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The new era. [volume] (Sauk Rapids, Min. [i.e. Minn.]) 1860-1861, June 14, 1860, Image 1

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn91059360/1860-06-14/ed-1/seq-1/

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“b -il . U :-i drtkiD ,* /. (I < >{ J H T
«■* g't-.'.' j: ■ i 1 i i V “- >■ P -- 1 "
liN mt leave to enjoy nyself. That place that doeß
Obtain jay books, the best companions, is
To me a glorious Court, where hourly \p
Converse with the old Sages and Philosophers.
* - r 'it - .1.1! ' Fletcher.
Questionings of a CMKi:
To-night I sang at twilight gray,
The songs 1 nsed to sing
Unto rinjr babes, when closing day
WiM folding down her Wing.
aaoi fS!| ./. jM '
Of little forms I used to clasp,
Two rhonlder in the tomb,
One boy alone is left, whose cheek
Doth treat its fjUh May-bloom.
He sits within his little chair
t)rawn close mine own betide,
And prattles in his soft, low voice
Of those dear ones that died.
And asks me with a wondering tone,
And eye that's flowing o’er,
If they have pleasant homea above,
And playthings on the floor,
Say, mamma dear, does liitleJGrace
Hold Willie by the hand,
And walk upon God’s golden floor
So beautiful and grand 1
And do they ever think of me,
And doesn't Gracie cry
And tell to Willie all about
Her papa, ma, and I ?
Now, can’t we fix a great high swing,
And let it reach the sky,
Conld they come down—but ma, you said
That they had wings to fly.
Why don’t they ccrne like little birds
And laugh with me and play,
I'd let them have my horse and cart—
fay, won’t they come, some day ?
If Grace should take a great long stick
And with the bright moon play,
And if she spoiledjit—then would God
Scold little Crace away ?
And does she pick up twinkling stars
To fill her little pail,
As she and I, the pebbles picked
Last Spring, around the well ?
You say I was a little babe,
When Willie went away,
And that 1 bent down low and kissed
His cold white lips of clay.
But I remember little Grace—
My little sister fair—
Hit eyes you say were just like hers,
And much like her’s his hair.
O ma, how much I long to seo
Those dear ones in the sky—
O, will you not, dear mamma, pray
For God to make me die ?
I have to play now all alone—
Papa would be with you—
Then Willie, Grace, and I should be
All in that aky of bluo.
If they’re so happy up nbove
May I not too be so;
O, mamma dear, you hurt my soul
When thus you say—no, no—
And thus the darling prattled on—
I clasped him to my heart;
O thus we will be folded, love,
In heaven, no more to part.
There came a light unto me then
Within the twilight gray,
Unfurling from an angel’s wing
Adown the Heavenward way ;
The angel, Hope, to our Earth-life,
Its dear, God-given stay
For the New Era.
What though unbounded by the lengthened span
Of three score years and ten,our earthly mind;
E’en till the spirit longcth to be freed, —
O / what ore days unto the life of man ;
That may be measured but by work and deed,
jlnd by the worth of labors well-earned meed,
Approving smile, and love of God, and man—
Our fallen brother, Man.
Our grand mothers had a few books,
and fewer newspapers, and no system
of popular lecturing, yet what they ac
quired they had time mentally to digest,
and so became much sounder. When
Bacon said that reading made the cor
rect man, but conversation only a ready
one, he meant the reading of a more
thorough age than this. What conver
sation was then, common reading is
now. Women now read light and easy
books instead of talking with their gos
sips, and gain very little if any more
The true use of books, or even of
good newspapers, is not merely to grat
ify curiosity, but to supply facts and
principles, which may be laid away in
the mind, to he drawn upon subsequen
tly, as the exigencies of life demand.
She who reads without digesting, never
has & stock of ideas on hand to think
about. She is like the Israelites in
Egypt, when they had no straw to make
brick. A careless reader is also a bad
thinker. The mind of a thoughtful rea
der is like the bolting apparatus of a
mill, separating the bran from the flour,
coincident with the act of duty. The
hasty reader neglects this. Women
generally forget what they have read
almost as soon aa the book or paper is
laid down. They never, or rarely ex
ercise their judgment They don't think.
They "dream, but dreaming is not
thinking .”
Edited by W. H. WOOD and “ Freedom is the only safeguard of Government, aod Ordered
m. 1--M 23.
I will as my heart dictates,
even should I never see you again, or
list to that voice that was ever the swee
test to ray ear. You say I seemed near
to you last eve—that my breath seemed
on your cheek—my hand to touch
your own. How m}'St~!i nU3 ■ tor in
imagination I was with you. I could
not, I would not on that night deprive
myself of the delightful dream of being
with you, even in “our room !” So I
shut out the dreadful truth, the discov
ery of which, banished me from your
presence, and recalling the brief period
of our wedded life, dreamed that I was
again your bride. How pleasant that
waking dream ! How bright and beau
tiful had been the reality ! Yes, I too
recalled, what you repeat of my conver
sation on that night. That expressed
foreboding was prompted by the creep
ing on of that cold shadow, that was to
shut me out from the rays of the sun of
my life. Thenccfc>rth 1 have groped in
darkness—deep as the utter night.—
There was no morn to me—no flowers
came with the spring-time. The bright
ness of summer, that shone for others,
mocked me, and the melancholy beauty
and sighs and decay of autumn, but told
me over how lonely I was ! Yes, I will
tell this to you ! “ There are times
when the charged heart must speak,”
and mine is overflowed with sadness and
remembrance, with love and disap
pointment, and despair ! I had another
dream ofyou which was not a waking
one. We were reconciled at last. You
had not explained or excused your con
duct, yet I was with you again. It was
glorious summer-time. We were in the
garden by the moss-rose tree. You
smoothed my hair on my brow, and
looking earnestly into my eyes, while
your own were filled with tears, told ine
how unhappy you had been without me,
and how thankful you was for our reun
ion. How real seemed in my dream
the delight of my heart, as I was about
to reply with kindness—but the scene
changed. I was standing, lone and lost,
'beneath a black and angry sky, by the
wild ocean-shore, whose great waves
were lashed into fury, breaking against
the lowering blackness of the Heavens
Suddenly, amid those waves a tiny boat
appeared. You only was its occupant.
A sad smile played upon vour counte
nance. I cried to you to beware, for
you appeared unconscious of danger.
You looked at me with that same sad
smile, and your lips moved, but I could
not hear what they uttered . A great
wave was rolling from behind. You
was resting on your oar. Agnin I
shrieked and stretched forth my hands
to you. In vain ! The raouutain-wave
rolled on—enveloped you—you was
lost! My great grief awoke me. My
pillow was wet with my tears. My
heart was softened. I felt that I could
even forgive the great wrong I had en
dured, if my Henry could love me but
once again. While thus meditating,
your letter was brought me. It would
seem that some guardian spirit had been
uniting us, in thought, at least. May
we not suppose it to have been, indeed,
the spirit of th pure harted Lillie,
whom I could have loved so fondly, had
I known her "in the flesh.” Had your
letter been received one day sooner, I
should not have deemed it proper to re
ceive it. My in dignation, my pride,
aud my sense of wrong, were still pre
dominate oyer my love. I had been
deceived where I trusted most—where l
trusted all—and I could never strictly
believe with the poetess,
Better trust all, and be deceived,
And mourn the blight of that deceiving,
Than doubt the heart, that, if believed,
Would blew the soul with true believing.”
For I had learned how very bitter it
was, to mourn “the blight of that de
ceiving !** But one thing surprises me.
You appear in your letter perfectly in
nocent, not having, apparantly, one
thought of the occasion of my sudden
departure from your house. Had you
examined your private drawer, whioh I
SACK RAPIDS, lift, THPBBBAI, ffllE 14. l&tft
purposely left open, you would have been
more than satisfied. But if you could
have had the hardihood to carry on so
egregious a deception during several
months, cherishing love for another,
when you at the same time professed for
me your sole and sincere devotion, then
a deception fcy letter, would be but a
trifle. Your letter seems very sincere.
But whether you really are unsuspect
ing of the cause, or pretend to be so,
though I think you should have a se
cret consciousness of it, yet 1 will give
the explanation, thereby satisfying the
promptings of my own heart. Know
then, you left me, on New Year’s raorn
ing, to go to your office, on some etner
getn business, leaving'your usual part
ting kiss upon my brow. Never had I
loved you more fondly. Having expec
ted you to spend the day with me, your
absence rendered me unusually lonely.
I looked around for something to inter
est me till your return. The drawer,
in which you was accustomed to keep
all your private papers was half open.
It had always before been locked, and
the key kept about your person. I re
membered that, some little time previous
when you had occasion for some paper
therein contained, I asked you what
was that packet of papers confined with
the ribbon of white satin, on which I
had already laid my hand I thought
they looked suspiciously like love letters.
You answered, as I thought evasively,
immediately closing and locking the
On this above-named morning, seeing
it so temptingly exposed, 1 yielded to
my curiosity, and grasped that satin
bound package. The first paper that
dropped therefrom, was a letter written
in a fair, delicate hand, too lady-like to
be mistaken. Judge of my bewilder
ing astonishment, when, after glancing
at the date, which was Augest, and
since our marriage, I read the address,
—“My own dearest Henry!” Then
followed professions of the most ardent
and long continued attachment, mingled
with slight reproaches for some seem
ing neglect on your part, and referring
to a last interview in an arbor at the
twilight hour. The words seemed to
kindle into flame, as their meaning was
with the swiftness of thought conveyed
to my burning brain. The closing sen
tence still l ings in my memory—“ By
all our beloved past —its hours of pure
and unalloyed enjoyment—by all our
fond hopes and cherished dreams of the
future—by all your vows of undying
constancy arid unchanged devotion—by
all your knowledge of iny absorbing and
all depending love for you, I entreat, I
charge you, suffor not your love to fail !
It is my life—without it I die !
Your Alice.”
The paper dropped from my hand.
But after a few moments, I raised it,
and returned it to its place. I turned to
the table and penned the brief note,
which I resolved should be my last word
to you. I chst no “ last fond look”
about our sitting room ere I departed.
I hurried on my cloak and rushed from
the house. Soon I was at my uncle’s,
where, beneath the roof, and under the
protection of the guardian of my child
hood and youth, I was sure of finding a
welcome and a home.
I locked myself in the quiet chamber,
formerlyand still mine, where I yielded
to my indignation, which was soon suc
ceeded by passionate despair. Amid
all my contending emotions, the most
intense was, I think, the knowledge of
the wickedness and deceitfulness of your
heart, which I had fancied so firm and
steadfast in manliness and truth. Soon
er would I have believed all the world
base, ungrateful, and traitorous, than
the cherished idol of my heart—my no
ble Hqnry. Whence again should I
look for hapbiness ! Bitterly did I feel
conscious that there was for me no peace
on earth. How much more intense was
my present misery, contrasted with my
past perfect eujoyment ! I was lost
in confusion and conjecture when en
deavoring to solve your conduct Why
if you already loved another, did you
unite youraeli with me ? Was it for tny
fortune ? If so, and if unprompted by
love, why did you still, pretend to an un
varying display of the most fervent af-
fection ? “ Unkind,” do you ask ? O
no ! The most careful kindness, the
most watchful tenderness you ever evin
ced for mo. Often has ray heart yearn
ed for the same again, and mourned,
that with so much external regard, you
could have associated the deepest wrong
to myself and guilt to another. But
enough. If you would not before be
lieve, you now have it in words, that I
am acquainted with your misguided in
consistencies. if it was possible that
you could give an explanation therefor,
I could return to you with the greatest
joy. But I have no hope of this. And
why, if Alice still lives, do you seek
me ? Take her to your affections, who
has loved you so devotedly and long.
Adieu. Adelaide.
Adelaide—again my own Adelaide —
how needlessly have we been wretched!
It is now night, or l would seek your
presence, to uufold to you the great
mystery which your letter has at once
made clear to me. Happy am I that
this affair is no longer enveloped in an
impenetrable mist. The letter to which
you refer, together with the “ satiu
bouud package,” was the penmanship
of my sister Lillie! Guileless girl!
how little was she aware of the cruel
injury that fatal “love-letter” was to
inflict on her brother, whom she so ten
derly loved ! In my letter to you of last
eve, you will recollect that I wrote of
still retaining in my possession frag
ments of her tales and sketches. The
‘ love-letter” which so lucklessly fell
into your hands, was a portion of the
only romance which she ever wrote for
publication. She sent it to me for cor
rection, artlessly adding, that as she
was unacquainted with the language of
love, she wished it to undergo the su
pervision of one more experienced. At
the same time she earnestly required
me not to allow you to see it, as her
delicacy and modesty were extreme,
and she had formed exalted opinions of
your intellectual acquirements. As
her every wish was dear and sacred to
me, I complied with this latter demand,
and observing imperfections in the style
and too vehement ardor of the “ love
letter,” I forwarded to her my correc
ted copy retaining the original, which
has cost us both so many tears. She
was the Alice ! Who knows but that,
on her departure from this world, her
kind and sympathizing spirit learned its
unwitting and unwilling agency in our
separation, and that it could not rest
till she had inclined our hearts to each
other ! Shall we not henceforth vener
ate, as we have loved, that loving spirit.
And are we so soon to meet, my belov
ed Adelaide; so soon to sit dowu again
together in our quiet sitting room,
around the same table, and look out to
gether though the leafless elms to the
glowing stars. May the “winter soon
pass from your heart,” and the spring
time, with its flowers, come to thee
We will stand by the moss-rose tree, as
you dreamed, and 1 will tell you, indeed
how happy I aui in your return. The
cloud from my heart has risen and dis
persed. Life to both of us will be
again bright and beautiful. And, my
Adelaide, if ever again cither of us have
the shadow of a doubt the one of the
other, though we may imagine we have
“confirmation strong as proof of holy
writ,” let it not convince us! Let us
not cherish it till the going down of the
sun and the rising of the same but mut
ually unfold it. Happy for us had we
learned this sooner. Happy yet for us
if we for get it not. I shall see you at
ten in the morning. With impatience I
await the passing of the time. God
bless thee, Adelaide !
Henry Howard.
Correspondenee sf the New Era •
Letter from New! Hampshire.
Manchester, N. H.,
May 29, 1860.
Dear Minnie : —With the mind’s
eye I give a hasty glance towards you,
just thinking to myself all the while.—
[Last month, and the first .of this, the
“ croakers ” had a right feast of talk, all
for why ? that the clouds did not-weep
their April showers as (rom time out of
mind bad been their custom; and the
•elf-same "e/d m<m” was dragged forth
as usual to repeat the everlasting story,
—•*that since his rruumbramc there was
never known such a dry time al thin season
of the year.’ 3 : I wonder if any one knows
where this “old man” lites. I never
heard him designated by any other
name than the “oldest inhabitant.” i
reckon he’s the patriarch of the tribe of
Croakers, for he seems to be held in
great respect by them; and they never
tire, in all sorts of weather—cold or hot,
wet or dry—of repeating his stale story,
that never was such a time known since
his . emembrance. But all tho wise
prognostications of drouth, iaminc and
pestilence have vanished before the co
pious showers of rain that have fallen
and so changed the whole aspect of na
ture. The air is redolent with perfume,
and full of liquid, gushing melody; the
gay, bright, most gloriously, gorgeously
beautiful earth is bedecked like Eastern
Princes, to go forth as bride to meet her
groom, with happy tears and smiles.—
Each flower that clusters in her diadem
all flashing bright, in the soft May-light,
with diamond drops of rain; the forest
trees are putting out their hanging gar
dens of leaves and tassels; the fruit
trees are so loaded with pink and white
blossoms, that they look like huge bo
quets; and thus man’s wisdom is brought
to nought as it ever is in pass'll g judg
ment on God’s ‘ ways.”
The earth is filled, o’erflooded with
new, fresh beauties, a Paradise in
truth—were it not for sin, and the curse
of sin, dread Death ! which holds us in
perpetual bondage, by its power to blast
our fairest hopes of earthly bliss But
mark the wondrous song the angels sang
to shepherds as they watched their
flocks by night on Judea’s lovely plains,
“A Saviour, Christ the Lord to you is
born,” —“Eye hath not seen, ear hath
not heard, neither hath it entered into
the heart of man the joys that are laid
up for those who love Him.”
Why is it that children so often ex
press themselves so beautifully. Our
little nephew, of three years old, came
to me one day with, “Will you please
give me a flower ?” Soon he came
again to our side, with his ‘ flower ” all
drooping and faded, (he had held it so
tightly in his little hand as he played on
the piazza, with the hot sunbeams fall
ing full upon him,) and so much wond
ring sadness was expressed in his face
as he said, “Will you please give me
another flower , this one has failed away. ”
I fear my hasty glance will seem to
you a long, bold stare if prolonged, so
I flit.
Gii.Li.MENE St. Ark
ggj® One of the the New York b’hoyg
has been prospecting out in Centra]
America during the winter, but writes
to the Herald that the yellow fever is
now making such fearful ravages that
he shall leave for home. Besides, the
natives have no respect for him. He
No man can live a Christian here ;
it is the most beastly country upon the
face ol God*s fo tstool. What a pity
that Wendell Phillips and Horace
Greeley- cannot came and live in this
country, for here a white man is not as
good as a nigger, even if he does “ be
have himself”—here Q,uashee dictates
to “ white man” whatever he pleases,
and “ white inan” must obey
A gentleman stepped into a tavern
and saw a filthy drunkard, once a re
spectable man, waiting for his liquor.—
He thus accosted him :
“Why do you make yourself the vil
est of men?”
“I ain’t the vilest,’* said the drunk
“You are ” said the gentleman; “see
how you look—drink that glass, and you
will be in the gutter.**
“I deny your poz-zition,” said the
other; who is the vilest, the tempted or
the tempt or? Who—who was the wor
worst, Satan, or (hie) Eve?”
“Why, Satan,** said the gentleman.
“Well, (hie) well, behold the tempt
er P* pointing to the bar.
The barkeeper, not liking such allu
sion to bis calling, turned the man out of
his houpe without his aram.
A man has no more right to say an
un< ivil thing than to act ope; no more
right to aay a rude thing to another than
to knock another down.
Printing Establishment,
Second Stcrv,
We Jwve a Urge assortment of new Bad Type
Border, Ciua, Etc., »huh enable* us to turn oot tome
of the best job work in the State, nod at low price*.
BillHkads, Fosters, Clares,
Cards, Rills, Circclars.
Istitatioss, Labels, Etc.
And every other description of printiag exccp
l''H)k»vt>rk, done neatly and promptly at this office.
Um.sS.Ka of every desCrij>iiofl printer to order.
They err, who deem that keenest agony
fn sighs and moans Bod utterance for it* pam ,
Tear* are for thoso who hope; blessed rain
That gently falls upon tho aching heart.
Stealing its grief away. The dark clouds part
And float aloft, in ilia pur* arare iky.
And gladsome golden suuiight laughs one* snore.
Ah/ haj>py heart that weep*—and smiles again.
For me, alas / the lime of tears is o'er ;
Helpless, alone, I walk life's arid plain,
In heaven no star, on earth no leaf nor flower :
The fount of tears is dry ferevonnore j
The place where once it gushed with fir* burned
A common light blue muslin frock
Is hanging on the wall.
But no one in the household now
Can wear a dress so small.
The sleeves are both turned inside out.
And tell of summer wear ;
They seem to wail the owner's hands
Which, last year, hung them there.
'Twas at the children’s’ festival,
Her Sunday dress was soiled—
Yon need not turn it from the light—
To me it is not spoiled !
A sad, and yet a pleasant thought
Is to the spirit told.
By this dear little rumpled thing,
With dust in every fold.
Why should men weep that to their koms.
An angel’s love is given—
Or that, before them, she is gone
To blessedness in Heaven?
Literary World.
Strange and Unaccountable
The following are a few of the mor«
striking manifestations of (hat unac
countable feeling of antipathy to certain
objects, to which so many persons are
subject, and with instances of which, in
a modified form perhaps, most people
are acquainted ;
Erasmus, though a native of Rotter
dam, had such an aversion to fish, that
the smell of it threw him into a fever.
Ambrose Pare mentions a gentleman
who never could see an eel without
There is an account of another gen
tleman who would fall into convulsions
at the sight of a carp.
A lady, a native of France* always
fainted on seeing boiled lobsters. Oth
er persons from the same country ex
perienced the same inconvenience from
the smell of roses, thougn they were
particularly partial to the odor of jon
quils or tuberoses.
Joseph Scaliger and Peter Abeno
never could drink milk.
Cardan was particularly disgusted at
the sight of eggs.
Uladislaus, King of Poland, could not
bear to see apples.
If an apple was shown to Chesne,
Secretary to Francis 1., he bled at the
A gentleman in the court of the Em
peror Ferdinand would bleed at the nose
on hearing the mewing of a cat, howev
er great the distance might be from him.
Henry 111. of France could never
sit in a room with a cat.
The Duke of Schomburg had the
same aversion.
M. de Lancre gives an account of a
very sensible man who was so terrified
at seeing a hedgehog that for two years
he imagined his bowels were gnawed by
such an animal
The same author was intimate with a
very brave officer, who was so terrified
at the sight of a mouse that he never
dared to look at one unless he had his
sword in his hand.
M. Vangheim, a great huntsman in
Hanover, would faint, or, if he had suf
ficient time, would run away at the
sight of a roasted pig.
John Rol, a gentleman in Alcantara,
would swoon on hearing the word lana,
wool, pronounced, although his cloak
was woolen.
The philosophical Boyle could not
conquer a strong aversion to the sound
of water running through a pipe.
La Mothe le Vayer could not endure
the sound of a musical instrument, tho’
he experienced a lively pleasure when*
ever it thundred.
The author of the Turkish Spy tells
us that he would rather encounter a li
on in the deeert of Arabia, provided be
had but a sword io his hand, than feel
a spider orawling on him in the dark.—.
He observes, that there is no reason to
be given for these seeret dislikes. Ho
humorously attributes them to the doc
trine of the transmigration of the soul;
and ms regarded himself ho supposed be
had been a fly, before he came Into his
body, and that having been frequently
persecuted with spiders, he stHI retained
the dread of bis old enemy.—
Thouumd Wonderful Thing*-"

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