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The new era. [volume] (Sauk Rapids, Min. [i.e. Minn.]) 1860-1861, August 02, 1860, Image 1

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn91059360/1860-08-02/ed-1/seq-1/

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Cm me leave to enjoy myself. That place that does
Contain my books, the best companions, is
To me a glorious Court, where hourly I
Cinverse with the old Sages and Philosophers-
The Sailor’s Waif.
It only seems the other day
That Dora dwelt across the way—
A little g-irl with eyes of brown.
The sweetest child in all the town.
Companion mine she was at play,
She was not sad, nor was she gay,
Bat gentle, patient, wise and good,
She promised noble womanhood,
She was my love in boyhood life ;
She was to be my manhood’s wife ;
A thousand hopes were woven with her,
A thousand dreams with Dora Burr.
Another charm Life had for me—
I wildly loved the glorious sea ;
To Dora Burr I bade adieu,
And sailed afar o’er waves of blue.
Her portrait next my heart I wore ;
Her image In my heart I bore,
My Ave Marie was her name,
At morn, and noon, and night, the same
Five years in toil and shipwreck past;
Five years, and I returned at last—
Confiding Hope spread eager wing,
Of Dora only whispering.
1 found her wooed and won, and wed;
I’d rather found my darling dead;
I’d rather by her grave have wept,
And known her faithfulness was kept.
I write these lines across way
From where fair Dora dwolls to day;
I love to see her form ouce more
A-flitting in and out of door.
She does not dream and cannot know
Her lover of the long ago—
Her lover throngh all coming years
Is watching her through sighs and tears,
I wonder if down in her heart
A liftle place is set apart
For one 9he promised, years ago,
To love for life throngh weal and woo.
Tomorrow’s sun shall shine on me
Afar out on the stern blue sea,
My prayers to Heaven still as they were,
That blessings only flow to her,
Sometimes I think that in the clime
Where Love and Truth become sublime,
My pulse and hers one throb shall stir,
And she’ll be mine, sweet Dora Burr,
Aunt Margaret was neither handsome
nor homely. She had that which i 3 bet
ter than beauty, and which gives to
comparative ugliness a redeeming inter
est and grace, which is charming and
winning even unto age It was the
placid, beautiful expression upon her
countenance, an unmistakable evidence
of a warm and loving heart. Unosten
tatious, and even without enthusiasm in
its demonstrations, it burned with an
unlading affection for those whom she
truly esteemed, and hardened not itself
against those, who, without claim to
merit, were wont to enter her associa
tions. lam olten reminded of her, and
upon every previous memory that comes
up, I ponder in my heart, that thereby
I may become more and more after her
own similitude—so just, so firm, yet
withal so kind, gentle and forgiving.
She seemed to possess an intuitive ap
preciation of character; before the scru
tiny of her mild, penetrating eye. de
ception was forced to unveil itself—to
her its covering was hut flimsiness and
I have known but few women in the
world even resembling her, jet almost
every one has for once known her like,
and has seen and acknowledged in the
illustrative character, the heavenly per
fection of womanly nature. But if all
hearts were open to the eyes of the
world, we would be convinced that such
quiet goodness, and, in one sense, wor
dly wisdom, was acquired only in a
school of trial and sorrow, I never
knew this, or suspected it, while it was
permitted me to live with and love my
Aunt Margaret. It is only since I have
grown to womanhood,since I have learn
ed by experience sad truths even of the
poetry of life, that I have known how
properly to estimate the influence of cir
cumstances upon a character like hers
—although the circumstances them
selves were before not all unknown to
me. But since the snowy shroud has
covered the pulseless heart once so con
siderately affectionate, andj the cold
clod pressed upon the clay that enshrin
ed so loving and beautiful a spirit, I re
call them very often—vainly regretting
that I read them not then as now, that
I might have loved her more, and evin
ced for her that passionate fondness
Edited by W. H. WOOD and Motto—“ Freedom is tile only safeguard of Government, and Order and Moderation are necesary to Freedom.”— Milton.
YOL. I—NO.1 —NO. 30.
which she well knew I bestowed upon
others, and the want of which toward
her she must have attributed to want of
love. But I then fancied that she loved
me coldly, though she possessed over
me a power that no other one could ex- j
ert. With my young brothers and sis
ters I was often left in her care during :
my mother’s absence. Upon one occa
sion I greatly disconcerted her by some j
frivolous conduct. She reproved me in
her mild, firm manner, but for once, my j
spirit rose in rebellion, and I repeated
my offence. I shall remember as long
as I live, the look she gave me, as she
mildly and softly as before, commanded
mo not again to repeat the action, for if
I did, “she should certainly punish me.”
Thero was a resolution in her expres
sion, a power even in Iter mildness that
awed and subdued me; and I went away
out of her sight, musing upon the mys
tery with which, in my inexperienced
eye, aunt Margaret was clothed.
At the time when pelisses were so
greatly in vogue, aunt Margaret was
among the first to have one. It was of
rich material, lined throughout with silk
trimmed with various rows of velvet and
gimp, and set off* with tassels and coun
tless beautiful buttons. Then, too, it
was made with such exceeding neatness
mostly by aunt Margaret’s own needle,
and she loved and valued it, just as she
loved and valued every person that was
good, and everything that was pretty.
Therefore, agreeably to the peculiar
constitution of her mind, the blue pelisse
became to her a precious pet, which she
kept on week days in the dark clothes
press, suspending from the highest knob
enveloped closely in a dimity robe of
snowy whiteness.
1 here came a dreary, drizzly day in
February. Doubtless there were many
such, but I speak of that one that I par
ticulai ly remember. Aunt Margaret
was spinning, while mother was trans
forming old clothes into beautiful mats
and hearthrugs. I had rocked my dear
baby-brother to sleep, and became
weary of the long continued silence that
reigned, relieved only by the monoto
nous hum of aunt Margaret’s wheel,
which was industriously converting the
softest of snow-while rolls into the finest
and nicest of knitting-yarn. I was,
therefore, in a measure rejoiced, when
a thundering knock at the door announ
ced u visitor. It was Peter Pingree’s
sun-browned lace, large black eves and
elephantine teeth, held me spell-bound
for the space of several minutes. He
was from the neighborhood of iny grand
father’s. His cousin, who had been a
schoolmate of iny aunt, had recently
died, and was that afternoon to be hur
ried. Ho had come to borrow aunt
Margaret’s much admired pelisse, to be
worn by the mother of the deceased
from her house to the old kirk, a dis
tan- eof three-and a-half miles. Upon
the disclosure of his errand, aunt Mar
garet’s wheel suddenly stopped, the half
spun roll dropped from her slender
thumb and fore finger, and palling the
palm of one hand with the wheel-pin
raised her blue-grey eyes, in mind am
azement, as if doubtful of having heard
aright. Apparently re-assured by her
silent scrutiny, she turned to her em
ployment without speaking, and I con
fess I was truly astonished at the accel
erated velocity with which the wheel
performed its evolutions. Thehalfspun
rool being completed, with a countance
still unmoved and imperturbable, she
quitted the room. Presently she return
ed, pelisse in hand, brought forward,
as I have since thought, with emotions
similar to those which agitated the bos
on of Abraham, wh* n he bound up n
the alter for sacrifice, his only well-be
loved son. With sad, dignified gesture
she waved aside the soiled, dingy ker
chief, which had been sent to wrap it in
and foldmg it carefully without crevice
er wrinkle, she tied it up in a snowy ker
chief of her own, and with no words,
gave it gently to that gawky, Peter Pin
gree! I remember well of thinking that
I should grievously hate to see my new
scarlet Circassian in such coarse black
hands, and wondered how aunt Marga
ret could so reaoljtely, and without
tears, yield up hers, in which she was
wont to look so pretty and so princess
I should ha-e before said that soon
after Peter’s entrance, my mother was
summoned to the kitchen to superintend
a favorite padding for dinner, nor did
she return til! his super-elongated coat
tail was evanishing through the half
shut door. Upon lenrning his erand,
and the successful ur.nination thereof,
my mother, whose disposition, it will he
seen, was more naturally moulded, went
off into eloquence, somewhat like the
following :
“Well, I must say, sister Margaret,
you have done that, which under all the
circumstances I should never have had
the mistaken kindness to have done.
It is shameful—it is ridiculous, that Mrs.
Pingree, who, never io her life had pos
sessed one decent article ofdress, sho'd,
on the occasion of her child’s funera l ,
bedecked out in borrowed finery. And
such a day as this !—when von would
not think of wearing it yourself, that
she should, in an open carriage, follow
slowly to the grave her child, ‘feeling
grand,’ meantime, in your rich pelisse,
which the rain is pelting and saturating!
O, thoughtlessness and vanity ! Be
sides, she being lower than yourself
the pelisse will trail upon the ground,
and become shockingly draggled among
the grass and tall weeds of the church
yard! Why, sister, did you not think
of all this? Your dress will he perfect
ly ruined, unless Providerce protect it,
as you always trust it will—for Mrs.
Pingree lias no idea of how a nice thing
should be cared for; and to see it on
her I It is a jewel in a swine’s mouth
Had I been present, I ceitainly should
have protested against such profanation.
My ebentzer should have been stoutly
raised against it.”
To all of this aunt Margaret replied
with her usual sweetness of manner and
temperance of words; though that her
spirit was sorely tried, was plainly per
ceptible- she said that she had not the
heart to refuse, as it was to a funeral,
and that too of an old schoolmate; more
especially, as she had never been able
to cherish any love for her, it seemed
but right that she should make even this
trifling hut unavailing atonement.
Dear aunt Margaret ! how often
throughout that day she requested me
to go to the door and see if it rained !
I did not then suspect the reason; hut
I know now that sho was thinking of
her pretty pelisse !
Aunt Margaret had spent manv weeks
in embroidering a veil of black lace.—
V\ hen completed, it was a rich and
beautiful specimen of her handiwork;
for it was wrought with the caiefui pre
cision, neatness and elegance which
characterized her skillful needle. That
too she loved—ev. nas parents do their
children or poets their dreams. She
kept it wrapt in tissue paper, in the up
permost drawer of her bureau, which
was distinguished and exalted above
the other drawers, by a shower of sweet
scented clover leaves
A community of the society c.mmonly
called “Shakers,” was established some
twenty mites distant from us. As was
frequent custom, the young men and
misses of our neighborhood weie to
have a grand sleigh-ride “to see the
Shakers.” There were to be thirteen
couple, making a procession of as many
single teams. Most persons are aware
to what an extent, especially in country
towns, the habit ot borrowing is still
persevered in ! More than once, dur
.ng the interval of three weeks, that this
“ride was talked of before the arrival
ofthe appointed time,l heard mother ex
press to aunt Margaret, the hope that
this party at least, would get rigged and
departed on their “pleasure trip, ” with
out being arrayed in borrowed plumes
for than. Vain hope ! Early in the
morning came Jennie Stanwood, say
“Please ma’am, sister Caroline wants
to borrow your muff and tippet, tu wear
to the Shaker ride,”
Then came little Johnny Short, in
breathless ha6te, vociferating in the ears
of mv now impatient mother—
“ Miss F , brother Bob wants
your whip and bnffalo—cause he’s to
carry Lydia Day a riding to the Shak
ers: and sister Jule wants to know if
you’ll let her have your lace spencer
cape. She wants it to oorer up a darn
in her beet Sunday dress, where she tore
hocks and eyes off.”
Several petitioners followed in rapid
succession, till, at length, mother ex
pressed the hope that the very clothes
she wore, would not he demanded “to
go to the Shaker-ride.” But last of all
came Phoebe Brocklehank, to obtain for
herself, aunt Margaret’s wrought lace
veil !
Now, to all the aforesaid borrowers,
she would not have hesitated to refuse
this demand; for in her estimation it
was not “fitting” or property wear over
a rough-edged, straw bonnet, on a cold,
gusty day of tlie month of Januaty, any
thing hi Her than a veil of berege ; hut
Phoebe Brocklebank’s n tlier vv as her
own cousin—a kind, easy, goud-natim ti
soul, who had bestowed up n her in
numerable kindnesses, and not a mouth
previously had given her a fleece of Me
lina wool, which she was at this moment
.'•pinning into yarn, as finely and fast as
“My black veil did yon say, cousin
Phoebe ? It hasn’t half the warmth of
my green one, which I should prefer to
wear, if I was going.”
“Ma lias a nice green one, heiself, ”
pertly repl ed Miss Phoebe; “but Lucin
da Hunt was geiugjto wear her mother’s
black one, and I was resolved not to he
outshone; so I teased ma to let me come
for yours I told her 1 would he careful
of it, as of gold. I knew you w ould
loan it. for you never refuse anything:
and the n ma is constantly making you
presents, you know ” —and thus she
would have gone on, no doubt—for
Phoebe possessed the most voluble ot
tongues—had not aunt Margaret, w ith
many misgivings, (for she knew Phoe
be’s perfect hcedlessness,) drawn forth
from its favorite receptacle, the article
in question. Unwrapping it from the
tissue, she displayed it, in all its rich
beauty, perfectly uninjured—“just ns
good as new. ’ Scarcely could she con
ceal the shock she experienced, on wit
nessing the violence with which Phoebe
seized it‘ threw it over her old hood,
parading up and down before the mirror,
in extacies at the effect it lent to her
beauty. It was a sad day for aunt Mar
garet— that memorable day of the
“Shaker-ride.” Sadder still was she
on the following day, for her veil was
returned to her in ruins • Phoebe came
with it in her hand, her eyes brimlul of
tears, and her tongue, for once, refus
ing utterance She was accompanied
by her mother, who prefaced her ex
planations, by positively declaring this
to he the last time she should be coaxed
from her duty, for the sake of adminis
tering to I hcee’s vanity.
It appeared, that when but little more
than half the way home, the last horses
ofthe ad tandem, took fright, overturned
the sleigh, dislodging and burying in
the snow its occupants, dashed furiourly
past the other horses, who, fiightei ed
in their turn, took to their utmost speed
Amid this Btiddpn commotion, the mul
tiplied and velocified jingling of bells,the
sin ill shrieks of frightened fair ones, the
incessant ciies of “whoa, whoa ” by
the luckless swains, they came in con
tact with another sleigh, that appeared
from the contrary direction, from which
its master was instantly thrown, and in
some manner, for the how was unac
countable, the thill of the sleigh passed
through the veil of aunt Margaret, as it
was breeze-blown about, utterly unre*
garded by its now terrified wearer, who
with her unskillfin gallant, soon found
herself flying over fences, and at length
landed upon a farmer’s wood-pile. Mo
set ious detriment, fortunately, occurred,
except to the veil. An immense por
tion efthe interior was entirely separa
ted and gone, becoming a plaything for
the four winds, leaving torn, jagged
edges, and all the remaining portion so
drawn, distorted, and disfigured, as to
be absolutely a sight to behold ! Even
dear aunt Margaret, at first view ofthe
wreck —that which had cost her tbs la
bor of so many days and nights—cov
ered her face with both hands, and sink
ing into a chair, silently and powerfully
strove w ith great grief, while tears stole
out like liquid pearls from between her
long and tremulous fingers. But this
was soon over. To her consin’s assur
ance that she should be repaid a thoue
Villi UULlLjfilt A lliiilli L>a\ IK* of everj dcsei ipii iu piiutct lu order.
‘ and times its value, she said, almost ar
I “It is not that -not that —n t the val
■ ue of the veil; but it was so deal t
> me in and of itself. But do not allot
1 yourself to be troubled. It was an ae
I cident, and accidents trill happen,
strive not to grieve f>r that which is it
: remediable.” And here the conversa
tion on that subject diopped, neve
j again to be renewed.
(conclusion NEXT week.)
\\ ritten for the Xew ! ra.
BY n iutkawav.
I I Ihf* Cihu 10.m.s l li.it come with * e’l a U J vision,
j t nvi-ilmg t !if- ri*;i!;n oft. ivp a.l i r.th,
U here, rl> d m g!y of I n n.-rf.it youth.
| 1 lie passed Ir <m e.irth do ran the *■ h-Me-i Elv*i»n
Who huta n i f. h h,w ne*: lh.- Fr.m 1 «l«*i ailed
I hit oil, eirth’y I'U'tam hi I*-. !:o:ii view
■file !o-t— the s e ni.,j ! u ill ■ ihithfol f-,
I hat leave its not nl ne. th m'h I . ieh he tiled *
.' in th • in linen* of th it c!e ner >ifht,
\\ hat tra i j li 1 * eaei nl U!?'»ediK>s miae:
Ala* ! but vvroiio. and hate, and m ml nijjht,
Shut out the Heavenly htwt- from human eye*:
Only the pure, unsullied soul can tell
How fair the mansions u h ne the Ann-!* dwell.
Liiti f. Prairie Mhsdf, Mirh
j& r l e e tea
The Sorrowiul
Every count ) hamlet, huv\t\ef muul
lias its graveyard, where lie buried th<
young and old of all the ncighboihuod
peacefully awaiting the great resun ce
tion. And so every human heart,how
ever poor and humble, has its pnvati
sepulcher, where lie entombed the hope:
the di earns, and loves of long ago, ini
with no expectancy of arising in the fu
tore, crowned, sainted, and glorified.—
The human dead come never from thei
groves to disturb the living,though sotm
have fabled so; but, alas! these do con
tinuully burst their charnel-house, am
in fire midnight of lonely reflection,
haunt the chambers of the soul melan
choly, sad-eyed phantoms! Even ii
the goldon suiibght, they sometiuvi
walk beside us, in the street, the mar
ket, and resort of pleasure, and only al
the cockcrow of firm, determined re so.
lotion do tiiey cower back to their sep
We plant above their burial spots the
tender flowers of submission and resig
nation, whose sweet perfume overpow
ers the sickening odors of the grave;
hut their sunny petals and shining leaves
hide not the lowly mound beneath; and
so through life we go, marching in that
sad procession of the sorrowful, whom
John beheld in the Apocalyptic vision.
The sorrowful! Oh, where are they
not? what clime has never known their
sighs? w*rat sun, or star, has never
slmne upon their tear-stained faces 5
Everywhere they move through the
thoroughfares of earth: they are in the
work-shop, the counting-house nt the
home fireside, on land and sea, yea,
everywhere, sorrow’s own bodyguard
some, like prayerful nuns, offering up
their hearts in perpetual sacrifice to
Him who descended into the deepest l
depth of sorrow, and made it holy, di
vine, forever after! while other*, vailing
their affliction under a tiny disguise of
deceptivesmiles and merry words, cheat
os info a vain belief that they are hap
py. List to .Mrs Browning:
“Behind no pri*on-git*, she *nid,
Tirol -«lur« ! lie nan-hine half * mile,
Live captives so uncoinforied.
As souls In-hind a smile. ”
Ah, these; are the saddest; and yet'
how many are hourly called to enact
this double role in the tragi comedy of
life! They smile, and the sunshine ofj
their faces, like the rainbow, is all the;
more beautiful because of the tempest
from which *tis born; they speak, and a
sad vibration of ineffable sweetness lin-j
gers in each tone, the faint echo of the)
inner strife. Now and then we notice
these quiet phenomena,but seldom guess
the spiritual contest that is going on
within; and so the heavy cross is borne
Up the steep hillside of life the Calvary;
the crown of tnorns is laced upon the
aching brow, and the bloody drops crim
son the narrow pathway; but to him
who secs with angelic eye, each carm
ine drop springs up a celestial asphodel
to garland the brow of the sorrowful,
when the conflict is over and victory
A bright girl of five years was recen
tly standing by a window,buisly examin
ing a hair which she had just pulled
from her head. “What are you doing,
my daughter?” asked her mother,whose
curiosity was excited by her eager gaze
“I’m lookine f*r the number, mamma,’
said the child; “the Bible says that the
hairs of oar heads are all numbered,
and 1 want to see what the number is on
Printing Establishment
| Secdnii Story,
Wf h ivc a Urge Bneor’ment of new ami Typo
I’-od-r, Cut*. Etc., which p cable! tu to turn out soin*
•A the best j-Jj work in the Stale, ns-d ut low price*.
1 Rtt t. t!r ass, I’ostTß*, Ruses,
! %RUi > Rills, rißcmm,
InviTATioßs, Labels, Etc.
’■She s.-uy a b, dcw.-diop the ro«< adorn,
i Aod called it a star night had thnun to the mom;
iThen .-.he l.nqh ■»! in her in.ocent, childish glcw,
j'j'lie beautiful gem on the flower to see.
She thought the young *tai was a *rm Su fair,
ll should faugh from the locks of her shining hair.
Rut !u ! when she touched it, Iter linger* while
Had bmkeu the charm that enshrined the light,
O child ' in thy play with the dew and flowers,
1 huu has! birued the first leaf in this life of 0U:’»,
l And lon* ere thou readett the volume through,
’Full many a bright t.'ar will prove but dew.
Not Lost
The following beautiful sentiment in
i regard to the future condition of our
children,is from the pen of Henry Ward
tJeeche r.
“Wht u God gives me a baby, I say,
“I thank G- d for this lamp light in my
family.” And when, after it has been
a light i t tny household for one or two
years, it | louses God to take it away, I
can t ike the cup, hitter or sweat; I can
say, “.My light has gone out; my heart
is sack d; uty hopes ate desolated; my
child is lost— tny child is lost;” —or can
I say, in the spirit i f Job, “The Lord
gave, and the Lord hath t :k* n away,
blessed be the nome of the Lord.” It
has pleased God to take five childreu
ii omine,hut I never lost one,and shallnot
When I have a child that Christ covets,
with a divine coveting, and he says to
me. in words of tenderness. “Will you
u>4 give me the child, and let us take
care of it instead of yourself?” uiy flesh
jinny remonstrate, but tny heart says,
Lord, take it and adopt it. I have liv
,v t! long enough since the taking away
lof toy children, to find that it is Letter
as it is, than they should have remained
.with me. 1 havu seen a great many
cares and troubles for a person of my
years, but 1 bear \vitness“thnt God has
put no trial upon me which it has not
hen good for trie to endure,
“A < believers in Christianity, which
reveals God as our father, and Heaven
as out eternal homo, it is our privilege
to feel that when ©tir children are taken
from it* to the spirit world, they become
angelic beings around the burning throno
iof God ami the Lamb. Jesus declared
t.iaf ot such is the kingdom of heaven
I hey have gone up to live with the
crowned immortals, to lie watched fur
and cared for hy the angels of light, and
rye doubt not that they will be among
the first to welcome us among the shin*
ing courts on high-”
i A Monument at tho Lake
Ue have seer, n drawing for a suita
ble monument which it is ‘ proposed to
erect at Lake Calhoun, near the spot
where the recent calamity occured,
upon which the names of the unfortu
nate victims of that occurance, and the
facts necessary to commemorate the
event, arc to be engraved upon a mar
ble front. The design is n beautiful
one and represents a base about four
feet square, with a column about nine
feet high. Its estimated cost, with nec
essrrv enclosure, will b© about SIOO,
which the friends of the deceased hope
to readily raise by voluntary curitiib
uf ions. I lie draft is the possession of
b. \V . A. Crain, from whom any farth
er information concerning the matter can
be obtained. PlaimUaler.
\ he power of fortune is confessed on
ly by the miserable, for the happy im
pute all their success to prudence and
tnet it.—Swift.
Ambition often puts men upon doing
the meanest offices; so climbing is per
formed in the some posture as creeping.
Perfect virtue is to do unwitnessed
what we should be capable of doing be
fore all the world.— La Rocheoucauld.
That which passes for current doc
trine at one juncture and in one climate,
won’t do in another.
What a world of gossip would be pre
vented if it was only remembered that a
person whotellsyou of the faults of oth
ers intends to tell others of your faults
A combined system of concentric bat
teries has been proposed for the de
fence of the French coasts, which, it is
asserted, will render the approach of an
enemy’s fleet impossible.
Get your enemies to read your worke
in order to mend them; for your friend
'is so much your second self, that he will
judge, too, like yourself—Pore.
Those who, from the desire of our
perfection, have the keenest eye for eur
faults, generally compensate for it by
taking a higher view of our merits than
we deserve.
“Our brains are [seventy year clocks*
The angel oflife winds them up, once
for all, he closes the [doors, and give*
the key into the hands of the angel of
1 i o»n Lit* liiiisira'.ed

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