ' on that side of the bouse which overlooked ' hers. I The first time that he saw her was in the garden. She looked still handsome, ' but was very sad and pensive. He won- . dered if it was for his loss, or her late hus- ■ band! He soon became satisfied that she led a very quiet and retired life; that she nad little company and kept early hours. It was early spring, but he had plenty of flowers and fruit in the green-house, and ,' he sent some for her acceptance, with Mr. j Richie’s compliments. Again and again ; 'he repeated his gifts, and each time with ' a selection that marked a delicate taste. Hortense was charmed with her new neighbor whom she had not seen. I The flowers had been several times sent, when he added to them a request that lie i might call on the lady. She returned ' a favorable answer and under cover of the twilight hour, he found himself in the ' room with Hortense. The sound of his ! I voice filled her with indiscribable emo- ! I tion, because it resembled that of her first' hushand; but she persuaded herself that it was a fancy. She found her neighbor agreeable and attentive. He did not neglect any opportunity of being with her — They rode together, sung together, and often his voice would thrill through, the soul of Hortense like a remembered lay from some far-off land. Insensibly she was becoming interested in him. He had told her much that was! true of his past life; and openly mourned i some being whom he said was lost to him 1 I —he did not say by death—but Hortense ‘ saw it in that light. Moro and more ten- j 1 der grew that intercourse, for she seemed ■

utterly to disregard his scars, until she was scarcely suprised, and certainly not offended, at receiving an offer of his hand She was alone in the world; she had no one to consult, no one who had any right to blame her for trusting to one of whom she knew so little. It was her own risk, and she accepted him; frankly telling him how well she had loved him who had gone from her sight, and promising him that she would try to love him as Wuil. Mr. Valentin exulted greatly in this answer, and came near discovering himself; but he bad desired to delay it to a certain time, and he checked himself in time. The wedding-day was appointed and every thing was in readiness for the occasion. In exchanging rings, Hortense looked fixedly at the one which the bridegroom gave her. It was Jhe veryring which Mr. Valentin had given her at their first wedding! She fainted on the spot, and he began to think that he carried matters too far. He hung over her with an anxiety such as he never knew before. If she had died now by his folly, what would become of him? He execrated his scheme, repented even with tears that he had been let to pursue it. But Hortense awoke to life, awoke to the new joy of his presence, to ask his forgiveness for the past, and inspire new hope for the future. There had been an inexplicable attraction toward him on her part, from their first interview; and as she confessed this, her husband was quite inclined to be satisfied, and to forgive the apparent disrepect which he fancied she had paid his memory. As Mr. Valentin predicted, the inhab Hants of Montreal, as soon as they found out his wealth, were happy to make his acquaintance, and remembered him as an old friend. With the true spiiit of an honest man, he has liquidated his debts to the last farthing; and now. with hisstill beautiful wife, he is traveling through Europe, happy as any couple can possibly be on their bridal tour. A Sucker at the ‘Planters.’ The other evening a traveler from a sister-State, a full-blooded ‘Sucker,’ arrived in St Louis, and put up at the Planter’s House. He rose betimes next morning and discovered that his boots were missing. Somewhat alarmed at the loss of his understandings, and half attired, he rushed into and through the passages, shouting for a waiter at the top ol his voice, to the great annoyance of sundry young gentlemen in the upper story, who are in the habit of always ‘sleeping it off.’ Doors were opened and slammed to again and mutterings, not suited for ears polite, might have been heard, on learning the cause of the fuss,

I At length the ‘Sucker’ found a servant, and demanded his boots. •Boots—boots—yes, sir!' ‘What number, sir?’ asked the obsequious attendant. ‘The ‘Sucker’ looked rather dubiously for a moment, but brightened up as he answered: ‘Pegged soles and heels, and number twelves!' An awful sell that was, when the agent for a Cleveland tomb stone manufactory with much trouble, hunted up a man who 'had lost his wife.’ In a subdued voice, he asked the man if he had lost j his wife. The man said he had. The I agent was very sorry for it, and sytnpaI thized with him very deeply in his great jaffliction; but death, he sard, was an inj sattiate archer, and shot down all of both j high and low degree; informed the man jthat 'what was his loss was her gain,’ and would be glad to sell him a grave- ' stone to mark the spot where the beloved i one slept—marble or common stohe, as Jhe choose, at prices defying competion j The bereaved man said there was ‘a litj tie difficulty in the way.’ ‘Havn’t you j lost your wife?’ inquired the agent.— ‘Why, yes, I have,’ said the man, ‘but |no grave-stun ain’t necessarry; for you ;see the cussed critter ain’t dead; she ■ scooted with another man!' The azent re- ! tired. A Woman’s Opinion.—ls a man feels it a humiliation to have offered a woman his heart, and have her just and honest enough to refuse it, because she can not give love for love, then that man is not worth regret; he does not merit his name. : And you forget that it is always in a man’s power to define and fix his own position; he can ask. But what can that woman do, who, in ignorance and simplicity, believing a man’s deeds’ gives her heart and soul away with pure faith and feivor, and is never satified in her choice by the seal of a roan.s word's! For you know as well as Ido that men <fill deliberately and consciously lead woman on to I love them, whom they have not the least idea of marrying.— From a Lecture. In Illions Mr. Bush and Mr. Bird are ‘ rival candidates for office. In that case, j the peeple will have to beat the Bush to > get the Btrd.

A Brido in the Wrong Bed. We have Cincinnati Enquirer as voucher from the following: A newly married pair put up at the Spencer House—they went out shopping—returned—t.-rido had left something—site quietly slipped out. leaving her spouse asleep—found her lost articles—returned—mistook Main for Broadway—got into the Madison instead of the Spencrr--it looked at little strange —asked a boy it shp was io the Spencer —boy said yes, not fully understanding her—she told him to lead her to 48— she partly disrobed and got into bed—ex pected her husband moiaentarily—fell asleep—occupant of 48 Madison, an Indiana merchant returned from the Theatre —a little light—quietly went to r-?otu — to bed—to sleep. The account proceeds: How long the two reposed there side by side with oniyafootofspace between them all unconscious of each other’s presence is not exactly known but probably about an hour when a tremendous noise was heard in the apartment from which female screams issued wildly piercingly and ceselessly. The hotel was in an uproar; proprietors clerks, waiters porters and guests dressed and half dressed were at the door of 48 in a few minutes, blocking up the enterance arid asking each other eagerly, ,What is the matter?’ For Gods sake tell us what is the trouble.’ Thecause of this outcry may be imagined. The bride had awakened about midnight, and putting her hand over her husband it fell upon the Indianaian's face and the soft, warm touch aroused him at once. He did not understand it exactly, though he did not dislike it, and in a moment more, Mrs. R. said: 'My dearest husband, were have you been all this while?’ ‘Husband,’ echoed the merchant beginning to see, like Lord Tinsel, that ho had ‘made a small mistake here,’ ‘I am nobody’s husband. I reckon, my dear madame, you're in the wrong bed.’ In the wrong bed—horror of horrors tho’t the bride. What would her liege lord—what would the curious world say. And Mrs. R. screamed terridly and sprang from the couch just as her companion did the same. He was fully as much alarmed as she, and entreated her to give him time and he would leave the apartment, although it was the one be engaged—he’d make an oath to that, Scream, scream, scream, was the onlv reply to this kindly proposition ‘My God, madam, don’t yell so! you’ll wake the house.’ ‘Be reasonable; I swear it’s a mistake. Have some thought of the consequences. I don’t want to hurt you, I swear I don’t. You’ll get me shot and yourself—well, I won’t say what.’

Just at this juncture, the throng outside presented itself at the door, and beheld Mrs. R cowering in one corner, exercising her lungs magnificently, with a sheet wrapped over het form and head, and the Indianian in the middle of the room enveloped in a coverlet, and ejacluating. ‘My God, madam, don’t!' The junior proprietor. Dr. Chahill, saw there must be some mistake and requested the others to retire called the merchantout went with him into another room and there learned the whole story. Ths doctor then seat one of the ladies of the hotel to Mrs. R. and the entire affair was j explained, greatly to her relieflhough she was overwhelmed with confusion at a circumstance that might have ruined her . reputation forever. Under the escort of the Doctor she . was conveyed to the ‘Spencer’ where the husband was found pacing the ccriodors with frantic mein, and half crazed with I grief at the mysterious disappearance of his wife, whom he believed hadbeen spirited awnv by a villian or murdered for j her jewel in this ‘infernal city,’ where, as j he expressed it, ‘they would kill a man for I a dollar any time.’ As soon as he beheld his spouse he caught her to his bosom and wept like a child. He was melted with happiness at her discovery and recovery, and told her 1 that he had sc-jurred the city for intelli* ! gence of her whereabouts in vain. A Domestic Recipe—A father, who had passed innumberable sleepless nights, i immortalized him«elf by discovering a method of keeping babies quite. The modus operendi is as follows:—As soon as the squaller awakes, set it up, propped by a pillow, if it cannot set alone, and smear its fingeis with thick molasses: then put , hall a dozen feathers into its hands, and it will sit and pick the fethers from one hand to the other until it drops asleep. As soon as it wakesagain, more molasses and feathers; and in place of the nerve astounding yells there w ill be silence and enjoyment unspeakable. ‘Youthink you are a great man,’ said an impertient fellow to a gentleman whom jhe had offended. ‘Yes, lam a real thumper,’ replied the gentleman, fitting ths ■ action to the word. It is less pain to learn in youth then tn be ignorant in old age

NO, 50.