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The new era. [volume] (Sauk Rapids, Min. [i.e. Minn.]) 1860-1861, March 15, 1860, Image 1

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'•'ife me leave (o enjoy myself. That place that does
Contain ray books, the best companions, is
To me a glorious Court, where hourly I
Converse with the old Sages and Philosophers.
The Sisters.
Eliza and Pauline Brigham were the
same as orphans ; for, in their earlv
girlhood, at their father’s death, their
mother; 0 West Indian by birth, lost
her reason, and became the inmate of a
lunatic Asylum. Eliza, the elder sis
ter, inherited her mother’s rich southern
complexion, large, dreamy eyes, and
rippling black hair ; with that languor
and gentleness of tone and manner,
indicative of her mother’s origin. Pau
line, the younger, with much of that
peculiar ease and beauty, possessed
more of the northern fire and energy ;
so that there were times when the two
hundred young ladies at the C
Seminary looked upon Pauline Brigham,
though but fifteen years of age, as a
very queen. Her abundant hair Ehe
wore in massive braids, like a crown to
her finely shaped head. Her form was
rather regal than delicate, her air charm
ing but imperious, and her step dign : fied
and queenly.
Left with a large fortune, it was not
strange that upon their egress from
school, and their return to their home in
the West, these sisters should be be
sieged by a constant crowd of admirers
and suitors. With so many personal
and pecuniary advantages, indeed, the
wonder was, that the fair sisters still re
mained fancy-free, until two years had
elapsed. Pauline then returned to Mass
achusetts, on a visit to some relatives.
Shortly after her departure, there came
to Vincennes, a stranger, fascinating in
appearance, and very winning in manner
and conversation. These graces pro
cured him admittance to fashionable so
ciety ; which i 9 too fond of the acquisi
tion of brilliance, to inquire minutely as
to real worth. From his first entree into
the circles of the village ton, he applied
himself assiduously to win the favor of
the captivating Eliza. It was evident
from the beginning, that his conquest
would be an easy one : and in three
months Eliza Brigham, beautiful, ac
complished, heiress in her own right to
many thousands, gave herself a bride to
Allison Lambert, of whose antecedents
she knew nothing. Ere a week, she
had, in her confiding good nature, trans
ferred to him her whole fortune, reserv
ing nothing in her own name. Shortly
thereafter, Allison Lambert informed his
wife that he had received intelligence of
the sudden and dangerous illness of his
father, a resident of Alabama, whose
sole heir to vast wealth he was, and that
he must leave immediately. To her
eager request to accompany him, he
pleaded the sickliness of the season, and
the haste necessary to the earliest con
summation of his journey.
Weeks and months passed, bringing
no note or tidings of Allison Lambert.
Eliza, still confident in his faith and in
tegrity, mourned him, as having become
the victim to some sad calamity. Her
friends, better diviners, had no doubt
that he had basely robbed and deserted
In one of the charming environs of
Boston, Pauline Brigham also met one,
who, after a brief acquaintance, com
pletely beguiled and won her heart.—
Harold Lester, to whom she became
aflinaneed, urged her to keep their en
gagement a secret, for a season, as his
family, in a distant city, had a bride se
lected for him, whom they insisted he
should marry. It was for his interest,
he represented, not to incur, too sud
denly. their displeasure—circumstances
■might change—et cetera. However,
Pauline failing to see how any harm
could possibly ensue, disclosed, in a
letter to her sister, the forbidden secret.
Eliza, “ sick with hope deferred, 5 * and
yearning for a sister’s sympathy, after a
rapid journey, and without a word of
warning, appeared to Pauline, who was
overjoyed at her coming, but overwhelm
ed with grief at the traces of sorrow
and tears in her melancholy eyes, and
pensive countenance. After an hour’s
converse, in which Eliza touchingly al
luded to her misfortunes, and spoke in
excellent terms of him so early lost to
her; Pauline said ;
“ O sister, Harold will be here this
.evening—let us dry our tears—for she
had wept in sympathy—and I will give
him the pleasant surprise of an intro
. - || ■ fliil lliiliß | Till- - -■ t ■ - ■ WMW'I 'MMI- i ■
' ' - - - - '1 I* ***“■■“ 1 ' ' inn- -
Edited by W. H. WOOD and
TOL. 1 —HO. 10.
duction to you, my gentle —me, he calls
peerless. He already knows and loves
you, from my descripticn, and he says
he is quite jealous of you—you claim so
many of* my thoughts. Come sis, strive
to look your sweetest—for you and Har
old must be such good friends. And let
me tell you, dear, in one week I am to
be his bride—but no one knows it as
And thus the brilliant young bell re
vealed to the sister of her love, her
hopeful dreams of an unclouded future.
It was with a sad and troubled forebod
ing that Eliza listened to thse raptures
from one, whom she felt, like herself,
must soon learn by experience, that life
has its storms and its tempests, as well
as its sunshine and its rainbows An
hour or two later, Pauline was summon
ed to the parlor, to meet her betrothed
Come sister, you must go with me, I
shall enjoy his surprise—no, no—l can
not wait, that would spoil it all--she
added, in reply to Eliza’s plea for an
hour’s postponement. Subject to Pau
line’s stronger will, she yielded and
followed her sister to the parlor.
“ Harold, my sister”—but before the
words were completed, Eliza fell to the
floor with an agonized cry of “ Allison
Lambert !”
What a scene was there ! Allison,
coufounded and desperate, would have
left the house ; but Paulina, present
minded even in such an emergency,
sprang from her prostrate sister, and
locking the door, concealed the key in
her dress. With flashing eyes, she
turned upon the baffled man, demon
though in heart, and said resolutely, yea
fiercely, traitor, coward, villain, you
stir not hence until you have made repa
tion to my injured sister—and seizing
the bell-pull, she had in a moment the
household at the door.
The friends of the orphan sisters,
proved faithful to them in this hour of
their need.
When the antecedents of Allison
Lambert, alias Harold Lester, were
made known, lie was discovered to be a
parson who had long been notorious on
the western rivers, as an accomplished
gambler. His true name was Giles
Garner, and he already had a wife who
refused to live with him.
Having heard of the wealth of the
Misses Brigham, be formed the plan of
securing it for himself. How well he
succeeded with regard to Eliza,has been
seen. It bad been bis design to secure,
by the same means, the fortune of Pau
line, and then, in a foreign land to en
joy the fruit of his sinful craftiness.
Instead of which, he was forced to dis
gorge his ill-gotten gains, and to suffer
the penalty due to his crime.
The gentle and sensitive Eliza never
recovered from the shock, preceded as
it had been by months of sorrowful sus
pense. An early grave closed over her
griefs, disappointment, and youthful
beauty. The high-spirited Pauline,
scorned the memory of her first-love
episode, and became the honored wife
of a distinguished member of the Bar,
in the old Bay State.
Life in the Woods.
No. 10.
The dilapidated remains of two old
log shells, formerly used as Indian trad
ing houses, still stood upon the immedi
ate bank of the Mississippi. The largest
of these, Mr. S. repaired in such a man
ner as to render it quite habitable, by a
general patching up without and within,
laying floors, making doors and insert
ing windows. For Court-week was ap
proaching, and the house that we all
dwelt in, being full to the uttermost,
some must go out to make room for the
Honorables who should come up from
the cities to attend to the legal business
of Benton County.
So Mr. S. and family moved down one
Saturday night, and the following Mon
day Fred walked down to pay them a
visit. The good taste and industrious
hands of Mrs. S. had made-an attractive
home, where others, less skilled and in
genious, Would have made a chilling and
repulsive dwelling place. They were
living in but one room of their house,
like many other beginners in house
keeping, possessing only kitchen furni
Motto —“ Freedom is the only safeguard of Government, and Order and Moderation are necesary to Freedom.”— MOtom.. MINNIE M\ R Y IEE
ture, and waiting for good sleighing to
bring up from St. Paul appointments for
the parlor and bed-room. Fred was so
pleased, and expressed so much delight
at their comfortable quarters, that he
was invited to move his goods down at
once into their unoccupied room, and
not wait for the completion of our frame
house on the hill. An offer which he
accepted at once, and complied with on
the following day. It was the fourteenth
of November, 185 i, that we moved
down into that log house. Snow had
fallen unusually early ; and our small
supply of goods were packed in a sleigh
used for hauling wood—and with Mac
for a driver, Minnie stowed away among
boxes and chairs, and Fred standing on
a protruding board in the rear, we mov
ed to our first home. It was a warm
day for the season, and misty ; and the
roads, to use an expressive, but far from
euphonious word, sloshy. We had been
striving all the day to resist a slowly in
creasing headache—in vain—for launch
ed in the long, low room, instead of the
delight we had anticipated in setting
things straight, the confusion and work
before us, filled us with despair, and
clasping our throbbing temples with
chilled fingers, we sighed for a pillow—
for rest—rest.
But the stove must be set up, and the
greater work of putting up a bed ; sup
per must be prepared—and every one
can fancy, who knows anything about
such things, how much was to be done.
No one knew of our pain for a long
time, and we endeavored to hide it alto
gether—till, at length we could not see
for the blindness that came over us.
Then good Mrs. S., who had all along
assisted, made us lie down on the bed
she had finished making. How grateful
seemed the rest—how refreshing the
sleep that, after some hours, lulled to
forgetfulness until the morning. Vivid
ly do we remember hearing Fred mur
mur, as he sat down to his solitary sup
per, but half prepared :
“ A fine beginning of housekeeping !
ham half-cookcd, potatoes half roast
ed”—and more of the same import—
like all men, impatient at a wile’s sick
ness, commisserating themselves as
sufferers most affleted. But all was
bright in the morning—head clear, heart
hopeful and happy ; and before night
everything had its place. The flour
barrel in one corner, bed in another,
bookcase opposite, and wash-tub in the
fourth. A great wooden box used for
transporting our goods, stood up, serv
ing as a cupboard and pantry, several
wide shelves having been insrted, upon
which rested, in old fashioned dignity,
blue-edged plates—and coffee cups,
adorned with would-be birds of para
dise, hideous for their gaudy ugliness.
For our crockery we had obtained at
an Indian store, at Watab, a few miles
north and it was quite the reverse of
VVedgewood or Queensware.
The little clock, perched upon the
bookcase, ticked away musically, and
the teakettle sung upon the stove, its
old sweet song of domesticity and love.
I id this satisfy us, asks one—this
homely and very humble style of living
Well—yes—for the time. It might not,
however, could we have looked forward
to nothing better. But from that time
we did see in the future a different
home. It was pleasant to begin thus
—and have that witching syren Hope
all the time telling us such grand beau
tiful things, which we took good care
should not prove altogether false.
We have often thought that if Adam
and Eve’s Paradise had not been perfect
at first, leaving them something still to
struggle and hope for, they might not
have wept an Eden lost *
Musical Reminders.— lt is strange
how we—-generally speaking—associate
various pieces of music with the scenes
and periods of first hearing them. If
the circumstances were unpleasant, the
gayest drinking-song will always bring
sad emotions to us. If we werd partic
ularly happy and jovial, and most plain
tive melody then learned will always
sound pleasntly to us thereafter. Near
ly all of us can think of some simple
little aii*, poor and meagre enough in an
artistic point of view, but grand
and beautifuLby our having first heard
it sung by a beloved voice, or touched
by a beloved hand.
For the New Era.
The Hunter’s Wife.
A Hunter’s wife, ah ! woe is she
Who dwells where horns are wound,
W hose floors are planks to show the gait
Of every favorite bound /
She fears to see the rain-drops fall
Lest foxes leave their tracks,
Fer then, soch yelling of the dogs !
Such patting op of snacks !
If thit were all, a woman well—
“ Of grief the counterpart,”
Might learn to bear, aaa what is best,
Keep all withinjher heart.
But who so meek as to be roused
At every hear of night /
To hear at twelve, at one o’clock,
“ Get up, tis almost light !"
And then the horn is blown and blown,
’Till all the children wake.
While father, man-like , sallies out
His crazy chase to take.
And now at three, see poor mamma,
A baby on her lap
That screams so loud she wouldn’t hear
The loudest thunder clap.
She shivers o’er the d}ing coals,
Till baby calmly sleeps,
And when he’s nestled in his crib,
Again to bed she creeps.
All day he’s gone, and oft the thought,
“ Perhaps he’s in the creek,”
Comes to her heart, and then as oft,
The blood flows from her cheek.
But when the Hunter’s j:ided horse
His master bears in views,
All hands must have his dinner fixed
Or get a perfect “ ttew.”
And then his julep he must have,
(He’s worn and fagged, you know)
But never yet has foot or tail
Of fox been brought to show !
And now, young men, I hold a wife
And fox up to your view ;
Make choice to which you’ll give the chase,
And I’ll agree with you ;
But of the two, but one you’ll win
So long as can be heard
From her, who’s been a Hunter’s wife,
An awful warning word /
Sallie G. H.
Glen more. Amelia Co , Va.
For the New Era
“ We part for days, for months, for years,
We part perhaps forever.”
O say not so, my Nellie dear,
Say not we part forever,
But let our hearts united bo,
United be forever.
Thy softer voice is with me now,
Thine eye upon me beaming,—
I would that thou wert by my side,
Thou idol of my dreaming.
This cold, and drear, unfeeling world
Will chill our hearts forever,
And we will but too gad lament
The day we parted ever.
Our heart* v»e:e young and fond and gay,
When first they knew each other,
And love entwined their tendrils round
Until they grew together,
Then say not so, my Nellie dear.
That now ive part forever,
Bnt let us dwell together here,
Nor part beyond Death’s river.
Molly Doyle,
I am again seated in my straight
backed chair, to pursue my theme. And
1 shall begin just where I left off, with
out any compliment or apology to any
body. Though I may say that I feel my
new dignity as letter-writer, and think I
wear it with becoming propriety.
One would think from all the talk of
folks and of Newspapers, that every
body thought the world was on its nat’rnl
eourse, and that ail wc had to do was
jest to sail along with the current. No
thought for this or that or ’tother 1
will 4o no sich thing. I will stop if no
body else does. I will turn preacher
for the good of my mistaken feller crea
ture. I dont, for one see much sense
in the writers of Newspaper letters.
They scribble away, getting in as much
dictionary as possible, and outlandish,
barbarous words, that no oidtime per
son ever saw or heard of. They talk at 1
rtfndom entirely. They have nothin’ to
say', and so they talk about nothin’—
with a great conglomeration of .words
that are perfectly and wholly unexcogi-
table, (I tho’t I would just lake a peep
into Sal’s New Dictionary.) Now, ]
dont care a tig to read a letter made up
of big words that dont make sense.
And I wonder what makes editurs print
’em. It must be ’cause they d nt like
to waste so much ink and paper. Or is it
’cause they cant get better r Well,
they’ll have excuse no longer, for I’m
in the field. I dont mind bedinamin’ my
old eyes, aud tirin’ rny still* fingers,
for the sake of the good I may do. I
shant ransack my baain, as most of you
writers do, for my thoughts and idceo
come a heap faster than I can write ’em
down ; and as to tny loss of tune, pray
dont think of that a moment—for I’ve
got the children well rigged (there’a
seven of’em) with winter socks, and got
the boys’ knees all patched, and the
gals’ gowns made bigger, and the tucks
Id d“wa so they ’ll do any how a month
or so (tho’ they are *‘*ven’, strornmin’,
things, and tear everything to pieces
no time) —so y ou see my time is rny own
fora little space, & if you will he so good
as not to think I am puttin’ myself out
any, it will give me pleasure. Indeed,
it will gratify me amazingly to speak in
this silent language of the pen. This is
my preface, as the books say
In the beginning I may as well say
that my health is pretty good, quite
good, considerin’ ; yes, I may say very
good, excellent, when I remember how
scarce an article health is in these de
generate days—and I hope you are en
joyin’ the same blessin’. I shan’t write
any very long letters. I’ve a little
rheumatiz, and it tires me to set ; and
if you know anything about rheumatiz,
you know it a’n’t a very happy feelin’.
And then, the pretty, frisky, flirty miss
es, couldn’t stop long enough from their
porkers and quartrills, and shotitches,
to read from begiimin’ to end. And 1
must say, I dont want to write one word
for nothin’. I desire every glove finger
ed, cigar-lipped, cane-supported fop to
study and digest what I say. Not to go
in at one ear and out at the other. I
abhor sich heedlessness. But let it en
ter into the “ inner man,” if indeed
there be any of that bible-mcntioned
portion of existence pertainin’ and be
longin' to the present race. Which is
doubtful. All outside show. I’ve no
patience to think of it. There ! Would
you believe it ? Off have bobbed my
specs. I’ve such a habit of shaking
my head. My indignation rises high.
Too high, says my darter-in-law ; hut
then what does she know- ? She’s a
woman of the modern race—no, Indy I
must call her : women are an *' obsolete
idea.” I picked up that phrase in the
“ Tribune,” as many others that comes
handy to my use. I never heard of sich
in my young days. But 1 understand
’em from my own good sense. Good
sense makes up for all the hook lariun’
of (the present day. Books—books
the world is full of books, and what non
sense have they not stuffed into empty
brains, and what wickedness have they
not brought into poor weak human na
tur’ ! The nat’ral heart is bad enough,
any how ; and of its own accord will
run after evil ; woe then unto the book
makers and newspaper writers, that so
pervart everything that their pen-pints
touch upon ! If Cap’ain Doyle—inav
his soul requiescat in peace —l asked our
minister what that was years and years;
agone, and you see I hav’nt forgot, for
my memory dont fail yet, the least mite,
though I’m three score and ten—as 1
was sayin’ if Captain Doyle and I had
married now instead of fifty years ago,
why where should we be ? There’s no
sicli sprucin’ young couple to be found
in all the parts, in these degenerate days.
Who knows but that he might be Presi
dent of these United States ; then I
should be wife (not mistress—O, the de
generacy of these times) of the White
House ! This idea quite elevates me
The lady of the White House writing to
the little New Era ! Adieu,
, Molly Doyle.
The Donation party, given last
week to our venerable Pastor, Mr. HaH,
was generally attended, and proved a
very delightful occasion.
tSET* Delightful Spring .weather still
Printing Establishment*
r - . Second Story,
Wc have a large a**crtroent of new and Typo,
Border, Cuts, Etc., wbi'-h enable* u#.»o turn out tom*
of lire beat job work in the State, acd st low price*.
Bict. Htxts, lVrtT R*,' Blanks,
CUao*. Bills, Cipcclaka,
Invitations, ' Label*, Etc.
.4ad every other dtvcriptlon of printing exeep
Bookwork, done neatly and promptly at Ibis ofica.
Bi. inks of every description printe« to order.
3e 1 1 cte U .
Watch Mother.
Tho following is beautiful—one of
these little gems which touch the heart .*
Mother / watch the littlle feet
Climbing o’er the garden wall,
Bounding through the busy street.
Ranging cellar, shed and hill.*
Never mind live moments lost;
Never mind the time it costs ;
Little feet will go astray—
Guide them, mother, while you mav
Mother, watch the little fund
I'icking berries by lire way,
Making houses in the sand.
Tossing up the fragrant hu v.
Never dare the question ask ;
“ Why to me tho weary task ?"
i hose same little h :nd# mav prove
Messengers of light nnd love.
Mother / watch the little tongue
Prating eloquent ui.d wild ;
\\ hat is said and what is sung.
By tne joyous, happy cnild.
C’ktc!.’ 'l iC word while yet unspoken,
Stop the vow before’::* broken ;
This same totgue may yet proclaim
Blessings in the Saviour’s r.ume.
Mother / watch the little heart.
Beating soft and warm fer you ;
Wholesome Irssone now impart.
Keep, () keep the young heait true,
Extricating every weed,
S°"' n g good aud precious seed ;
Harvest rich you then may see
Ripen for eternity.
“Nice Girls ”
To my mind, there is nothing in all
the world half so beautiful, half so de
lightful, or halfsoloveable, as a ‘‘nice
girl ” 1 don’t mean a pretty girl, ora
dashing girl, or an elegant girl, hut a
‘‘nice girl one of those lively, good
tempered, good-hearted, sweet faced,
aniable, neat, natty domestic creatures,
whom wc meet in the sphere of" Home”
diffusing around the domestic hearth
the influence of her goodness, like tho
essence of sweet flowers.
What we all know by a " nice girl”
is not the languishing beauty who daw
dles on a sofa, and talks of the last new
novel, or the last new opera, or the
great girahe-looking girl, who creates
an effect by sweeping majestically
through a drawingroom. Tho "nice
girl” does not even dance well, or play
well, and she does not know a bit how to
use her eyes or coquette with a fan.
She never languishes, she is too active
for that ; she is not given to novel-read
ing, for she is always too busy. And
as to the opera, when she goes there,
she does not think it necessary to show
her hare shoulders ; but its generally
away in the hack of the box, unheeded
and unnoticed—it is not in such scenes
that we discover the " nice girl.” It is
at " Home.”
Ihf. Soli.. —What is there to survive
the age ? Thet which the age lias little
thought of, but which living in us all—
the Soul, the Immortal Spirit. Of this
all ages are the unfoldings, and it is
greater than all. \V r e must not feel, in
the contemplation ofthe vast movements
ofour own and former times, ns if we
were ourselves nothing/. I repeat it, we
are greater than all. We are to survive
our age— to coroprehand it, and to pro
nounce its sentence. As yet however,
we are encompassed with darkness.
The issues of our time, how obscure ?
The future into which it opens, who of
us can foresee ? To the father of all
ages 1 commit this future, with humble,
vet courageous and unfaltering hope,—
The Good of Or position.— Had it
not been for the slabbing criticism that
Byron’s first book, his “ Hours of Idle
ness,” received, it is doubtful if he had
ever produced anything very remarkable
The book was, ns is now universally
acknowledged, excessively stupid, and
the critic simply told the truth. His
lordship got angry, tho afflatus arose
with his choler, and he wrote, in reply,
or revenge, his “ English Bards and
Scotch Reviewers,” one ofthe most bril
liant and powerful satires the world ever
saw Almost every young man who
ottempts a lofty path is benefited by the
honest opposition he meets; and in many
other cases, as in Byron’s, it is actually
the making of him.
Womanly Beauty. —All women, we
believe, possess that deli-sesthetic qual
ity of soul that in men markes artists and
poets. Theiove of beauty is an ina
lienable characteristic ot the sex, which
oftenest possesses beauty itself. They
rarely forgive the person who stigmatizes
them as ugly, and they are more just
therein than many would think ; for if a
woman is beautiful, she always knows it i
and to say she is not, is a falsehood.
If she is plain, any reminder of the faet
is an insult to her love of loveiinese, a
legitmato and sacred emotion of her

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