Decatur Eagle, Volume 3, Number 4, Decatur, Adams County, 4 March 1859 — Page 1

THE DECATUR EAGLE.

roL. 3.

IHE EAGLE. HISSED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY IIIHIPS & SPENCER, #| on Mtin Street, in the old School House, jt Square North of J. & P Crabs' Store. Terms of Subscription : one year, $1 50, in advance; $1 75, within Tf ar, and s'2 00 after the year has expiled. f!fn paper will be discontinued until all! ..n.R are paid, except at the option of the ' ilishers. Terms of Advertising! square, (ten lines) three insertions, .$1 00 h subsequent insertion. 25; fXo advertisement will be considered less none square; over one square will be conn-1 ind charged as two; over two, as three, etc. JOB PII I N TING: tfe are prepared to do all kinds of job work, meat and workmanlike tn inner,on the most I Bonable terms. Our material for the comple-1 t of Job-Work, being new and of the latest i | fS , and we feel confident that satisfaction I a be given. H -e ALKJ«■ • fair moon! that witnessed my delight, As—Laura’s little hand in mine— Jfe walked, the cloudless summer night, Beneath the purple-clustered vine. Say bast e’re fanned a fairer face With the mild splendor of thy wing, Or known a form of gentler grace Than hers of whom I fondly sing? Te stars! that in her happy eyes, [bright, Looked down and saw yourselves more Spake! have you ever from the skies, Beheld a being half so light? Was Eve more lonely, when, new born, The fairest thing in Paradise, The world’s first lover woke at morn, She flashed on his astonished eyes? Ye trees, whose branches o’re my head, Waved pendulous that blessed eve, And heard the loving vows she said. Do love-birds sweeter strains e’er wave! Or do the tails the soft winds bring, Which make thy whispering leaves rejoice; Or silvery streamlets murmuring, In melody surpass her voice!

Oh, sea! that kissed our feet that night. Did heavenly Venus fairer roam. When like the Iris clothed in light, Bhe leaped to life, amid thy foam? Or when thy waves bore from the land Egypt’s dark Queen —had she more charms? Or Hero, when upon the strand She clasped Leander in her arms? Winds-! that bore from the garden's bloom, Like spirits of the lovedin death, The soul of flowers—a sweet perfume — Say, was it sweeter than her breath? And when you kissed her blushing cheek, And nestled in her auburn hair, And sinuous, stirred her bosom meek. Didye not seek a warm death there? They all are silent —moon and stats, Aud trees, and ever-rolling sea, And winds that, yoked to fairy cars. Bear endless freights of melody— They speak not; yet, oh, loving heart! What heeds it what the answer be. Though the whole world deny each part, *• Is she not more than all to thee? 'Hold ox Dak,’ —The Piqua (S. C. Register,) has the following in a recent issue, describing incident among the slaves: 'Quite a revival is now in progress at the African Church in this city. We were present a itw evenings since, and witnessed, with much gratification, their earnest devotion. Os the incident we cannot fail to uoteone. A brother rvas supplicating the throne eloquently, when another brother called out in stentorian voice— B hodat praying obar dar?’ The response was, Dat’s brudder Moses.’ Hold on dar, braddvr Moses!’ was the dictum of theloaruer,' you let brudder Ray pray, he’s better quainted wid de Lord dan you am!’ Brudder Moses dried up, and brudder Ray prayed. Few Men,’ -rites Mrs Mowatt Ritchie, in uer new work, ‘are attracted towards very young infants. The masculine imagination is seldom tine enough to picture, while gazing on the small unexpanded bud, the brilliant tints the graceful unfolding of the flowet.’ All of *hich we pronounce rediculcus bosh! Do all in your power to teach your childern self government. If a child is passionate, bach him by patience and gentle means to Wrb his temper. If he is greedy, cultivate liberality i n him. If he is selfish, promote generosity. The first match for a two mile race for 82,50(> M ide, came off at Charleston, S. C., on Friday, tn which the horse Planet beat Heunie Farron. Divorces.—A divorce case is now on the legal tapis in Cincinnati between two Parties, both young, and married but t * lree years, whose disagreement arises of a night-cap which the wife insisted upon wearing in spite of her husband’s W| shes, petitions, threats, tears, oaths, and command*.

THE GAMSLEIPS VICTIM. BY EMMERSON BENNETT. ‘So you would like to know how I first became acquainted with my bride?’ eaid an old friend of mine, by the name of George Carson, whom I 'meton his bridal tour. ‘Well, ‘therby hangs a tale;’ and as the story is both romantic and tragic, and has a moral, you shall have it. ‘Shortly iqfter th? ‘gold fever'bruke out in California,’ pursued my friend, ‘I was, as you know, among the first to venture into that, then almost unknown region,; with a view to amassing wealth, by what ’ I at .hat time regarded as the very simple process of digging up gold by the bushel. I arrived out there, as you also know, with,a select party ot friends, and; forthwith we set off lor the mines. Hav- ’ ing fixed upon a locality, we all went to j work in high spirits, and continued together about a month; by which time we had made the not very agreeable discovery that ‘all is not gold that glitters;’ and that even in the gold regions, there is an immense amount of earth that has nothing in it to glitter.

‘Up to the time named, though working industriously, we had not cleared the < xpensts of living—to say nothing of the expenses of our outward voyage—and consequently we all begaa to grow querulous and argumentative. One said the gold was here and another said it was there, and a third that it was nowhere—at least in sufficient quantities to pay for the trouble of unearthing it. Gold was there, without question, tor we had actually seen some—but not in such chunks as we had grappled in our dreams—and though we all felt satisfied that il we had the mines at home, and could get our board for a dollar a week, we might make a respectable living by digging and washing it, we were by no means satisfied we could do th.e same in California. ‘But then if we could believe the stories of strangers, who occasionally passed through out camp, there were solid veins of solid gold in every place except where we were; and as nearly every man of us had an idea that he knew best how to find solid veins, we divided our party into pairs, and set off prospecting for these wonderful localities. My partner and I, not finding ours very readily, soon began »o ditf-r in opinion; and at length he went one way and I another. After search ing fora day or two longer, I fortunately fixed upon a spot which turned out the ■/olden ore to some considerable profit; and I began and continued to work alone for a week—luckily shooting game enough in the vicinity to supply the most pressing wants of nature. ‘My solitary camp was none the pleasantest, however—especially at night, and though now doing well exceedingly, and flattering myself that I should some dav be a gentleman of means, it was not with the same regret that Robinson Crusoe discovered the tracks in the sand, that I one day found myself joined by a young and rathet delicaie looking stranger, with black hair, and eyes, and pale, classical, I intellectual features. ‘Henry Gordon—for such was his name — was a native of New England, who had come hither to get rich—simply, as he expressed it, that he might put hiias« If upon an equality with a young and beautiful heiress, whose mercenary parents were decidedly opposed to their only dau ghter throwing herself away upon one in indigent circumstances. He was about four-and-twenty years of age. had received a good education, and was refined in manner and sentiment; and the more I saw of him lhe belter I liked him, and the more I reflected upon the purse-pride of human nature, which could not regard one man, while .in the image of bis Maker, as good as another, simply because |he had not the same amount of this 1 world’s dross, or the yellow dust we were i so industrious by seeking. ‘Henry Gordon and 1 continued together for several weeks—one or the other of us going below lo obtain the necessary articles for subsistence, as the game had bei come so scarce as to require too much ot lour time in procuring it; and during this I period I became great by attached to him, and deeply sympathized with all his feel- { iags. _ i ‘Shall I ever become rich and get back to my native land?’ he would frequently I say, in a desponding mood; ‘shall I ever! look upon my dear Agnes as her equal in ' wealth? and shall I find her true to the I lonely wanderer? She promised to be; true — s he promised to wait for me—wait; years, if necessary. I believe she sinceielv loved me. and had none of the selfish feelings of her parents; but oh! it is so long to wait! And lam so unhappy here! so miserable! This labor is not fitted to one of my delecate organization; and I sometimes think I shall find my grave in California, and breathe my last breath among eiaugers, afar from her for whose sake 1 carae hither. ‘I encouraged him as well as I could; and bnde him not despair. 1 told him we

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

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, MARCH 4, 1859.

were doing well where we were, and ■ though it might lake a long time to get! rich by digging gold, yet I thought a suf- j ficient capital might soon be realized, to i enable him to start in some k'nd of busi- i ness, by which he could make money fas- 1 ter and easier, and more congenial to his! feelings; and as wealth would suddenly be acquired by some, I saw no reason why ; he and 1 might not be among the fortunate few. 'Lhe hard work of the mines, however and exposure to the weather—to heats, • and damps, and sudden changes, and lhe J irregular fare of lhe mountains—did not agree with him Somewhat sicklv when he came, he grew paler and mure sickly every day; and at last fell quite ill, and was obliged to suspend his labors. 1 atj tended him as well as I could; and he reI covered so as to be able to leave the mines | but not to resume his occupation there. ! ‘All this time he was much mentally I depressed, and continually talked of his Agnes, but in a tone of deeper desponi dency than ever, and sometimes praying , that he might live to return, if only to see ' her again ere bidding adieu to earth.

‘lf I cannot acquire wealth,’ he would say—if I cannot win her—if we cannot unitedly pass through the vale of life together—.then the next happiness 1 pray ! for, is, that I may die in her native clime ■ and be buried where she may some limes look upon my solitary gravel’ ‘At last, after thanking me, with tearful eyes, for all the kindness I had shown to him, be bade me farewell; and taking with him his hardly-earned gold, he sat off for San Francisco. ‘Months passed on, and I continued among the mountains, changing inv localI ity by times, and on the whole meeting ( with very fair success, till the rainy sea- | son set in; when, flattering mvself that, ; with the capilol I now had, I could do I better in some more congenial pursuit, I sat off for San Francisco also. ‘Shortly after my arrival there, as I j was passing down the principal street, which then consisted of mere shanties and booths, a familiar voice hailed me; and as ■ I lurn&d around, Henry Gordon bounded i up and grasped me by the hand. | ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, ‘I am so de(lighted to see you! for I had begun to fear that you had got sick and perished among the mines. But you are looking remarkable well, and I hope you have been prosperous according to your deserts!’ 'I replied that I had no mason to complain, and that it gave me great pleasure to be able to congratulate him in return upon his health v appearance. ‘Yes,’ he rejoined, ‘I am better than ever in every way—mentally, physically and pecuniarily. I have got my health, my energies, and my hopes, and am now on the tail road to fortune and happiness. I came down here with the little means I had, set quickly lo work in a small way, ; buying and selling, and, being favored ! by fortune, am now worth mv thousands. !Do you see that large siianty vounder?’ pointing down the street. 'Well, that ! and all it contains is mine, njy friend, you (shall make your home with me; and it ; you wish to start in business, I will put you in the way to make a fortune.’ ‘And what of Agnes?' said I, as I accompanied him to his new business home where I found a couple of clerks busy in i disposing of goods at rales which I t'anI cied might make any man wealthy in a ; very short time. j ‘Aii! good news of her!’ he sail, with ! sparkling eyes; ‘better news than 1 had ; hoped; for I have received a letter from her, in reply to mine, in which she states that her father has been unfortunate in business, and is now reduced to want. — ; Carson, this is glorious news to me! ana .it will be the proudest and happiest day of my life, when I shall once more reach my native land, and take her hand, and assure her mercenary parents that now the poor outcast can give her wealth beyond their wildest dreams o f wialtii! Oh. George, I must get rich—very rich!—j My ambition now aspires to the position i of a millionaire, that I may build a palace , for my Agnes, and lord it over the purse-1 proud fools who despised me in my day j of poverty, and thought me beneath them j merelv because I had not the tailsman 1 I now possess! Oh, it will be a glorious ! triumph fur Agnes and me!’ I ‘But have a care, Gordon,’ returned I, I‘do not seek too much! Remember the . fable of the golden eggs!’ ‘Oh, I will be cautious, and yet I will be bold!’ he rejoined, with spirit and pride 'Aladdin’s lamp is in my hand! and I will grow rich—very rich! and yet a year (rom this shall se me homeward bound! Come, let us crack a bottle of wine together, and drink a toast to my glorious Agnes! After that we will talk over your prospects; for you must grow rich also, and go back with me, and enjoy my triumph! You were my first and only friend here,’ he added with faltering voice and tearful eyes; and, save Agnes, you shall be first 1

.in my heart there, for Henry Gordon is one who can never forget a fried. ’ ‘I remained in San Francisco several i months, making my home with Gordon. . and entering into various speculations, j some of which proved successful, and ; some otherwise; so that, at lhe end of lhe period named, [ found, on summing up,l ; had about even—the only money 1 had re fly made being what I had dug from- tliv’f'arlh. 'He however had been more prosperous for, like the fabled Midas, everything he touched turned to gold. In consequence of this repeated good fortune he grew more sanguine, and venturesome to a degree that startled me, for I was afraid that some one unlucky venture might ruin him But whenever I warned him he laughed at my fears, and frequently replied—- • Have I not often told you lhat I hold the lamp of Aladdin?’ ‘Another thing gave me not a little uneasiness: the more he acquired, the more he seemed to want; and though he now possessed far beyond what at first his most sanguine hopes had told him he could ob tain, yet he seemed as far as ever from ! arriving at the ultimate of his desires; and eager to gain, by any and every means he i began to resort to the gambling hells, ■ which now loomed thickly up around us, with the blasting and desolating power of the deadly upas, and there he slaked largely and excitedly and rode, as it seemed, a triumphant conqueror over the very fates themselves. I ‘Finding I had not bettered my condition in the settlement, I finally resolved i upon a return to the mines; and with many .an earnest word of caution to my now sanguine friend, 1 took leave of him. As my story, however, relates more directly to him than myself, I pass over the interval of my absence, which was several months. ‘On my return to town, I sought the quarters of Henry Gordon with no little anxiety. I found his place of business looking less thriving than usual: but he himself, as 1 feared, was not there. On my inquiring for him, I was directed to a large and magnificent saloon—or golden paved hell —which had of late become his j constant resort. I ‘I did not seek him there immediately —for I had business which took me another way; but the following evening, observing the place in question brilliantly lighted up, 1 ventured in; and there, one among a l* r ge crowd which surrounded a faro bank, 1 discovered my friend, betting heavily, and all eyes turned upon him. He stood in such a position that the light shone clear and full upon his pale, almost ghastly face, with its pompressed lips, knitted brows, and eager, fiery eyes, which he kept fixed upon the cards in the hands of the dealer. His fortune had turned—l could see that plainly, and with the wild, maddened despera'ion of one conscious of the fact —and lhat, if he could not recover, by a i bold stroke, what he had he was now staking his all upon what proved literally to be lhe chance of life and death. ‘Spell-bound by his singular appearance I stood, for a few minutes, gazing sadly upon his altered countenance, and secretly cursing the vice which had become his bane. At length, just as I was about to push forward to him, if possible to drag him away from his doom, he stagereu back, and pressed his convulsively-work-in'! fingers to his forehead, while large beads of perspiration gathered upon his agonized features. The next moment I heard him exclaim, in a voice of despair, whose tones seem yet to ring in my ears: ‘Oh, my God! 1 am a ruined man!’ •The crowd made way for him to pass —a few with looks of compassion, but more with smiles of decision—for these were the men who had sought his ruin, and could glory in their success. ‘I pushed eagerly forward, and grasped his hand. •My dear fellow’ said I, ‘come with me. ‘At first he did not recognize me, but threw me from him with violence, saying: It* e •Begone, fiend! I am ruined already—- : what more would you have?’ | ‘Henry,’ returned I, soothingly, ‘do you not know your friend, George Carson?’ •He swept his fingers quickly across his eyes, as if brushing away a mist, and replied, in a hollow, agonized voice: ‘George Carson, is ibis you! I thought it was another—l took you for the Send in human shape who first tempted me 'o my destruction! George, he pursued, hurriedly, grasping my arm, and draging me apart from the crowd—ruined for this worjd and the nexi! I have lost all— all —everything!—fortune—hope-happiness —my Agnes!’ ‘But yon can easily retrieve all, Henry, if you will but keep away from these dens of iniquity.’ ‘No! no!’ he somewhat wildly rejoined; ’it is too late! too late! too late! George lam glad you are here. I wanted to see a friend, but never expected to again.— Here, take this ring, and if you ever re-

turn to the States, seek out Agnes Waltham, and te'| her it came from, rue, with ; my biessingl’ ‘What means this strange language, Henry?’ said I, beginning to grow alarmj cd: surely you will take it back yourself? ‘I may not live,’ he muttered, turning aside bis face. ‘Promise me, ii Ido not live, and you ever return, you will seek out Agnes, ami give her that ling, w'th my blessing!—promise me, George Carson. iu God’s holy name!’ ‘I do, Henry—l solemn!}’ promise! But surely yon have some covet t meaning to these strange words! Come! you must come with me! I will not leave you . for a single moment till you are calmer I and more like yourself.’ j ‘But you have promised me, George, ; have you not? sworn to me, if anything should happen, you will give that ring lo Agnes, with my blessing?’ ‘I have promised, Henry—l have sworn. So come! lei us leave this scene of vice.’ ‘One moment!' he said; and turning quickly on his heel, he pushed eagerly into lhe crowd which had again closed around the faro bank. ‘Almost the next moment I was startled by the the report of a pistol, followed by exclamations of horror; and with a presentiment of the worst, I bounded forward but in time to see them raising poor Henry Gordon from the table, upon which he had fallen—shot through lhe brain by his own hand—literally the gambler’s victim—sacrificed on the very altar of unholy desires! •I kept mv promise,’ concluded my friend, ‘and gave the ring to Agnes Waltham—and another on her wedding day, for the first love of Henry Gordon is now the wife of him who rejoiced in his prosperity, grieved over his fatal vice and bitterly mourned his untimely end.’ How to take Life. Take it like a man. Take it just as though it was—as it is—an earnest, vital, essential affair. Take it just as though you personally were born to th3 task ui perfuriming a merry pan in it —as though the ! world had waited for your coming. Take it as though it was a grand opportunity to do and to achieve, to carry forward great and good schemes; to help and cheer a suffering, weary, it may be a heart broken brother. The fact is life is undervalued by a great majority of mankind. It is not made half as much of as should be lhe case. Where is the mag or woman who accomplishes one tithe of what might be done? Who cannot look back upon opportunities lost, plans unachieved, thoughts crushed, aspirations unfulfilled, al! c tused from the lack of the necessary and possible effort! If we knew better how to take and make the most of life, it would be far greater than it is Now and then a man stands aside from the crowd, labors earnestly, steadfastly, confidently,( i and straightway becomes famous for wisdom, intellect, skill, some greatness, of some sort. The world wonders, admires, idolizes; and yet it only illustrates what each may do if he only takes hold of life with a purpose. It a man but say he will, and follows it up, there is nothing in reason he may not expect to accomplish — There is no magic, no miracle, no secret to him whois brave in heart, determined in spirit. A Tough Story—The village of was often visited by flocks of wild geese which occasionally stopped over night, and continued their journey next morning. They came one intensely cold night and settled down on farm< r H -’s field.— . He was in want of game and auxious to | secure some, but not having ammunition he did not know what to do. After deliberating a long while, and when about to give up the idea of taking some of the ' geese, a pom struck him which he concluded to adopt forthwith. He went to his pond, opened the flood gate and let the water run slowly on his { field till it was covered to the'depth of an inch and a half. In the morning, when the geese attemtp/ d to fly awav, they I found to their great astonishment, that they were frozen in!— New York Picayune. Balloon Ascents—Why are people so I partial to balloon ascenti.? The secret is they always tacitly hope to see an acci I dent. When Van Atnburg said to Harel ; of the Porte Saint-Martin, that he managed bis beasts so as to give a perfect; sense of safety to the spectators, ‘That; won’t do,’ said Harel; ‘you must leave a probability of being eaten up one day or j nobody will come to see you.’ The storv I of lhe man who followed Van Ambnrg all j over the world not to miss that critical day must have been got up by some borne or continental Barnum. Commodore Vanderbilt, alias Monte Cristo, drives a pair of horses worth 89,- j 000, say the newspapers bard up for par-1 agrephs.

Newspaper Borrowers. —A ’borrower ) is an •ji.fimsl cd being. He is incomplete. There is a screw loose in his organiza- , | tiop. He is a bad man —that is an unsafe I oue. He never comes to anything good, ’ | and is always poor. It is an old tcandi- . ■ navian proveib, that when sßtan wishes to angle with and finaly catch a m in, he ; first set him to borrowing. The whole i tribe of borrowers are utterly mean and the newspaper borrower is the meanest of lhetribe. In this country, newspapers I; are so cheap that every man can — and ■ I and every decent man does—buy his own. i 1 At any rate, no decent man will borrow i a new-paper. It dirties and rumples a paper to h indie it, and no man likes to have [ bis favorite soiled by borrowers’ unclean, t hands. Subscribers to good pap rs like ■i to preserve them in good condition and i in order that they may do this the papers ; must be kept clean and smooth and whole. .I No one likes to preserve a dirty, torn or ' rumpled paper; and one such unsightly copy will spoil a whole file —one number ■ of a paper lost breaks the continuity of a volume. Therefore the newspaper borrower is a disturber of the peace and happiness of families, he is apest —a nuisance and should be permanently disposed of in a manner that would forever prevent ; him from annoying honest, decent people ■ who pay for newspapers, and should be ■ allowed to yead and preserve them in i peace. i Sharp, Sharper Sharpest—They have a set of sharp fellows in Kai:-as City. We heard a good story of a trick played ■ by one of the residents of that ci'y a short i time since. A lean lank sallow faced ind- : ividual rode a mule into Kansas City, nnd ' wanted to sell him. A genius standing by offered to sell him for five dollars. The ; offer was taken, and the mule disposed of; the auctioneer warranted a good title.— The purchaser had scarcely got his mule home, when a Shawnee Indian came into the city in search of a mule that had been stolen from him. The auctioneer was on i hand again, and offerd to show the Shawnee where the mule was if he would plank down aV. The Indian paid and the auctioneer after pointing out the mule, went !to the new purchaser and told him how I the case stood, at the same time offering !to run the mule across the river for ten dollars. The bargain was struck, and the auctioneer mounted the mule, anti that )s the last that has been seen of the auctioneer or mule.— Leavenworth Times. C nfibmed Habits —Everv one knows I the ti.u v ol the tallow chandler, who. hav« I ing amassed a fortune, disposed of his hus- ■ innss and taken a house in the country, ! not far from the city, that he might enjoy ! himseif, after a few months’ trial of the ! holiday life, requested permission of bis { successor to come into town, and assist him on melting days. We have heard of {one who kept 9 retail spirit shop, and hav- , ing, in like manner, retired fr m trade, used to enjoy himself bj’ having one puncheon filled with water, and measuring it off bv pints into another. We have heard, also, of a butcher in a small country town, who, some little time after ho had left off business, informed bis old customers that he meant to kill a lamb once a week, just for amusement. 1 I — I H H umanity — Is that sympathy by which we review the sufferings of others as mfilleted on ourselves, and desire, to avert the blow. Thus woman, more frequently than lhe oposiie sex. is distinguished by this virtue, being, from her helpless nature, more exposed to mental corporeal inflictions. Humanity differs from benevolence in its being a (<■< ! ; ng which makes the case of the injured or distressled immediately our own, while benevolence may rather be esteemed a desire to give or impartsome good or benefit we I find ourselves possessed of the needy and destitute; tlie former seeks to prevent evil, the latter to promote good. Tomato Figs—Three pounds of tomatoes add one of sugar—let the tomatoes lie in sugar over night, for the purpose i>f hardening them—in the morning boil one hour, then carefully dip them out and depo-itc upon plates or platters. Pour the liquid over them and place them in an oven to dry —be careful lhat they do not (burn—when the juice has evaporated or ! dried away, they are fit tn park; then (pack them in layers in a stone j.r, and you will hive delicious figs, far superior toiinported ones. Ladies who try lliisre- ( eipe will never fail to make a large sup- | ply everv fall. . ... ... An Interesting Country.—The Post- ; master at Tampico has given notice, says the New Orleans Picayune, that persons who wish to write to Mexico can do so i now, provided they send their letters ‘open as only so are they delivered in the canitol. This interesting state of things has existed ever since (he sth ult. Before I that time they could not be sent at al), land now they have got to take their chance by the diligence from Vrra Crus.

NO. 4.