The Literary echo, and Pawcatuck advertiser. [volume] (Westerly, R.I.) 1851-1854, 1852-05-13
Original 9ketfbes.
SKETCHES OF
GRIPEVILLE AND ITS DENIZENS
BY L'INCoCNITA.

Reader! would you see the old Gripe
vile church Come with me, then, anC
we will visit it. 1t is not in the village
but is situated about half way between
it and another one that lies two mile.
farther up the stream, and serves for th'
people of both villages to worship in
So now if you are ready, we will start
not to ride but to walk, for that is tht
true way to enjoy country excursion
and then we can be at liberty to stoE
and peep into any shady little nook by
the way side, or gather now and then ;
bunch of wild flowers, and skip abou
over the rocks and green sward.
We will imagine that it is fine sum.
mer afternoon, which will do just as wei
as if it were so and now we will take
the north road that passes up by Miss
Charity's house and girstmill. Keep a
sharp look out as you 60 along, and you
may perhaps catch glimpse of the old
lady at the window. All there she Is
now just at the gristmil door, with a
light drab cotton umbrella in one hand
and her cane In the other, dressed in Q
plain calico gown, and with her snow.
white cap, but no bonnet ON her head
Do you not hear the sharp ringing tones
of her voice rising above the loud clat-
ter of the mill, as she talks with Mr..
Mealem, the miller, who stands on the
door sill, about something that has gone
wrong; Something unusual must have
happened to disturb the old lady's equa-
nimity for, see ! she points her cane
with threatening gesture towards the
fine establishment of her rival, and her
voice rises still higher on the clear air.
What can it be that so disturbs her !;
All l see now. Down by the door of
Gripe's mill stands cart heavily laden
with bags of corn, and its owner, a
wealthy farmer, who was once her Gus
toner, is helping Gripe's miller carry
in the bags. Poor woman! do you not
pity her; With her thousands at COM
mand; in the possession of Heavens
choicest blessings, life, health, and lib
erty; with the pure sunlight smiling
upon her by the mild summer breezes
tanning her cheek, she makes herself
miserable at the loss of the
toll on few bags of meal.
Passing Miss Charity's house, we go
by several others, some ef which belong
to Gripc, and some to Independent la
borers who have built for themselves,
and are enjoying the fruits of their own
industry. And now we are just beyond
the outskirts of the village, and have
come to q new feature in this varying
landscape-a GROCERY. You may know
it by the dingy blackness of its walls
half hidden under the side of the hill,
as if to conceal the deeds that transpire
within, from the very sight of Heaven
by the dreary barrenness of the soil
around the house, where scarcely spire
of grass dares to show itself-by the
widows, the lower halves of which are
painted on the inner side to keep the
mischicf-making temperance men from
peeping in-and by the shattered wagon
and lank- long horse that is hitched to a
post at the door. Sign, it has not, and
it reeds none, for one glimpse at that
ragged loafer (himself a walking rum
bottle), lounging on the bench under
the window there, tells plainly enough
what kind of commodities the worthy
of the establishment which he
patronizes, deals in. That same loafer,
vagabond as he is, has wife and child
rem that arc at this very moment toiling
in Gripe's factory to earn an humble