contents with the utmost enthusiasm. Indeed, the whole family shared it
with me, so that we were up till nearly midnight engaged in looking
after articles treating of the subject then uppermost in our minds. The
various numbers contained the collected experience of probably fifty
different cultivators of the strawberry, with a mass of information on
all matters pertaining to fruits and flowers. It took us a whole week to
obtain any tolerable idea of the contents, as our evenings only could be
spared for reading. The variety of experiences related was rather
confusing,--one writer telling how he had failed altogether, though
pursuing the very system under which another had had great success.
There were all kinds of theories, and probably all kinds of practice.
One grower declared that the ground must be made extremely rich, while
another asserted positively that strawberries grew better and bore more
abundantly on the poorest soil. One gentleman averred that the only
profitable plan was to raise the plants in distinct hills, keeping them
clear of runners; some one in the next paper denied this, and vowed that
he made more money by crowding his ground with all the plants that could
find room upon it to take root. I remember one correspondent who said
that letting the weeds grow would kill the strawberries; but there was
some one else who assured the editor, that, in his opinion, the
strawberries rather liked the weeds, because they shaded the ground.
How was it possible for me to discriminate between these contradictory
statements,--all made, moreover, by gentlemen who wrote as if each were
in himself a complete horticultural encyclopaedia? Though utterly
confused by them, and quite at a loss to know which plan of cultivation
to adopt, yet one fact seemed very prominent, and that was that any
person who was at all careful in keeping his ground mellow and
reasonably clear of weeds would be sure to have good crops.
What struck me as a little remarkable in this voluminous record of
experience and opinion was the circumstance of there being very few
female writers on the subject. There were many who wrote quite
eloquently on the culture of flowers, but only two or three who appeared
to have cultivated strawberries. Yet there were several accounts of
wonderful coverlets which some of them had made, containing many
thousands of pieces, with probably one or two millions of stitches. I
could not help concluding that this latter feat was only labor thrown
away, and that elderly ladies who undertake to produce counterpanes and
bedspreads with so much superfluous work upon them should be provided
with a sewing-machine. It was not very encouraging to observe that so
small a share of female attention had been directed to the
strawberry-culture. The only recorded efforts of this kind had been made
in gardens, where the beds, after being planted, were attended to by the
women of the family. It appeared that they could readily keep everything
in order, pull out the weeds, gather the fruit; and though the fact was
not mentioned, yet I presume they were able to put in a full oar when it
came upon the table. One or two cases were related of young girls having
made quite a handsome sum from a small garden-bed. But the general
testimony went to prove that strawberry-growing was so simple an art
that any woman who had sufficient good sense to keep herself tidy could
successfully practise it, more especially if she had a taste for
horticultural occupations. I concluded, therefore, that the true reason
why women had not engaged more extensively in this employment was
because no one had taken pains to call their attention to it.
There was one branch of the subject which it was difficult to understand
exactly. Almost every person who wrote about strawberries seemed to have
the best variety that had ever been known or heard of. This was
especially noticeable in the statements of those who had plants to sell.
After reading one advertisement, I felt satisfied that the particular
fruit therein described was what I ought to have. But on examining the
next announcement, I was confounded at learning that there was a still
better kind. So it ran through probably half a dozen: every one was
best. Indeed, there appeared to be no inferior strawberry-plants for
sale. I had no friend to consult with who could explain this remarkable
state of things; and being thus left in doubt as to whether there was
really any merit in plants thus extravagantly praised, I came to the
conclusion that the safer way would be to let them all go, and adopt
some well-established kind, that was known to be a sure bearer, and
which could be had at a moderate price, leaving the costly novelties to
be patronized by those who had more money to spare. In two or three of
these florid descriptions of new varieties I observed that great stress
was laid on the enormous size of the fruit, as well as their unequalled
productiveness; but there was no mention of quality: what that was
appeared to be studiously suppressed. An orange solitary may be as large
as a pumpkin; but if it be proportionably coarse and flavorless, one
would conclude, that, the greater the size, the less desirable the
fruit. It was important for me to begin right; so, abandoning these new
and costly varieties, I determined to have something nearer home, about
whose value there could be no doubt. I was to produce fruit for the
public, not for our own private use, and therefore must have a
well-established market berry.
I do not mean to undervalue the great horticultural novelties of the
day, merely because I was unable to purchase, or because others were
evidently realizing great sums by first originating them, and then
spreading their merits before the world, though sometimes in extravagant
terms. The world must have been waiting for them, or they could not have
become so suddenly popular. And the painstaking horticulturist would not
have devoted years of patient care and watchfulness, exercising a
consummate skill in stimulating Nature to the production of a better
plant, a more gorgeous flower, or a more luscious fruit, had he not
known that there was a waiting public, ever ready to reward his skill
and perseverance by extensive purchases at liberal prices. It is to this
certainty of generous remuneration that we are indebted for nearly all
the great and truly valuable novelties with which the horticultural
world has been supplied. A rose, with tints unknown a century ago, has
proved a stepping-stone to the discoverer's fortune. The skilful
propagator of new or rare verbenas has grown rich from annual sales of
these beautiful bedding plants. The tulip is an historical monument of
floral enthusiasm. When Mexico was opened to Northern enterprise, it
yielded of its boundless exuberance the cactus and the dahlia, sources
of untold wealth to those florists who ministered to the popular taste
for Nature's richest productions. The originator of a new and valuable
grape has found in it a fortune. Accident has sometimes been productive
of equally remunerative results. A solitary berry, growing in the
tangled hedge-row of an abandoned field, has been the foundation of an
independence.
The history of horticulture abounds in instances akin to these. The
enthusiasts who produced or discovered such novelties have conferred
inestimable benefits on the world. The originator of the Albany seedling
strawberry unquestionably added threefold to the quantity of that
surpassingly delicious fruit. He devoted years of patient care and
watchfulness to a nursery containing thousands of seedlings, of which
one only was found to be worthy of cultivation. And if he had his
reward, he was well entitled to it. He has given us a plant superior to
all that Nature's handiwork had previously produced,--superior in the
elements of commercial value, particularly in a productiveness so far
surpassing that of any of its predecessors as to establish it as the
standard by which every subsequent competitor must be estimated. It has
spread over every section of our vast country, taking kindly to every
variety of soil and climate, covering with its robust foliage many
thousands of acres, producing tens of thousands of bushels of fruit,
crowding our markets with abundant supplies, and producing profits to
its cultivators such as no other strawberry has ever yielded. As a
market berry it was quickly recognized as being unsurpassed, nor have
its numerous modern rivals been yet able to shake its strong hold upon
the public favor. I know--at least my reading has taught me--that there
are multitudes of recent candidates for popularity, claiming to be far
superior to this, all struggling to displace the old-time favorite. I am
unable--here at least--to discuss their several merits, and therefore
dismiss the novelties I have never tried for the great standard which
has been so long approved.
We knew it was by means of this prolific berry that our neighbors, so
disagreeable to us, were making themselves so popular. It was the
variety sold by my widow in the market. Its character as a fruit for the
million being thus established, we adopted it without hesitation.
My agricultural journals told me how many plants were to be put upon an
acre, what were to be the distances apart, when to set them, with other
particulars as to the mode of cultivation. But one of the most important
facts taught me by my little library was that I could set the plants in
the fall as advantageously as in the spring. This would give me a great
start. I learned that in the two last autumn months, the temperature of
the earth being higher than that of the air, the former would act as a
sort of forcing-house, stimulating the growth and expansion of the
roots, so that before winter set in they would become so firmly
established as to be enabled to survive the severest weather, and be
pretty sure to give me quite a handsome crop the succeeding summer.
There was nothing to do, then, but to procure the plants and get them
in. Fred undertook to have the ground broken up and put in complete
order for me,--that is, half an acre. We were not able to spare money
enough to buy more plants, but intended to fill up the other half-acre
from the runners that would be thrown out the following summer. I knew
that our ill-natured neighbors had thrown away more plants than I
needed, which they could have given to me without being themselves any
the poorer. But perhaps I ought not to indulge in reproachful
reminiscences of this kind. Still, it is difficult for one who never
feels a selfish wish to understand how others can be so differently
constituted. If such people would only for once indulge in the luxury of
doing a really kind action, I am inclined to think they would be tempted
into many repetitions of it. But it will be seen that I succeeded in
getting my pets into the ground by depending on myself, letting others
pursue their own way.
The rows were struck out only three feet apart, and the plants were set
a foot asunder in the rows. This was not too close for our little garden
culture, though it may be much too crowded for large fields. I was
anxious to have as much fruit as possible on a small surface, intending
to keep the runners from overspreading the ground. This desire for a
great crop is the common anxiety of most fruit-growers, especially of
beginners, and I think is frequently the cause of those failures that so
often happen to them. My sister and I took a holiday from the factory
and went to planting. My mother also did her full share of the labor.
With such novices, it was of course very slow work, and employed us two
or three days.
Very soon the neighbors stopped, as they were passing the half-latticed
garden-gate, and looked in to see what we were about. This neighborly
curiosity is the most natural thing in the world. One always likes to
know what is going on either next door or in the opposite house. I
confess to a weakness of that sort myself. Hence we took no offence,
even when there was quite a crowd looking in.
When it was ascertained that we were planting strawberries, great
surprise was manifested, and all kinds of remarks were made. Had we been
planting potatoes, it would have been all right, as every family that
had a little patch of ground in that neighborhood raised potatoes,
though they paid no profit, while only one--the Tetchys--cultivated
strawberries, which afforded a very handsome profit. I think it must
have been the novelty of seeing women thus occupied that occasioned much
of the surprise.
Before noon of the first day the whole Tetchy family crowded up to the
gate and stood there a long time observing our movements. Their quick
ears had been among the first to catch the news. They tried the latch,
but Jane had locked the gate, determined that not one of them should
come in. Thus excluded, all they could do was to indulge in a variety of
ill-natured remarks.
"I knew that was what they were after!" said Mrs. Tetchy to her husband,
in a voice that was intended for us to hear.
But we kept our backs to them, taking no notice of what they said.
"Another strawberry-garden, I suppose!" exclaimed the daughter, Miss
Annabella Tetchy, who had not yet had the good luck to change her ugly
name.
"Cream, too, no doubt!" added Tetchy himself, in a tone so insulting
that I thought it unworthy of one calling himself a man.
These provoking taunts continued until the spiteful family appeared to
have either relieved themselves or grown tired of having the cold
shoulder of a profound contempt all the time turned toward them. It was
a very hard thing for me to bear this malicious insolence. I could have
retorted keenly on them by some plain insinuation touching their
iron-tailed cow, of which they probably thought that no one but
themselves had any knowledge. But we preserved our self-respect by
maintaining silence.
These little private vexations were about all that we encountered during
the whole progress of our strawberry-planting. The neighbors, with the
exception of the Tetchys, having no particular interest as to how we got
along or whether we got along at all, very soon ceased to take any
notice of what we were doing. The novelty of the new enterprise died
away as speedily, for the season at least, as if we had been sowing
turnips. Under the fine October weather, the plants quickly took root,
and went on growing so vigorously that some of them even put out an
occasional runner. But these were immediately clipped off, as sure to
impair the vigor of the plant, which could now support no extraneous
offshoots. There were some plants, however, that apparently stood still,
refusing to grow, while others died out entirely. But casualties of this
sort are always to be expected. They occur with old hands at
strawberry-planting, and beginners must not think to escape them.
I felt inexpressibly proud of my achievement. I watched this work of my
own hands so closely, being up and in the garden long before breakfast,
that I think the very shape and position of every plant came to be
imprinted on my memory. I know that I could detect the changes that took
place in the look of each particular pet. I thought of them when
operating the treadle of my sewing-machine at the factory, and I hurried
home more expeditiously than aforetime, to enjoy even the brief autumn
twilight among my strawberries. I sometimes even dreamed of them on my
pillow. Now my agricultural library became far more interesting and
useful than before. I had had a touch of real, actual practice, and
could already understand and appreciate many suggestions which had
heretofore been of doubtful significancy. Thus the long winter came
gradually in, closing up the great volume of vegetable life, but
affording me abundant time for studying that other volume which had so
singularly fallen in my way.
A PAPER OF CANDLE-ENDS.
Who made all the old saws?--not the rusty steel affairs that Patrick and
John ply upon Down-East fire-wood at our back doors,--but those
sharp-pointed, trenchant ones that philosophers love to draw across the
hearts of men, cutting, tearing, grinding away, till the fibre of their
being quivers under the remorseless teeth. Many were forged, we all
know, in the celebrated workshop of W. Shakspeare; other particularly
fine-toothed ones were pointed by a French artisan named Rochefoucauld;
and many more, bright and lucent, are borrowed--reverently be it
spoken!--from that grand arsenal of truth and power built by the hands
of the great holy men of holy times. But who made the many tough old
blades which have a temper that outlives time,--whose rugged points have
never lost a whit of their keenness, after having torn their way through
human bosoms, been hung up and taken down again for centuries, and never
a maker's name upon them?
Going by a little squalid old house, some nights ago, I saw a light in a
ground-floor window; and peeping in,--my name is not Tom, nor was it any
Godiva I was espying, but I could not help a sort of curiosity to see
what that eleven-o'clock light might exhibit,--I saw a pale face, and a
thin, bent form. Soft hair was parted from a white brow, and fell in
ringlets upon a shabby dress. Eyes, that might have shone with
bewitching brilliancy in certain parlors I know of, were sadly and
intently fixed upon the quick-drawn needle which the thin fingers were
assiduously and wearily plying. The light came from a half-burnt
candle.--No, Mrs. Grundy, your friend Asmodeus did not knock nor go in;
but he thought of you, although you were at that moment virtuously
bestowed, with matronly grace, in curtained slumbers. Asmodeus looked,
and beheld, through a hole in the curtain, an old, rusty saw crunching
away across that poor, desolate, weary heart, _Le jeu ne vaut pas la
chandelle_.--"Stop, stop, father!" cries Asmodeus, Jr. "What does that
mean?"--Why, my dear boy, that is the saw which was tearing the poor
woman's heart. The words mean, in plain English, "The play is not worth
the candle." In ancient days folks did not have big glass chandeliers,
all sparkling with gas. The Asmodei of old did not turn up, or down, or
out, the luminaries which bathed them in midnight brilliancy. They
snuffed them. When the old French kings danced minuets with their most
virtuous and respected maids of honor on private stages, they were
enlivened by tallow flames. They had no quarterly bills for so many feet
of light; for they bought it by the pound. When Monsieur Deuse-Ace
rattled the dice or shuffled the cards with Signor Double-Six, he looked
for luck, not at a patent safety-burner, but at the stranger in the
flickering candle-flame. Now sometimes M. Deuse-Ace came out of that
rattling and shuffling with an empty purse, and, when called on to pay
for the tallow, he swore, like a bad man as he was, that the play was
not worth the candle. So I think that famous old saw must have been made
by some unhappy Murad who was unlucky in turning up small numbers or
having dealt to him cards considerably below kings,--though knaves were
his constant companions. But this elegant English, _figlio mio_, may be
more idiomatically rendered, perhaps, in the language of the day,
thus:--It doesn't pay! Paying is the touchstone nowadays to which
everything is brought, from the stock of the great Beaugous Bootjack
Company to the great Rebellion of 1861.
Well, there sat the poor woman,--you see, Mrs. Grundy, that she was no
Godiva, nor I a peeping Tom. My eyesight is good yet,--and I could see
that old saw deep in her sad, trembling bosom. No! that _jeu_ was a bad
one. She had lost her youth, her happiness, her all, on the _tapis
vert_ of human life. It had turned up _noir_ when it should have come
_rouge_, and the candle was to pay for. Do you know what strain of music
came sadly on my ear, and how I felt when I saw that the horrible old
saw was keeping time to it? It was a little song of Hood's. You know it.
Many know it. She knew it, ah, too well! She knew it by heart.
Now candles are stuck in all sorts of sticks: golden branches, silver
arms, brass stands, tin cups, bottles, wooden blocks, potatoes, and
turnips. We all have seen candles and candelabras; and if we don't
employ them as corks for our empty bottles, why, John puts them into the
last new chimney ornament, and we have to pay for them when the play is
over. Skinflint is a nice man,--pious and genteel, a good father,
husband, etc. He made money in that famous Rotten-Iron Company, which
paid the original purchasers cent per cent, and then, some how or other,
passed off from the stock list. He was largely concerned in the
well-known Cheetamall Copper Company, which gave the first block-takers
such a great profit, but has not been quoted lately,--is not worked,
probably. He took a fabulous sum out of that celebrated corner in the
Greenipluck Lead Company. Mr. S. drives his span, goes to Newport in the
summer, is conspicuous at the opera, and loves to see Mrs. S. in
gorgeous array. What more would you have? Does Skinflint ever think his
candle is snuffy or burns dimly? Does he like that great red eye which
gleams out of the flame, as though it foretold an unwelcome guest? Could
it be young Spooney, who was ruined in that Rotten-Iron affair? or his
friend Shallow, who was induced to borrow privately of his employers in
hopes of making a fortune in the Cheetamall Copper; but lost both
fortune and name thereby? Might it be the dying glare of his friend
Needy, who hung himself after the Greenipluck _expose_, which reduced
him to beggary? Or is it the eye of Society which he knows looks on his
span, and his Newport house, and his wife's jewels, with the flash of
contempt? How is it, Mrs. Grundy? which candle is best to sit
beside,--Mr. Skinflint's, or the one you thought shone on a Godiva I was
spying? Do you think S.'s candle is really worth the price?
And there is your friend, Miss Free-manners,--you are shocked that I
mention her name to you, are you? Why, she used to be your childhood's
companion; but since she has taken to gentlemen's society in particular,
you don't notice her, and are struck with virtuous indignation when
Grundy nods to her in the street. Surely Miss F. dresses beautifully and
is handsome as a picture, and is much sought after by gentlemen of
doubtful nicety in the choice of female friends. She leads a jolly life,
certainly; for she rides in an elegant barouche, has nothing to do, no
household cares to vex her, no pork to boil, no potatoes to peel, and
has genuine wax candles in the private boudoir where she receives those
not over-nice gentlemen. What more could feminine heart wish? You don't
know her now. Mrs. Asmodeus, kind-hearted as she is, declines to
recognize her; and even Mr. A. himself does not care to be seen under
circumstances which might imply acquaintance. But what does Miss F. care
for this? She is brilliant, and admired by plenty of people,--such as
they are. And yet do you know that I question whether, at times, when
she sits alone in that boudoir, and thinks how her old friend Mrs.
Grundy gives her the cut direct, how the companions of her innocent
youth all look coldly and sternly on her, how that costly mirror tells
her that her beauty is beginning to fade, the thought of the future does
not come over her like the rasp of an old saw under her white bosom? and
whether she does not ask herself if the play is worth the price of those
real wax candles? and whether they will shed light and cheer upon her as
they burn down, and she might not have been happier with tallow and
purity? Queen Mary must have put some such questions to herself in
Lochleven Castle; and Cleopatra never would have got that serpent for
the purpose she did, without some such thoughts. I imagine that St.
Helena must have known of long and wearisome calculations on the cost of
the game which ended there; and difficult must have been their
reconcilement to the price paid for the brilliant light which there died
out.