Plymouth Pilot, Volume 1, Number 51, Plymouth, Marshall County, 7 January 1852 — Page 1

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THE PLYMOUTH PILOT. "THE BLESSINGS OF GOVERNMENT, LIKE THE DEWS OF HEAVEN, SHOULD BE SHOWERED ALIKE UPON THE RICH AND THE POOR."--Jackson. A Family Newspaper: devoted to Politics, Literature, Science, Agriculture, Foreign and Domestic News. Plymouth, Marshall County, Indiana, Wednesday, Jan. 7. 1852. Number 51. Volume 1.

P O E T R Y .

FOND WORDS. Fond words from those most cherished, How sweet, how sweet their power!! They seem like notes melodious From Heaven's celestial bower: Their sound still lingering ever Around life's chequered way. No time can e'er dissever--They leave a hallowed ray. How often through this pathway Of hope and chilling fears. I've sighed for some kind spirit, To dry my flowing tears! For when the heart seems broken, And all is sad and lone. One word of fondness spoken. Can soothe each mournful tone! Then where can hearts desponding A balm or solace find? Oh, we shall find it ever In a sympathizing mind! One word of fondness spoken, Re-kindles love and peace--E'en constancy's blest token; Their power can never cease! From the Flag of our Union. THE POOR ITALIAN FOUNDER. A Legendary Story of the Silvery Chief of Limerick. BY FALCONBRIDGE. Poor Pos, we never think of bells but We are reminded of his chimes--"Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of runic rhyme To the tintinnabulation that so musically swells From the bells, bells, bells?" There is an endless theme for the mind and pen in the harmony and history of bells. Their paternity, like the originality of the pyramids, is hidden in the dust of ages, while the popularity of their invention and application has suffered no diminution by the lapse of time; they have a poetic, everlasting tie to our ear- liest recollections, for the homely chime of the village church of our boyhood still haunts us in our sleeping and waking hours;--visiting the shipwrecked mariner upon the desolate coast; the traveller in the far-off wilderness; the soldier in comfortless camps, and the poor prisoner in his cell, like blissful harbingers bidding them, if but for a fleeting moment, be innocent and happy again. We often wish that the great spirit of invention would create some substitute for the plebeian purposes to which bells are now appliied. The huge "pot metal" affairs of factories, fire-engine towers, and ambitious rural churches. "In the startled ear of (noon or night, How they scream out their affrieht! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek! Out of (all manner of) time.'' Until the ear, soul, senses become so appalled at the very sound of bells, that the "prince'' of campanologists with the most melodious chime this side of St. Mary's tower,. Limerick, would almost fail to arouse the appetite to such a ban-quet--as they are wont to offer the ear and soul of melody. But of thee--"Lim-erick's chime" we have a story. Centuries ago--so far back into the dim and dark vista of by-gone ages, that history becomes nearly a ghost-like outline of primary fact--Fazino Fronti, a poor young artizan in the small foundry of the small villa of Mazza torti, toiled and dreamed over the hobby of his heart --the ignis fatuus of his fate--a chime of bells! Fazino was a bell caster; his master was a famed founder of bells, but the young man's ambition soared to cast a complete chime that should not only astonish the master of Mazza torti himself, but reap the admiration of the world of chimes, and win for him the dizzy height which the mad ambition of the world so sighs for--the perdom of par excellence! And this dream he mused for years, and in silence and patient pride wrought his purpose out. It was a gala day, and the villagers of Mazza-torti, well dressed in their gayest attire, were on the eve of festivity and pleasure, and with a heart of joy and a face of doubt and trembling, the young artizan sought the abode of the master founder, and begged, as a favor, that he would honor his abode--in an obscure and remote section of the village--with his presence. "Signor," said the young artizan, "I have cast a bell, I wish you to hear it chime." "Holy St. Iago!" exclaimed the matter, "is it a mere bell thou would'st have me hear? I've no time; this is not a business day, my good lad. Let's to pleasure; never mind thy bell; go to. amuse thyself; let work alone for the day." But, signor, mine is no common bell, or I would not dare to ask the master of Mazza-torti's foundry to hear it chime." "The youth is mad," said the master founder to himself; "but I'll humor his fancy; he's a good workman, and it will cost but a moment of my gala time." 'Go on, Fazino. I'll hear thy bell."

In course of a few minutes, master and man stood under the roof of the humble bode of the young founder. Suspended from stout beams, some ten feet from

the earth, Fazino had suspended a bell. not so large, indeed, as to attract any wonder from the master founder of Mazzatorti, but so exquisitely wrought and polished in finish that the master threw up his hands at the threshold of Fazino's abode, and exclaimed: "Ha! hal Well done, by St. Iago, well done, boy." "But hear it chime, master," said Fazino, jumping upon a high form and rapping the bell gently with an iron baton. "Ding--ding--dong, ding, ding, ding, ding.'" The master bell-founder of Mazzi-torti fell back amazed! "Holy Virgin! 'tis silver!" "0 no, master, that were not possible; all Mazza-torti would not furnish me metal so precious to cast my chime!" "I were unblessed else, boy, but that thy bell is silver; give me thy clapper (and hitting the bell more vigorous than his workman, the melodious tones again, in increased rapture smote the air)--Ding-g-g-g-g, ding, ding, ding, ding, dingle, dingle, dingle, ding, ding-g-g g-g!" And there stood the entranced bellfounder with his iron baton, hammering away at the almost celestial chime of his workman, while that person, unobserved to his master, disappeared and soon returned with a fellow-workman, bearing another bell of the same unique workmanship as the first, but of a much larger size, and with despatch they swung it to the beam, and the amazed master was desired to try its tone. He struck the fine bell a blow, and cried out: "Ave Marie!" He stood aghast. Did he dream? "Strike again, good master," said Fazino, as himself and two others brought in yet another bell of the glorious chime, and under the influence of his almost supernatural senses. the master founder of Maza-torti continued his raps and rolIs of the iron baton on the magic bells, until six of these peerless chimes were strung within arm reach of the grand performer. And all the inhabitants of Mazza-torti flocked thither, for it was in vain that that the distant chirrie of the old moss covered tower and revered bells of St. Inez rang their paeans upon the soft air of the Italian morn, or that the gay retinue of festive decorations adorned the wonted spot where the revellers basked in gaiety and shade. As the multitude augmented; the fervor of the master founder seemed to increase. He ran out now the merry festive and the marriage peal, and then the sombre and slow chants of death procession, rriiking those of the gay throng stand in groups of solemn awe--transfix-ed like statues. Ceasing, from sheer exhaustion, his companologian labors, the master founder threw his arms about the neck of the workman and wept in joy, for he was not inclined to erivy his poor journey-man--damp his genius with wet blankets of faint praise, or find flaws to peck at in the art of his head and hands. He wept, and in the face of the throng declared: "Thy sweet bells, Fazino, will make thee glory and wealth; Mazza-torti's founder never cast such bells as these, nor all Italy before ever heard such chimes! St. Iago! said the master gazing at the bells, "how, Fazino, hast thou found time, how hast thou found this precious precious metal to cast thy bells? 'Tis wonderful --wonderful!"' And the old man stood off musingly, exclaiming: "Wonderful--wonderful!" And the live long day the throng increased, coming from hill and mountain. valley and plain--the shepherd leaving his flocks, the beggar his crutch, the housewife and the servants their "duties," and the noblesse their 'dignity and pride--to mingle in the common auditory around the humble abode of Fazino Fronti, and drink the silvery harmony of his matchless bells. It was a great day an advent of greater importance to the quiet and peaceful, the secluded village of Mazza-torti, than even the greatest day in the calendar of festivities and gala isms! The remote, obscure place was to be great in fame's annals; the poor artisan was to be lifted from the obscurity and depression of poverty and toil to a niche of honor, glory and profit! And the name of the humble Fazino Fronti--unknown, unhonorcd and unsung--was now in the mouths of all--the theme of tongues. The silvery chimes brought men from afar, and the hut of Fazino became the temple of conversazione for musical Solons of the surrounding country. It was apparent that the artistic formation of these bills, though unique, was not wonderful; but their rich tone indicated such purity of metal, as none other than silver could accord; and this fact not only begat much inquiry, but many doubts and suspicions of the mode and manner by which these charmed bell came so unhearlded into the world, and into the possession of one so humble and obscure. But this was Fazino's secret. The

bells were there, they were his own; he cast them, how or when, it mattered not: he was a bell caster. He showed them his implements, his rude smelting furnace, and his temporary and laborious means by which he did the work; the character of the metaI was new and wonderful to them. Fazino claimed it was a grand discovery of his own, and so it was. The story and sublimity of these bells reached the ears of a powerful monastery conclave of monks and their noblesse patrons, in the mountains of Vieto Vechita, and at once a deputation awaited upon the artizan to hear his chime and learn his terms. "Three thousmd piastres! Holy Virgin! art mad?"

"0 no, holy father!" responded the humble artizan; "my bells will weigh down fifty thousand of thy good piastres and their tone is quite as rich as the piastres, holy father." But thou dost not claim in them metal pure as silver?" "I do not; but let my good master of Mazza torti's foundry name to thee their price. If this will satisfy." "Be it so; let Signor Girvella be called," said the holy deputation, and the master founder came. He rendered unto his late workman the reverence due exalted genius and worth, and in presence of the churchly deputation, pronounced the chime of Faziuo peerless, wonderful, and thrown away at three thousand piastres each. Though astonished at the sum. they were more so at the rich tone of the bells, and so the holy men paid down the three times three thousand piastres, and the bells were theirs. Fazino Fronti was now a rich man; his old and good master gave up his trade to the famed young workman, resting upon the fruits of long and successful toil, to admire the genius and the energy of his prototype. In course of a few days, arrangements were completed to remove the chime to its distant home in the mountains. The progress of transportation was slow and tedious, and after many wearisome relays animals and men, accidents and delays. the bells reached the deep, dark valley of Vieto Vechita. Upon the top of the next mountain, some two leagues in the distance, stood the monastery, whose old old bells, harsh now and out of joint, were ringing in their more noble and expensive successors. But night threw its dark mantle over the deep and lonely valley, and the caravan rested until the morrow, when their last toilsome march should complete the transportation, and the silvery chime should be baptized in the soft fresh air of the ancient monastery on the topmost peak of Vieto Vachita. The muletteers had unharnessed their weary animals, gave them provender, as well as filled their own hungry paunches; and now upon the ground they deposited their bodies for the night, leaving a small guard of the escort on duty during the lonely vigils betwixt them and morning. But lo! as if by some magical and supernatural contrivance, each bush became a brigand! Each twig and limb a carbine or stiletto! "Holy St. Francis! the brigands!" cried the guard. "Not a word," hoarsely answered the fierce leader of the mountain bravos, "not a word of alarm, or your bones will be left in the vaults of Father Pietro, on the top of Vieto Vechita!" And passing around among the sleepers and the rest of the dismayed guard, the. brigand chief pertly plied his knotted scarf over their nearly paralyzed limbs, urging them to move quickly with the work he had in view. Soon the famed chime, under the more expert escort of the mountain rangers, was flying rapidly, the poor muletteers and disarmed soldiers knew not whither. But as dawn returned, and many miles now stretched out between the valley and the captors, the brigand chief entertained his unwilling friends handsomely, then directing their armes to be returned --saws means of being quickly used again --he sent them back with a proper guide, with his compliments to the holy fathers and the famed founder of these rare bells. Great was the outcry, search and expedition following this brigand robbery; and for weeks and months the hills and mountains were scoured by armed forces intent upon the capture and torture of the sacrilegious robbers. But nothing more transpired to detect the whereabouts of the brigands or the bells. Some hints were thrown out that Fazino Fronti was not altogether ignorant of the fate of his chime, but the founder put a pall upon these, base suspicions by contributing freely to the support of the troops and others who sought the robbers, and even offered to refund the price given him by the monks for his chime, if when found, they declined receiving them again. But the people talked, and they were suspicious, and they murmured; and Fazino grew weary and disheartened; and he wished it had never been his fortune to cast the glorious chime. He wished himself the humble workman he was before putting his fingers on the forms of his

bells, and dreamed it would be a blissful thing for him now to be by the side of his dead and gone master, whose remains lay tranquilly in the little vaults of the little monastery of St. Inez. Fazino's business grew dull; the wheel of his for-

tune was reversed, and all he did now seemed unprosperous. Fazino Fronti's wedding, in embryo, was indefinitely postponed, and the black eyed maiden of his choice went to her

grave in her purposed bridal robes. He

grew old, not from mere lapse of time, but from withered hopes and tainted reputation, and a few brief years made the once famed and fortunate founder of Maz-za-torti a penniless wanderer! Fazino Fronti went to Spain, and in the ancient metropolis of Madrid, he once more essayed by his art and perseverance to rebuild his fortunes; but the star of his destiny was fixed, unpropitious; and at length age began to decay his vital powers, and the prematurely old man sighed to die, if not where his glorious chime could be heard, at least where their maiden reverberations once smote the air With view of returning once more to his home, he set out in a vessel from Spain, and was. by means of a furious hurricane, blown off to the distant seas, and finally rescued, with his fellowpassengers and the mariners, by an Irish vessel, bound to Limerick. It was upon the early morn of a lovely day, when the vessel dropped anchor in view of the still and lovely city. Fazoui Fronti, the poor old withered man, had a presentiment that he must die at once, if not put on the calm, quiet shore; and to gratify the poor old Italian, whose hours, indeed, seemed to the captain numbered, he set him in a small boat, with two sailors, to the quay of the har bor. Fazino sat quietly musing in the stern of the little boat; the peals of the little boat; the peals of many bells smote upon the ear, and at length another a chime rang out--clear, mathless, beautifull. The old man sat bolt upright, his eyes glistened with a fresh and brilliant fervency; he begged the seamen to pause upon their oars; the bells, noble bells. now pealed loud and thrilling above all the rest, and the old man clasped his bony fingers, and casting one look upward, he exclaimed: "My bells, my bells! I hear my bells once more! God, I thank thee, I thank--" he was dead; the poor fated founder of the charmed bells ceased to live! Upon the music of his glorious chime, the soul of Fazino Fronti floated to heaven. How or when these bells' reached Limerick, and were hung in St. Mary's tower, history does not inform us. It is supposed that this rare tone is mostly composed of silver, buried treasure found by the poor young artizan, and secretly smelted and moulded into this wonderful and harmonious Limerick chime. Danger of Electioneering. The New Orleans Hicayune rejoicing in the possession of a live Yankee as a correspondent, who, having wandered as far South as Louisiana peddling notions, had settled down somewhere in the State, and there concluded to run for Congress, The following extract of a letter to the Editor of the Picayune, describing one of his electioneering tours, is a specimen of the luck he had in that delightful business. "Well. I put up with a first rate, good natured feller that I met at a billiard table. I went in and was introduced to his wife, a fine, fat woman, who looked as though she lived on laffin; her face was so full of fun. After a while--after we'd talked about my gal, and about the weather, and so on--in came three or four children, laffin and skippin as merry as crickets. There warn't uo candle lit, but I could see they were fine looking fellows; and I started for my saddle-bags, in which I put a lot of sugar candy for the children as I went along. 'Come here,' said I, 'you little rogue, come along here, and tell me what your name is;' the oldest then came up to me, and said he, 'My name is Peter Smith, sir." "And what's your name, sir?" said I. "Bob Smith, sir." The next said his name was Bill Smith and the fourth said his name was Tommy Smith. Well I gave 'em sugar candy, and old Miss Smith was so tickled that that she laughed all the time; Mr. Smith looked on, but didn't say much. "Why," says I, "Miss Smith, I wouldn't take a good deal for them four boys, if I had 'em, they are so beautiful and sprightly." "No," said she, laffin, "I set a good deal of store by 'em, but we spoil 'em too much." "Oh no," said I, "they're ra'al well behaved children, and by gracious," said I, pretending to be startled by a sudden idea of a striking resemblence between them boys and their father, and I looked at Mr. Smith. "I never did see anything equal to it," says I, "your eyes, mouth, forehead, a perfect picture of you, sir," says I. tapping the oldest on the pate. I thought Miss Smith would have died laffin at that; her head fell back, and she shook the whole house laffin.

"Do you think so, Col. Jones?" says she, and she looked towards Mr. Smith, and I thought she'd go off in a fit. "Yes," saiys I. "I do really think so." "Ha. ha. ha--how?" says Mr. Smith.

kinder half lafiin, '-you're too hard on me with your jokes. "I ain't jokin at all, they're handsum children and they do look wonderfully like you." "Just then a gal brought in a light, and I'll be darned if the little brats didn't

turn out to be mulattoes, every one of 'em. and their hair was as curly as the blackest niggers. Mr. and Mrs. Smith never had any children, and they sorter of petted them little niggers as play things. I never felt so streaked as I did when I see'd how things stood. If I hadn't kissed the nasty things I could a got over it; but kissing on 'em showed that I was in airnest, (though I was sof-soaped 'em all the time.) how to get out of the scrape I

didn't know. Mrs. Smith laffed so hard when she saw how I was confused that she almost sulfocated. A little while afterwards there was a whole family of relations arrived there from the city, and turned the matter off; but the next morning I could see Mr. Smith did not like the remembrance of what I said, and I don't believe he'll vote for me when the election comes on. I expect Miss Smith kept the old fellow nnder that joke for some time. A Good One. Some one mentioned to us the other day, remarks the Kni-kerbocker, the circumstances of a fat. querulous fellow, who was driven from a stage coach by by passengers who he had annoyed with his growlings and complaints. A cigar was lighted, when, at a pre - concerted moment, one of the passengers exclaimed--"For heaven's sake, put out that fire! I have four ponnd. of gunpowder in my overcoat pocket!" "Driver! driver! stop--stop!" cried the victim of this gunpowder plot, "Let me out! let me out! there is a man here with powder in his pockets, and he'll blow us to the ----!" The complainant got out in no small hurry, and the passengers thenceforth pursued their way, undisturbed by his farther annoyauce. This anecdote reminds us of an occurrence which once took place at the long and picturesque bridge over Ciyuga lake, that middle western barrier, from which success or defeat, in time of political excitement, is now predicted. A wag from Syracuse, who, with some half dozen friends, had been disporting at the pleasant and flourishing village of Seneca Falls, determined on approaching the toll gate in a sleigh, one stormy night, to run the bridge. "Lie down, boys," said he, "and when we get under the gate, groan a little and tremble, but don't over do it. Here get under these horse blankets." Mhey did so, and when the sleioh came under the picket draw of the bridge they began to moan, and shake, so that it was piteous to see and even to hear. "I have nothing less than this ten dol-

ler bill," said our wag, handing the gate

keeper a bank note; "but for heaven's sake, change it quick! I have three friends in the sleigh, who are almost dead with the small pox, and I'm ----" "Drive on," said the terrified gatekeeper, handing back the bill, "drive on! pay next time!" Above, the whisteling of the snow la-den wind which swept over the frozen lake, and the tramping of the horses' feet on the bridge, the gatekeeper heard the loud laugh of the wags, proclaiming that he had been 'taken in and done for." THRICE TO THINK. A Frenchman whose wife was about to preseut him with the fond appellation of 'father,' returned to wait the happy moment; and with some friends to drink long life and a noble, to the first born.--The punch bowl scattered its bewitching fumes most prodically around the company and anxiety was manifested by all, when in ran Betty Lightfoot, exclaiming: Joy. joy, sir! I give you joy. Vat is he, Betty, vat is he? A fine boy, sir. Health to the young Marquis! exclaimed one and bumpers went round. Betty raised the glass to her lips, when in rushed the nurse; Joy, joy, sir, I give you joy! Vat vat is dc matter? A fine girl, sir! Betty, said the Frenchman looking stern, vat for you say no true? Oh. said the nurse, a boy first and a girl afterwards. Vat--two--von boy--von 'fille?' Two, sir, added the dame, and swing it off, when in popped another Sacre!' exclaimed the Frenchman, vat more joy? Another fine boy, sir! Vat the diable--von girl--von boy--von 'garcon' tree times! . Mon Dieu". exclaimed the poor Frenchman. 'By gar, it will never do. I must go and put a stop to this!'

A LETTER WORTH READING. We will back the following piece of composition against any thing ever produced. It was written half a century ago by Sir Royel Roach, a member of the Irish Parliament, in the "troubled times

of '98," when a handful of Wexford men struck terror into the hearts of many gallant sons of Mars, as weII as the worthy writer himself. It was addressed. to a friend in London: "My dear Sir--Having now a little peace and quietness. I sit down to inform you . . . I conclude from the beginning that this would be the end of it, and see I was right, for it is not half over yet.-- At present there is such going on that everything is at a stand still. I should have answered your letter a fortnight ago but did not receive it until this morning. Indeed scarcely a mail arrives safe without being robbed. No longer ago than yesterday, the coach with the mails from Dublin was robbed near this town; the bas that had been judiciously left behind for fear of accident, and by good luck there was nobody in it but two outside passengers, who had nothing for the thieves to take. Last Thursday notice was given that a gang of rebels was advancing here under the French standard, but they had no collors or any drums except bagpipes. Immediately, every man in the place, including women and children ran to meet them. We soon found our force much too little; we were too near to think of retreating. Death was in every face, but to it we went, and by the time half our little party was kille, we began to be alive again. Fortunately the rebels had no guns except pistols and pikes, and as we had plenty of muskets and amunition, we put them all to the sword. Not a soul of them escaped except them that were drowned in an adjacent bog; and in very short time; nothing was to be heard but silence. Their uniforms were all of different colors, but mostly green. After the action we went to rummage a sort of camp, which they left behind them. All we found was a few pikes without heads, a parcle of empty bottels full of water, and a bundle of French commissions filled with Irish names. Troops are now stationed all around the country which exactly squares with my ideas.--I have only time to add that I am in great haste. P. S. If you do not receive this, of course it must have miscarried therefore I beg you to write and let me know. When neighbor Jones went into dinner the other day, he found one of his apprentices in the kitchen, quietly rolling up his sleeves. 'What are you going to do?' said Jones. 'Oh, quietly re-sponded the boy, 'I am going to dive down into the pot to see if I can fiud the bean that soup was made from!' About a month previous to the election of Gen. Tylor, a mathematical partezan taking the letters of the Alphabet at the value resulting from their places thus: A 1, B 2, &c, found that letters composing the name 'Zachary Taylor,' made a total value of 173, when he concluded that the General would recieve that number of electoral votes, and curiously enough, the result proved his conclusion correct. Now let us see what "figures will do for the great Magyar. Proceeding as above, we find the value of the letters composing 'Louis Kossuth' is 189.--Now try 'Ruler of Hungary,' and lo! they also give us a total of 189! Now the words 'must and will succeed,' attaching no value to the character, and as it is not a letter of the alphabet, and again we have the magic number 189! whence we will conclude, nothing; but trusting the well known reputation, of figures as true tellers, hope-i that they have, thus combined to decieve us.--N. Y. Times. "Jake, is your master a good farmer?" "O, yes fuss rate farmer- he makes two crops in one year." "How is that, Jake?" "Why, he sell all de hay in de fall and make money once--den in the spring he sells de hides of de cattle dat die for want ob hay, and make money twice!" --- A young gentleman who has just married a little undersized beauty, says she would have been taller, but she is made of such precious materials, that nature could not afford it. How full of sugar the honey moon makes one, don't it? A year from now he'll be swearing about the house because his'd--fool of a wife has been cleaning the cookstove with his shoe brush,