The Literary echo, and Pawcatuck advertiser. [volume], August 28, 1851, Image 1

About The Literary echo, and Pawcatuck advertiser. [volume] (Westerly, R.I.) 1851-1854

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- @he Litevorn Echo,
AN PAWCARTCRE ADVYBRRISEBER.
g.' g' g':az.&l‘ll{?’ } Edlitors and Proprietors.
VOLUME 1.
&he Litevarn Echpo.
I 8 PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING BY
Champlin & Babcock,
At WESTERLY, R. L
Office on West Broad St.,in the building next
to H. & F. Sheffield’s Store.
TERMS—SI.OO in advance: $1.50 if paid
within the year. 78 No paper discontinued
until arrearages are paid, except at the option
of the melishers.
ADVERTISEMENTS inserted at the follow-
*rates: One square, (twelve lines or less,)
-v reek, 50 cents; two weeks, 75 cents ; three
weeks, $l.OO. One year, $5.00; six months,
$3.00; three months, $2.00, &c. One column
one year, $25 00; six months, $15.00. Half a
column in proportion. Business cards, of eight
lines or less, inserted one year for $3.00. Legal
notices at statute prices. .
ZZr~Communications, orders, and remittan
ces, should be addressed, post paid to
CmamprLiN & Bascock, Wester!y, R. I
For the Literary Echo.
Solitude.
“ This sacred shade and solitude what is it ?
"Tis the felt presence of the Deity.”’— Koung.
’Tis here alone at day’s decline,
In this fair bower of Nature’s art, |
How oft, as bursting meteors shine,
Has some new thought lit up my heart,
Till joys in prospect of my theme
Awoke impulsive being there,
To deep and fervent for the sheen |
That gilds the borders of dispair. |
Yes, Nature, to thy outstretched arms }
I rush to meet thy fond embrace, |
Regardless of the world’s vain charms
I haste in thy sweet smiles to trace
Undying beauty, truth and love,
Infusing likes of noble aim ;
To tell that thou wert from above,
And hast on me immortal claim.
Come, orphan, to the tender ties
That infancy nor youth has shared,
And heave no more unbidden sighs,
Nor mourn for friends by time unspared ;
Here is thy teacher and thy friend ;
And spirits of thy heavenly dreams
Will on thy drooping vintage send,
From founts of hope, its living streams.
Come ye who at ambition’s shrine
Have seen its empty bubbles burst ;
And ye around whose eup doth twine
The serpent once in Eden cursed,—
Come ye and feast on angel’s food,
And driok life's draught and never die.
Here thou mays’t learn absorbing good,
Where Wisdom’s fingor points on high.
(Come read on mountains, rugged, steep,
‘The history of an unknown age,
Ere man was made, or mem’ry’s sleep,
And hail a new historic page.
tCome ope the book of verdant leaves,
With pictured flowers of beauty rife,
And read that he who made thee weaves
His wisdom in their hidden life.
«Come listen to Niagara’s roar,
To thunder peals that shake the earth,
“To waves that lash New England’s shore,
And winds that revel in their mirth,
‘To warbling songs that greet the ear
With melody and cheer divine,—
JFor all proclaims that God is here,
And will to penitence incline.
J. D. 8
We Joy that Thou art Free.
‘Time hath not power to bear away
Thine image from the heart,
No scene that marks life’s onward way
Can bid it hence depart ;
Yet while our souls with anguish riven
Mourned loved and lost for thee,
/We raise our tearful eyes to heaven
And joy that thou art free!
We miss thee from the band so dear,
That gathers round our hearth,
We listen still thy voice to hear,
Amid our house-hold mirth ;
‘We gaze upon thy vacant chair,
Thy form we seem to see,
We start to find thou art not there,—
We joy that thou art free.
A thousand old familiar things
Within thy childhood’s home,
Speak of the cherished absent one
Who never more shall come,
They wake with mingled joy and pain,
Fond memories of thee ;
But would we call thee back again ?
We joy that thou art free.
Amid each conflict, woe, and fear,
When dark our path appears,
Tis sweet to know thou canst not share
Our anguish and our tears;
That on thy head no more shall fall
The storms we may not flee ;
Yes, safely sheltered from them all,
We joy that thou art free,
For thou hastgained a brighter land,
And death’s cold streamis past ;
Thine are the joys at God’s right hand
That shall forever last.
"~ A crown is on thy angel brow,
Thine eye the king doth see,
Thy home is with the seraphs now,—
We joy that thou art free.
Aug., 1851. c. w.
From the Boston Weekly Museum.
Ball-Room Acquaintances.
Mr. Henry Pringleton is a youngz gen
tleman of agreeable manners, good looks,
and abominable self-conceit ; distinguished
for his galantry, black whiskers, and aris
tocratic aspirations. |
It is welY to have a good opinion of one’s
self ; but there is a certain sort of pride
which renders its possessor contemptable.
It is that pride which makes you blush to
be seen in the street with the noblest, best
hearted fellow in the world, because he
may happen to wear a seedy-looking coat
or a hat of last year’s fashion.
With this sort of pride, Mr. Henry Prin
gleton was severely afflicted. He sought
to rank with the most genteel, with the
acknowledged aristocrats of society. He
aimed high, and on one occasion he shot
considerably wide of his mark.
This is the way of it—
Mr. Harry was at a ball ; a rather a re
herche affair, of course. Mr. Harry never
patronized your ordinary assemblies, one
18 50 apt to meet vulgar people in such
places—that is, people who work for a liv
ing, shop-keeper’s daughters.
He was at a ball. Magnificently had he
flamed, and innumerable hearts had he
broken, in the course of a few brief hours.
Yet Mr. Harry was dissatisfied. He ob
served that few—marvelously few of the
elite were present. Had he made a con
quest, at which one of such lofty aspira
tions might fecel gratified? Ah,no! He
sighed, like Alexander, for an object wor
thy of his prowess.
“ Who was that young lady you waltzed
with last > asked a sleek dandy.
I deelare I have forgotton her name,
and really, I think I neglected to write it
down,” replied Mr. Harry. ‘I thought|
she could n’t be very fashionable ; I never
met her before.’
“Why,’ ericd a genteel fellow, with a
glossy moustache, who had heard the ques
tion and reply ‘that is Miss Bartlett, daugh
ter of William H. Bartlett. Dem genteel
people. I know ’em. That's Eliza the
prettiest of the three daughters.’
¢ Ah !’ exclaimed Mr. Harry, ‘she is pret
ty. I was sureshe was none of the crowd,
though I never kad met her before.’
Mr. Harry gazed with admiration at the
charming young lady, who, to speak the
truth, had not appeared to him rcm:trkubly!
beautiful before. A Bartlett! What a
conquest ! For Mr. Harry was sure the
girl was smitten with him. i
‘I must cultivate her acquaintance,’
thought he. 5
During the remainder of the evening, he
devoted ‘fximsclf exclusively to Miss Bart
lett; who received his attentions graciously.
Perhaps you imafiilnc Mr. Harry forgot
the poor girl whose heart he thus deliber
ately labored to win. Not he! He had
promised to call on Miss Eliza, and he
remembered his engagement with a heart
swelling with gratified pride and lofty aspi
rations, he went to the address his ohar
mer gave him, and approached the door,
on which the dear name ‘BartrETT’
shone engraved in silver. ‘
Mr. Harry was shown into the parlor.
He had inquired for Miss Eliza ; but Mrs.
Titeroture, Frience ond At —0 Partg— o Fout,
WESTERLY, R. I, AUGUST 28, 1851.
Bartlett herself appeared. She wasa fine
looking old lady, with an intelligent cye,
which scanned Mr. Harry’s features curi
ously.
‘ {)id you wish to sec Eliza,” she asked.
Mr. Harry replied affirmatively.
¢ Indeed,’ said she ¢ I think there must
be some mistake, sir. Perhaps it is Jane,
or Mary, you wish to see ?’
¢Oh, no; Miss Eliza’ rejoined Mr.
Harry. :
¢ I must ask, then, why you wish to see
her,” pursued Mrs. Bartlett mildly.
Harry blushed violently, perceiving
which, she added quickly—
¢ For Eliza is so young, that I am sure
you can have nothing to say to her which
you would nor first communicate to me.’
¢ Young ?’ echoed Harry, confused.
¢ Why she is only nine years old you
know.’—
Harry was confounded. But remember
ing that he had the name of his charmer
only on the authority of Dick Stevens, he
hastened to explain matters.
¢lt must be one of her sisters, then. I
met her at——Hall, two nights ago.’
¢ There must still pe some mistake,’ re
plied Mrs. Bartlett. ¢ Neither of my
idaughters have been to——Hall this win
ter.’
¢I think I am not mistaken. This is
the address she gave me,” said Harry firm
ly.?
Y Oh !’ eried the old lady, ¢ you mean
our nursery-maid! She was at——Hall
two nights ago ; and she said she expected
a young gentleman to call on her.’
¢ Nursery-maid I’ echoed Harry ; indig
nantly. ¢ I don’t know any nursery-maid !’
¢ Oh, it is her you wish to sce !’ replied
the old lady good-humoredly. ¢She said
you called her Miss Bartlett, but she didn’t
mind it, as a great many call her so, she
has lived with us solong. I will speak to
her.’ :
¢ N——no—l beg—don’t trouble your
self,” remonstrated Harry, nervously. ‘I
was mistaken. I—l gcg your pardon.
Good-day ma’am.’
Harry left ; but the affair got out; and
to this day, he has not done blushing when
¢ genteel ball-room acquaintances’ are
mentioned.
f GRreEAT MeN.—One of the chief char
acteristics of a truly great man is the re
fusal to be entirely moulded into the form
of the society in which he lives, and his
striking out told and original paths of his
own. He stamps his own name on the
age in which he lives. He often lights
with and controls circumstances; rises in
spite of the dead weight pressing him down.
Indeed, it would seem when the Almighty
entrusted great faculties to any man, he
placed him in adverse circumstances, in
order that the majesty and might of those
powers might be better exhibited by their
fierce struggle with outward foes. A great
man, it is true, must express, to a certain
extent, the spirit of the age, but he guides
even when he obeys it. Genius scts up
the standard of revolt against old opinions,
and thousands who were before vascillating
flock to it. Great minds perceive with
clearness those ideas of progress which
small minds perceive only indistinctly ;
hence the enthusiasm so common to many
great men. They feel so perfectly assured
of the truth of their opinions, that they go
right onward in their course, sustained by
an unwavering faith, and with none of
those doubts and fears common to indis
tinct preception. Your truly great men,
too, is energetic : he uses his own will, and
is not to be shaken from his purpose.
Stick No BiLLs HERE.—During a late
Concert at t.e City Hall in Manchester,
several of the seats having been spoken for,
were labelled * engaged.” Upon the au
dience leaving, it was ascertained that one
of the ladies walked home with the word
“ engaged,” in large letters upon her back
—one of the labels having been fastened to
Ther dress.—Doston Times.
e eel APO @
p&y~ Friendship is life’s sunshine
Anecdote of Jenny Lind.
A corespondent of the N. York Tribune, |
writing from Buffalo, relates the following: |
¢My chariotecer was a fine boy of 16.|:
He whiped along over the plank-road, and |
gossiped of the houses, the people and the |
places we passed. He was sharp-eyed and |
clear-minded—a bright boy, who may one
day be President. Stimulated by that|
thought, when he stopped to water the .
horse, we ¢ refreshed,’ pledging ¢ our insti- |
tutions.” As we stepped into the carriage. |
¢ How much is the next toll, your Ex-|
cellency ? ‘
‘Sir #” said the boy. |
We drove on further, and we were
slowly elimbing the hill.
¢ Have you heard Jenny Lind, sir?’ in
quircd my Antinous of the stable.
¢ Yes, often.’
¢ Great woman, Sir?> Don’t you think
so ?’
¢ Most decidedly.’
« She was here last week, Sir—Get up,
Charlie
¢ Did you hear her 2’ I asked.
“Yes, Sir; and I drove her with to
the falls—that is Tom Higging drove, but I
sat on the box.’
¢ And was she pleased ?’
“Yes, sir ; only when she was going to
sce the falls evergtody in the hotel ran
to the door to look at her, so she went
back to her room and then slipped out of
the back door. But there was something
better than that, Sir.’
¢ What was that 2’
~ “She gave Tom Higgins fifty dollars
‘when he drove her back. But therc was
something better that that, Sir.’
¢ Indeed, what was that 2’
¢ Why, Sir, as we came bagk, we passed
a little wood and she stopped the carriage
and stepped out with the rest of the party,
and Tom Higgins and I, went into the
wood. It wastowards sunset and the wood
was beautiful, Sir. She walked about a
little and picked up leaves and flowers,
and sang like to herself, as if it were pleas
ant. By and by she sat down upon a rock
and began to sing loud. She sings some,
Sir, and it sounded a great ways. DBut
before she stopped, a little bird came and
sat upon a bow close by us. I saw it, Sir,
with my own eyes, the whole of it—and
‘when Jenny Lind had done, he began to
sing and shout away like she did. While
he was singing she looked delighted, and
when he stopped she sang again, and Oh!
it was beautiful, Sir. But the little bird
wonldu’t give it up, and he sang again, but
not until she had done. Then Jenny Lind
sang as well as ever she could. It scemed
to fill the woods all up with musie, and
when it was over, the little bird was still
a while, but tried it again in a few mo
ments. He couldn’t do it, Sir. He sang
very bad, and then the foreizn gentlemen
with Jenny Lind laughed, and they all
came back to the carriage.’
Icep CuampaicNe.—A gentleman who
has been in the ice trade at St. Thomas,
relates some funny anecdotes about the
natives there and their luminous idea of
Boston hard water :(
“ He once sold a lump to a gentleman,
whe sent a colored servant after it, with
directions to have it kept for dinner-table. |
The servant took it home, and enquired of
the cook how it was prepared. After con
siderable discussion in the kitchen cabinet,
it was decided to have it boiled. At din
ner the gentleman called out for it, and
was in high glee, for he had drank iced
champaigne in the states, and he felt a
mighty hankering for a sccond trial of the
same beverage. Soon Sambo made his
appearance, with eyes rolling on the out
side, grinning like a frightened monkey.
¢ \g{lcrc is the ice, gambo ?? said the
gentleman. \
¢Oh! glory, massa!’ replied Sambo,
¢1 put it in de pot and boiled Eim mor’n haff
an hour, and when I went to look for him,
‘he was not dar.”
A reason has been discovered why a pig
curls his tail. ’Cause he can’t keep it
straight. y
1.00, 1f paild In advance
TERMS: { :1.50'-(. rho end of the year.
Tue Moruer’s rast Lesson.— Will
you please to teach me my verse, mamma,
and then kiss mo, and bid me good night ?”’
said little Roger L——, as he opened the
door and peeped cautiously into the cham
ber of his sick wmother ; lam very sleepy
but no one has heard m? say my prayers.
~ Mrs. L——was very ill—indec({, her
attendants believed her to be dying. She
sat propped up with her pillows, and strug
gling for breath ; her lips were white, her
eyes were growing dull and glazed. She
‘wws a widow, and little Roger was her
only—her darling child. Every night he
had been in the habit of coming into her
room and sitting in her lap, or kneeling by
her side, whilst she repeated passages from
God’s holy word, or related to him stories
of wise and good men spoken of in its
pages.
¢ Hush !” said the lady who was watch
ing beside her couch- ¢ Your dear moth
er isto ill to hear you to-night.” As she
said this, she came forward, and laid her
hand gently upon his arm, as if she would
lead him from the room. Roger began to
sob as if his heart would break.
“T cannt go to bed without saying my
prayers indeed I cannot.”
The ear of the dying mother caught the
sound. Although she had been nearly in
sensible to everything transpired around
her, the sob of her darling aroused her
stupor, and turning to a friend she desired
her to bring her little son and lay him on
her bosom. Her request was granted, and
the chile’s rosy cheeks and golden hair
nestled beside the cold face of his dying
| mother.
“ Roger, my son, my darling child,’
aid the dying woman, * repeat this verse’
| |after me and never forget it,—* when my
| father and mother forsake me, the Lord
| will take me up.” The child repeated it
| two or three times destinctly, and said his
| little prayer. Then he kissed the cold, al
| most rigid features before him, and went
| quietly to his couch. The next morning he
| sought as usual, his mother, but he fouud
her stiff and cold.
| This was her last lesson. He has never
| forgotton it—he probably never will. He
[ has grown to be a man—a good man, and
now occupies a post of honor and profit
in Massachusetts. I never could look upon
him without thinking of the faith so beau
tifully exhibited by his dying mother.
Life at West Point.
A Cadet writing to the Lowell News,
says : :
What would you think of standing with
in eighteen inches of the muzzle of a
twenty-pounder when it was fired? I've
done it, and it has so jarred me that blood
ran out of my ears, and then dare not raise
my hands for fear of being put in arrest !
I have scen Cadets, while drilling in the
hot sun, faint away from excessive fatigue,
although 1 have stood it very well so far,
and can even have a mosquito or spider
alight on my face without flinching. The
mosquitoes are thicker than they are on
the Mississippi river, and they are sure to
buzz around a fellow’s face when he is on
drill and can’t brush them away. I have
seen some hard times in my life, but this
confounded, everlasting drilling, marching
and parading, beats it all. When night
comes I feel like sleeping. Speaking of
sleeping, I’ll tell you how we do sleep.
We have no bedstead or bed-tick, but
simply a blanket, ecounterpane and pillow,
so 1 just roll up in the blanket, drop on
the floor, and pass off to dream land.
When 1 first came here, I could slecp no
more than ““ a toad under a harrow,” but
now I prefer it to any other way.
By Fame ! how we profess to dec{;iso
it, and yet how we run afterit! Who
is there that does not feel a tingle of pleas
ure, if he is standing on the sigewalk and
sees an omnibus passing with his name in
large capitals on the li%cs ?
B@™ Be-ware—that’s what the potter
said to a lump of clay.
NUMBER 22