[In the Hudson River, nearly opposite Peekskill, and in the very jaws
of the “Race” (as the narrow passage through the Highlands is called),
there is a small, rocky island, by the name of IONA. The name was
borrowed from across the water, by Dr. C. W. Grant’s father-in-law,
who owned this gem,—for gem it was and is for those who love rocks,
glades, fine old trees, and absolute seclusion.
But who ever would have thought of such a place for vineyards? Yet,
Iona became the very Jerusalem of grape-vines. Dr. C. W. Grant,
formerly of Newburgh, purchased the island, and, adopting the then new
grape,—the Delaware,—commenced propagating it for commercial purposes.
It may be fairly said that no man in America ever gave to grape
culture a greater impulse than Dr. Grant. Abundant sales at length
brought in abundant revenues. But his ideas expanded with his means,
and outran them.
The island was to become another Paradise. Here the magnolia was to be
propagated in such numbers that every man in America could have it in
his yard, holding white cups filled with perfume to his windows. The
rhododendron was to be sent forth to every farm. New grapes were
originated. Every year developed its own marvel. But whether it was
pear, Downing’s mulberry, grape, or ornamental tree, the good
democratic heart of Dr. Grant intended no narrower field than the
continent. Men were to be raised to a higher level by familiarity with
better and better grapes. The taste was to be refined. Every creature
under the western heavens was to sit under his own grape-vine, and not
under one alone, but a whole vineyard of them.
Health failed. Business got tangled. The kind doctor sold out. He is
gone from his vineyards. The island remains. One of these days, in the
hands of some one who unites taste and thrift with abundant means, it
will become a marvel of beauty.
But it will hardly have a pleasanter day than when, in 1864, were
gathered there two score or more of ladies and gentlemen,—not a few of
them famous in art, in literature, in music, in pomology, and in
sanguine plans of fruit culture,—for a good time. Among the
contributions to the general amusement, I was appointed Orator to
discourse upon _The Apple_, and the address was to have been
published, together with minutes of the proceedings, other speeches,
and various interesting matter. But years passed on without progress
toward publication. What has become of other things I know not, but
this apple-talk has been fished up and saved. I fear it will never
again be as fresh or as powerful as in its first estate. For there now
hangs upon my cellar wall a huge pan, lacking but a few inches of
three feet in diameter, upon which the ladies who had heard the
address established and perfected an apple-pie,—sent to me for New
Year’s Day of 1865,—of so rare a spirit that every one of the hundreds
who tasted it declared it to be as good as it was large. Alas! the pan
remains, and the poetry which came singing its merits; but the
pie,—where is it? So, too, the island of the Hudson stands secure; but
where are the joyous people that thronged it on that autumn day?]