[Illustration: =THE WILLING CAPTIVE.=
Engraved by W. E. Tucker]
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XLI.. July, 1852. No. 1.
Table of Contents
I’d Offer Thee This Heart
Summer
New York Printing Machine, Press, and Saw Works
Osceola’s Address to His Warriors
The Miseries of Music
Not Dead
The Game of the Month
Sonnet
The Pedant
To Adhemar
My First Sunday in Mexico
Endymion
The Vintage
Light of Nature
The Mother’s Prophecy
“Settling to a Jemima.”
Snow Flakes
A Life of Vicissitudes
My Forefathers
Cleopatra
Reminiscence
To the Picture of My Child
Paqueta
Recollections
The Boy Afar Unto His Sister
Blind Rosa
I Dream of All Things Beautiful
Anecdotes of Ostriches
Impressions of England
The Exile
Review of New Books
Literary Gossip
Graham’s Small-Talk
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
GRAHAM’S
AMERICAN MONTHLY
MAGAZINE
Of Literature and Art.
EMBELLISHED WITH
MEZZOTINT AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, MUSIC, ETC.
WILLIAM C. BRYANT, RICHARD H. DANA, JAMES K. PAULDING,
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, N. P. WILLIS, J. R. LOWELL, HENRY W. HERBERT,
GEO. D. PRENTICE.
MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, MISS C. M. SEDGWICK, MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY,
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY, MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN, ETC.
PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS.
GEORGE R. GRAHAM, EDITOR.
VOLUME XLI.
PHILADELPHIA:
GEORGE R. GRAHAM, 134 CHESTNUT STREET.
1852.
CONTENTS
OF THE
FORTY-FIRST VOLUME.
JUNE, 1852, TO JANUARY, 1853.
A Life of Vicissitudes. By G. P. R. James, 49
Anecdotes of Ostriches, 89
Astronomy. By T. Milner, M.A. 122
Antony and Cleopatra. By H. W. Herbert, 133
Annie Morton. By Amy Harned, 183
Among the Moors. By C. Dickens, 212
Aztec Children. By Australis, 223
A Night in the Dissecting-Room.
By Mrs. Louise Piatt, 245
A Visit. By Fredrika Bremer, 309
Among the Moors, 492
A Day with a Lion, 534
A History of the Art of Wood-Engraving.
By An Amateur Artist, 564
Blind Rosa. Translated by Mary Howitt, 79
Brevia. By James W. Wall, 330
Blind Sight-Seeing. From Household Words, 653
Chaucer and His Times. By T. B. Shaw, 291
Canadian Life. By Mrs. Moody, 430
Clara Gregory, 477
Distribution of the Human Race.
By Thomas Milner, M.A. 233
Fancies from a Garret. By G. Canning Hill, 370
Father Bromley’s Tale. By W. A. Sutliffe, 641
Graham’s Small-Talk, 111, 224
Ganga. By D. Williams, 271
Glimpses of Western Travel, 378
Grace Bartlett. By Mary J. Windle, 613
Hoe’s Machine Works, 7
Hush! Hush! By Donald Macleod, 180
Impressions of England. By Miss Bremer, 98, 200
Influence of Place on Race. By Bon Gaultier, 360
James Logan of Pennsylvania, 496
Literary Gossip, 109
London Coffee-Houses. By C. Dickens, 495
My First Sunday in Mexico. By W. H. Davis, 25
Miss Harper’s Maid, 140
My First Inkling of a Royal Tiger.
By An Old Indian Officer, 215
Mabel Dacre. By Helen, 406
Machinery, for Machine Making.
By H. W. Herbert, 469
Monde Hedelquiver.
By the Author of “Susy L——’s Diary,” 595
Nelly Nowlan on Bloomers. By S. C. Hall, 206
Nine O’Clock, 435
Nelly Nowlan’s Experience. By S. C. Hall, 540
Nineveh, and Assyrian Art, 586
Paqueta. By H. Didimus, 72
Reminiscence, 70
Review of New Books, 106, 220, 333,
443, 547, 663
Rivers. By Thomas Milner, M.A. 454, 574
Settling to a Jemima. By Alice B. Neal, 44
Sporting Adventures in India, 380
Something New About Byron. By Aeldric, 384
Shawls, 488
The Miseries of Music. By Caleb Crotchet, 13
The Game of the Month. By H. W. Herbert, 16, 399, 464
The Pedant. By Henry Holm, 21, 161, 284
The Vintage. By A. B. Reach, 29
The Useful Arts. By Charles Williams, 145
The Harvest of Gold, 168
The Shark and His Habits, 174
The Ranger’s Chase. By J. L. M‘Connel, 187
The Giant’s Causeway, 229
The Academy of Natural Sciences, Philada. 231
The Opium Eater’s Dream, 253
The Tutor’s Daughter. By Mrs. M. A. Ford, 266
The Three Sisters, 300
The Lucky Penny. By Mrs. S. C. Hall, 312, 418, 531,
657
The Countess of Montfort. By H. W. Herbert, 316
The Mysteries of a Flower. By Prof. R. Hunt, 322
Too Much Blue. By Charles Dickens, 325
The Trial by Battle, 327, 425, 527
The Atmosphere and Its Currents.
By Thos. Milner, M.A. 343
The Minister’s Wife. By Ella Rodman, 374
The Autobiography of a Boarding-House.
By Cornelia Carolla, 390
The Mother’s Prophecy.
By Mrs. Julia C. B. Dorr, 35
The Topmost City of the Earth, 659
Useful Arts Among the Greeks and Romans.
By Charles Williams, 497
Ups and Downs. By Thos. R. Newbold, 628
Wellington. By William Dowe, 607
Widows. By Thompson Westcott, 118
Wreck and Ruin, 403
POETRY.
Adieu. By E. A. L. 186
Ambition. By Rufus Waples, 270
Age. By Wm. Alexander, 290
A French Idea. By Bon Gaultier, 112
A Poet’s Thought. By Wm. A. Sutliffe, 315
A Midnight Fantasy. By Wm. A. Sutliffe, 379
Ariadne. By Mrs. E. J. Eames, 398
Ambition’s Burial-Ground.
By Francis De Haes Janvier, 546
Annie. By D. W. Bartlett, 645
Better Days. By Lydia L. A. Very, 662
Cleopatra. By H. W. Herbert, 69
Cydnus. By Wm. Alexander, 205
Endymion. By T. Buchanan Read, 28
Excerpts. By Erastus W. Ellsworth, 243
Fanny Leigh. By Mrs. Toogood, 342
Fragment. By Wm. Albert Sutliffe, 377
Forgotten By C. E. T. 476
Fragment of a Poem. By Wm. A. Sutliffe, 594
Gather Ripe Fruit, O Death! 311
Hymn to the Sun. By Henry W. Herbert, 132
Hesperius. By Wm. Albert Sutliffe, 159
Hymn. By Rev. Dryden S. Phelps, 230
Hours in August. By Mrs. J. H. Thomas, 645
I Dream of All Things Beautiful.
By Miss M. E. Alilson, 88
I know where the Fairies are. By M. Delamaie, 429
Joy Murmurs in the Ocean. By C. H. Stewart, 308
Light of Nature. By Wm. Alexander, 34
Life’s Battle March. By Mrs. J. H. Thomas, 167
Lines. By Mrs. E. L. Cushing, 173
Lay of the Crusader. By W. H. C. Hosmer, 308
Le Petit Savoyard. By William Dowe, 405
My Forefathers. By J. Hunt, Jr. 68
Midsummer Days, 117
Memory’s Consolation. By W. W. Harney, 283
Meditations on the Last Judgment.
By Erastus W. Ellsworth, 424
Mutability. By Wm. Alexander, 545
Not Dead. By L. L. M. 15
November. By Mrs. Julia C. R. Dorr, 545
Oceola’s Address to His Warriors.
By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 12
Oh, Would I Were a Child! By M. Delamaie, 244
Peace. By Wm. Alexander, 383
Pale Concluding Winter. By A. B. Street, 563
Recollections. By Miss Mattie Griffiths, 77
Remembered Ones. By J. Hunt, Jr. 463
Summer, 5
Sonnet. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 20
Snow Flakes. By Mrs. L. G. Abell, 48
Seminole War-Song. By W. H. C. Hosmer, 172
Stability. By J. Hunt, Jr. 172
Sonnet.—Virtue. By Wm. Alexander, 173
Song. By O. J. Victor, 270
Song. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 369
Sonnets. By E. Anna Lewis, 510
Sonnet.—Iron. By Wm. Alexander, 585
Sonnet.—Homer. By Wm. Alexander, 612
Sonnet. By Caroline F. Orne, 627
To Adhemar. By E. Anna Lewis, 24
To the Picture of My Child. By Meta Lander, 71
The Boy Afar Unto His Sister. By Lil. May, 78
The Exile. By Caroline F. Orne, 105
The Two Birds. By Geo. H. Boker, 139
To a Whip-Poor-Will Singing in a Grave-yard.
By E. Anna Lewis, 158
The Fountain of Youth. By A. G. H. 179
The Old Man’s Evening Thoughts. By F. G. 214
The Dead at Thermopylæ. By H. W. Herbert, 252
The World Conqueror. By Mrs. E. J. Eames, 311
To Mary. By Matthias Ward, 315
To —— ——. By Mrs. J. C. R. Dorr, 326
To the Redbreast, 341
The Comet. By Wm. Alexander, 369
The Last Hour of Sappho. By E. A. Lewis, 433
The Cottage Door, 453
The Song-Stream. By Ellen More, 468
To My Cigar. By Charles Albert Janvier, 526
Virginia Dare. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, 442
Whatever He Doeth Shall Prosper.
By Mrs. Mary Arthur, 144
We Laid Her Down to Rest. By C. C. Butler, 283
Wild Roses by the River Grow. By Car. F. Orne, 468
Were I but with Thee. By C. F. Orne, 585
Yesterday—To-day—To-morrow! By C. D. Gardette, M.D. 211
Zulma. By Mrs. Julia C. R. Dorr, 389
REVIEWS.
Lilian, and Other Poems. By W. M. Praed, 106
The Howadji in Syria. By G. W. Curtis, 106
Papers from the Quarterly Review, 220
Ingoldsby Legends. By Rev. R. H. Barhaw, 221
The Blithedale Romance. By N. Hawthorne, 333
The History of the Restoration of Monarchy in
France. By Alphonse de Lamartine, 334
Up the Rhine. By Thomas Hood, 335
A Step from the New World to the Old and Back
Again. By Henry P. Tappan, 335
The Poetical Works of Fitz Greene Halleck, 443
Mysteries. By Charles Wyllys Elliott, 444
The Works of Shakspeare. By H. N. Hudson, 444
The Book of Snobs. By Wm. M. Thackeray, 445
The Upper Ten Thousand. By C. A. Bristed, 547
The Heirs of Randolph Abbey, 549
Anglo-American Literature and Manners.
By Philarète Chasles, 552
Precaution. By J. Fenimore Cooper, 553
The Master Builder. By D. Kellog Lee, 553
Personal Memoirs and Recollections of Editorial
Life.
By Joseph T. Buckingham, 554
Reuben Medlicott. By M. W. Savage, 663
The Eclipse of Faith, 663
MUSIC.
I’d Offer Thee This Heart.
Composed by Valentine Dister, 2
Departed Joys. From the Melodies
of Sir H. R. Bishop, 114
Our Way Across the Sea, 226
Derwentwater, 338
The Dreams of Youth. Words by C. Mackay.
Accompaniment by Sir H. R. Bishop, 450
* * * * *
[Illustration: =STORM ON THE SEABOARD.=]
* * * * *
[Illustration: I’D OFFER THEE THIS HEART.]
=I’D OFFER THEE THIS HEART.=
=COMPOSED BY VALENTINE DISTER.=
Presented by LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
[Illustration]
I’d offer thee this heart of mine,
If I could love thee less,
But hearts as warm and pure as thine,
Should never know dis-
[Illustration]
tress.
My fortune is too hard for thee,
’Twould chill thy dearest joy .......
I’d rather weep to see thee free,
Than win thee to destroy ..............
Than win thee to destroy.
I leave thee to thy happiness,
As one too near to love—
As one I’ll think of but to bless,
While wretchedly I rove;
And oh! when sorrow’s cup I drink,
All bitter though it be;
How sweet to me ’twill be to think
It holds no drop for thee.
Then fare thee well! an exile now,
Without a friend or home;
With anguish written on my brow
About the world I roam;
For all my dreams of bliss are o’er—
Fate bade them all depart—
And I must leave my native shore
In brokenness of heart.
* * * * *
[Illustration: =THE VINTAGE.= (See page 29.)]
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
* * * * *
Vol. XLI. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1852. No. 1.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
=SUMMER.=
Summer is here, and her whole world of wealth is spread out before us in
prodigal array. “The woods and groves have darkened and thickened into
one impervious mass of sober, uniform green; and having, for a while,
ceased to exercise the more active functions of the Spring, are resting
from their labors in that state of ‘wise passiveness’ which we, in
virtue of our infinitely greater wisdom, know so little how to enjoy. In
Winter the trees may be supposed to sleep in a state of insensible
inactivity, and in Spring to be laboring with the flood of new life that
is pressing through their veins, and forcing them to perform the offices
attached to their existence. But in Summer, having reached the middle
term of their annual life, they pause in their appointed course, and
then, if ever, taste the nourishment they take in, and ‘enjoy the air
they breathe.’ And he who, sitting in Summer time beneath the shade of a
spreading tree, can see its branches fan the soft breeze as it passes,
and hear its polished leaves whisper and twitter to each other like
birds at love-making, and yet can feel any thing like an assurance that
it does not enjoy its existence, knows little of the tenure by which he
holds his own.”
The animal creation seem oppressed with languor during this hot season,
and either seek the recesses of woods, or resort to pools and streams,
to cool their bodies and quench their thirst.
[Illustration]
On the grassy bank
Some ruminating lie; while others stand
Half in the flood, and, often bending, sip
The circling surface. In the middle droops
The strong, laborious ox, of honest front,
Which incomposed he shakes; and from his sides
The troublous insects lashes with his tail,
Returning still. Amid his subjects safe
Slumbers the monarch swain; his careless arm
Thrown round his head on downy moss sustained,
Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands filled,
There, listening every noise, his watchful dog.
Thomson.
Notwithstanding the heat has parched the songsters of the grove into
silence, there is still an audible music in nature—
The gnats
Their murmuring small trumpets sounden wide.
Spenser.
And John Keats points to another source of melody—
The poetry of earth is never dead;
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the grasshopper’s.
The insect tribe, however, are peculiarly active and vigorous in the
hottest weather. These minute creatures are, for the most part, annual,
being hatched in the Spring, and dying at the approach of Winter: they
have therefore no time to lose in indolence, but must make the most of
their short existence; especially as their most perfect state continues
only during a part of their lives. How appropriately may Anacreon’s
celebrated address to the Cicada be applied to many of the happy
creatures which sport in the sunshine—
Blissful insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning’s sweetest wine;
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy fragrant cup does fill,
All the fields that thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee;
All that Summer hours produce,
Fertile made with ripening juice;
Man for thee does sow and plough,
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thee the hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
To thee alone of all the earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth:
Happy creature! happy thou,
Dost neither age nor winter know,
But when thou’st drank, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flow’ry leaves among,
Sated with the glorious feast,
Thou retir’st to endless rest.
Now is to be enjoyed in all its luxury the delightful amusement of
bathing; and happy is the swimmer, who alone is able to enjoy the full
pleasure of this healthful exercise. The power of habit to improve the
natural faculties is in nothing more apparent than in the art of
swimming. Man, without practice, is utterly unable to support himself in
the water. Thomson finely describes this delightful recreation—
The sprightly youth
Speeds to the well-known pool, whose crystal depth
A sandy bottom shows. Awhile he stands
Gazing the inverted landscape, half afraid
To meditate the blue profound below;
Then plunges headlong down the circling flood.
His ebon tresses, and his rosy cheek
Instant emerge; and through the obedient wave,
At each short breathing by his lip repelled,
With arms and legs according well, he makes,
As humor leads, an easy-winding path;
While, from his polished sides, a dewy light
Effuses on the pleased spectators round.
* * * * *
=NEW YORK PRINTING MACHINE, PRESS, AND SAW WORKS.=
=R. HOE & CO.=
(_Concluded from page 576._)
[Illustration: =HAND-PRESS MAKING.=]
We come now to the hand-press room, to which the several portions of the
various forms of hand presses are brought, as finished in their separate
details, from the various other rooms, and put together perfectly, so
that hence they are fitted to be sent to their places of destination,
and are ready to go into instant operation.
Here we find the new improved job printing machine, which is known as
the little jobber. This press combines the advantages of speed and
durability with convenience, simplicity and cheapness. It is capable of
throwing off 2500 impressions per hour with ease, or more, if the
feed-boy can supply the sheets, and may even be driven by the foot with
a treadle, and works so still, that a person standing a few feet from
it, cannot hear it. The manner of running the bed is entirely original
and is done by means of a crank and lever, which gives it a slow and
uniform motion while the impression is being taken, but a quick
retrograde movement, thus combining a slow impression with speed.
Another new feature of the press is, that the sheet-flyer is so
arranged, that no tapes pass around the impression cylinder, so that
whatever sized form is worked, there are neither tapes nor fingers to
shift, thus obviating the only objection to that apparatus for a jobbing
press. It has an iron feed and fly-board, and all our recent
improvements, such as an adjustable knife to the fountain, bearers for
the bed, patent feed-guides, etc. etc. The bed is 16×13 inches inside of
bearers, and 18×13 inches without bearers. The press occupies 5 feet by
3 feet. Price $600.
We have also the Washington and Smith hand-presses, which are generally
used for country newspaper printing, and which have obtained so much
celebrity, and are in such exclusive and constant use in almost every
printing office in the United States and other countries, during the
last twenty years, as to render any remarks upon their superiority
unnecessary. They are elegant in appearance, simple, quick and powerful
in operation, and combine every facility for the production of superior
printing. Each press is tried in the manufactory and warranted for one
year.
Here again we have the type-revolving book press, in which, as in the
great fast printing type-revolving machine, the forms of type are
fastened on a portion of the circumference of a large, horizontal
cylinder, the remainder of which, slightly depressed below the types, is
used as a distributor to supply the ink which it brings up from the
fountain to the inking rollers which revolve against the types, against
which again revolve the other cylinders, more or less in number, in an
opposite direction to the rotatory action of the type-revolving
cylinder, to which the sheets are fed, and from which they are taken up
and thrown off in regular piles by self-acting flyers.
Inking machines, card-printing presses, hand-lever printing presses,
proof presses, copperplate and lithographic presses, are all turned out
from this department in that perfection which has obtained for the
Messrs. Hoe a celebrity really world-wide, and caused their names to be
known and their improvements adopted in almost every country of the
world, and that, too, through no blind accident of fortune, but by dint
of real superiority and merit. In proof of this, it will be necessary
only to state that hand-presses of this establishment are at this moment
in successful operation in Canada, the British Provinces, Cuba,
Calcutta, Mexico, Bengal, nay, even in unimproving, stationary China,
where they were introduced during the visit to that strange country of
Mr. Cutting, as United States Commissioner.
Attached to the hand-press room is a small chamber appropriated to the
safe-keeping, sharpening and ordering all the drills and edge tools of
the department, under the care of one person, who is answerable for the
safeguard and efficiency of the whole.
[Illustration: =LARGE FAST PRESS BUILDING.=]
From thence we proceed to the shops on two stories, which have been
thrown together, for the perfecting of the vast and wonderful
fast-printing machine, by the removal of the ceiling, in order to make
room for the great and complicated mass of moving cylinders, and to give
space for the operations of the numerous artisans employed upon it.
The machine now in building, is one of six cylinders, for the use of the
New York Herald, which now drives one of four cylinders, and is the same
in almost every respect as that of the Tribune, being made with wide
cylinders for the printing of double sheets; while that of the Sun, with
eight cylinders, is suitable only for the smaller folios of that
journal. With regard to this machine, as we shall notice it more fully
when we come to speak of it as in operation, we shall say no more in
this place except that it is the head and front of all the wonderful
inventions and improvements which now enable journals to be furnished to
the world at prices merely nominal, their vast and unheard of
circulation compensating their moderate prices, and producing in the
gross, a highly remunerative profit.
The six cylinder press is calculated to throw off twenty-five hundred
copies to each cylinder, fed by one man, or an aggregate of fifteen
thousand in the single hour. The four cylinder press now in operation in
the light and beautiful vault of the Herald, has done even more than at
this ratio, having, when pressed, actually thrown off twelve thousand
copies in one hour. These presses were first introduced by the Messrs.
Hoe only some five or six years ago; and their utmost calculation, as to
the probable number which they should ever be called upon to
manufacture, was five and twenty, but so marvelously has the demand
exceeded their wildest imaginations that they have already built
sixteen, one of which is, as we observed heretofore, in operation for La
Patrie, the French government organ; and three more are ordered, and in
progress of formation.
About four months is required for the erection of one of these splendid
machines, or if extraordinary exertions be used, even a shorter time.
It is a pregnant fact, and one singularly corroborative of the soundness
of the writer’s view, as expressed in the early portion of this article
relative to the effect of machinery in increasing rather than
diminishing the number of hands employed, or likely to be employed, in
the business of printing, in consequence of the daily augmenting demand
for printed matter arising from its cheapness and perfection—that,
since the introduction of the fast-printing machines the call for hand
presses has greatly increased. During the past year, the sale of this
article alone, by the Messrs. Hoe, rose to so many as five a week during
the whole twelve months; in all amounting to two hundred and sixty,
besides all the other instruments and appliances of the printers’ and
bookbinders’ professions.
After this, completing the press making department, we come to the
cylinder press rooms, occupying one entire flat of the building, in
which we find the patent improved double cylinder, the single small
cylinder, and the single large cylinder printing machines, in every
state of progress from their very inception to absolute perfection.
These machines are so excellently and clearly described in the Messrs.
Hoe’s illustrated catalogue, beautifully got up for the use of their
customers, that we cannot do better than extract their words as more
plain and comprehensible than any we could readily substitute for them,
we therefore give them as below, without doubt or hesitation:
“The Double Cylinder Printing Machine. In its arrangement this press is
similar to the Single _Small_ Cylinder Machine; except that it has two
impression cylinders each alternately giving an impression from the same
form. The sheets are supplied by two attendants, and, if required to
print short editions of various sizes, it will be necessary to have a
boy at each end of the press to receive the printed sheets, but where
large editions or forms of uniform size are worked, not requiring
frequent changes of the tape-wheels, the self-sheet-flying apparatus is
very efficient and economical, placing the printed sheets in heaps with
precision, and dispensing entirely with the two boys otherwise required
for that purpose.
“The large amount of printing ordinarily done on these presses, and the
consequent speed required, have rendered necessary greatly increased
strength and weight of material in all the parts, together with
simplicity in the mechanical arrangements, and the utmost perfection of
workmanship. The noise and annoyance occasioned by the concussion of the
bed against the springs, which are placed at each end of the machine to
overcome the momentum of the bed, has been removed by means of
adjustable India rubber buffers placed at the points of contact, which
in no way interfere with the lively and certain action of the spiral
springs.
“Each Machine is furnished with Roller Moulds, two sets of Roller
Stocks, Blankets and Band; also, Fly Wheel and Stand, if to be driven by
_hand_ power; or Counter Shaft, two hangers and Pulley, if by _steam_
power.
“The Patent Single Small Cylinder Printing Machine. In this press the
form of types is placed upon a flat bed, and the impression taken upon
the paper by means of a cylinder, while the form is passing under it.
The small size of the cylinder allows the machine to be constructed in a
very compact manner, so as to shorten the distance which the bed
travels, thereby considerably increasing the number of impressions in a
given time, beyond the single _large_ cylinder press.
“The machine is of convenient height for use. One person only is
required to feed down the paper, whose position is but a step from the
floor. It will give from 2,000 to 3,000 impressions per hour, with
perfect safety to the machinery. The printed sheets are thrown out by a
fly frame in a uniform pile. Register sufficiently accurate for
newspaper and job work is obtained by the patent feed guides, which are
attached to each press. When required, a registering or pointing
apparatus is furnished, and the press may then be used advantageously
for book work.
[Illustration: =CARPENTER’S SHOP.=]
“This press is made in the same substantial manner as the _double_
cylinder press described above, with buffers similarly arranged to
prevent noise.
“When driven by _steam_ power, No. 8 occupies 8 feet by 12 feet. If by
_man_ power, requiring fly wheel and stand, it occupies 8 feet by 16
feet.
“Each Machine is furnished with Roller Moulds, two sets of Roller
Stocks, Blankets and Band; also, Fly Wheel and Stand, if to be driven by
_hand_ power; or Counter Shaft, two Hangers and Pulley if by _steam_
power.
“The patent single large cylinder printing machine. This machine is
particularly adapted to book and fine newspaper work. It has a perfect
registering apparatus and sheet-flyer; also adjustable iron bearers, so
that stereotype may be worked with the same facility and beauty as type
forms. One boy is required to lay on the sheets, and the press may be
driven by man or steam-power. With the same attendance, it will print
twice as fast as any bed and platen machine, and equally as well in
every respect; say from 1,000 to 2,000 impressions in an hour, according
to the size of the press, and the quality of the work desired.
Vulcanized India rubber impression-cloth for these presses is now
furnished; and as it is not readily indented by the type, forms of
different sizes may be worked without any change of blankets. Overlays
are conveniently made on the rubber, and may be removed by a wet sponge.
To prevent noise, buffers are applied as in the double cylinder
machine.”
An artist’s drawing-room completes this department. And, in a separate
building—to which no form of fire is ever admitted, unless it be in the
chance visit of the watchman’s lantern to the premises, which, like all
the other parts of the establishment, are equally and agreeably tempered
by warm air, and which, unlike all the other rooms, are bright, clean,
lively-looking apartments, and exhale a delicious fragrance of fresh-cut
wood and cedar-shavings, are the carpenter’s-shops, in which every
species of wooden work requisite to the printers’, binders’, and
booksellers’ trades is prepared, among which are included neatly
finished pairs of type-cases, turned out at the rate of fifty pair every
week, printer’s desks, and all the other requisites of the printing
office.
[Illustration: =PATTERN ROOM.=]
Here is also the pattern-room, where, by dint of self-acting drills,
saws, planes, and the like, wooden patterns are manufactured from the
neat and accurate designs of the drafting-rooms, of every portion of the
machinery used, in accordance to and close imitation of which the
castings, forgings, and finishing of all the work is accomplished to
perfection.
With this department, the survey of the Broome street manufactories and
saw-works is terminated. The Gold street establishment is principally
applied to the storing and exhibition of all the various articles coming
under the head of letter-press, compositors’, warehouse, welting, and
bookbinders’-tools departments—and here is kept ready, at a moment’s
notice, a large assortment of hand-presses, copying-presses, ruling,
cutting, and piercing machines, in great variety and equal excellence,
of all prices. In this building, moreover, are manufactured the
beautiful and excellent vertical steam-engines from five horse-power, 6
inch cylinders, and 10 inch stroke, up to fifteen horse-power, 11 inch
cylinders, and 22 inch stroke, the largest of which are in use in the
Herald, Tribune, and Sun offices, for putting in motion the large fast
printing machines, by which those largely circulated journals are thrown
off daily in huge editions with unparalleled rapidity. Here also are
built the portable steam-engines from 3 to 4 horse-power, with vertical
tubular boilers; and the hydrostatic presses, for the finishing of
printed sheets, which have come into so general and wide a field of
operation within the last few years.
The following is a correct and beautifully finished representation of
the great fast printing eight-cylinder machine in the vault of the Sun
office in full operation; without which the end and object of this paper
would be incomplete.
This immense printing machine is 33 feet long, 14 feet 8 inches high,
and 6 feet wide. It has one large central cylinder, on which the type is
secured, and eight smaller cylinders arranged around it, at convenient
distances. Eight persons supply the eight small cylinders with the
sheets, and at each revolution of the large cylinder eight impressions
are given off, the sheets being delivered in neat order by the machine
itself. The limit to the speed is in the ability of the eight persons to
supply the sheets. At the rate of 2,500 sheets to each, the press would
give off the unparalleled number of 20,000 printed impressions per hour.
The press is used exclusively for newspapers, or similar printing.
[Illustration: =LARGE FAST PRINTING PRESS.=]
The principles and operation of this wonderful invention are thus
conclusively and laconically described in Messrs. Hoes catalogue
mentioned above, which we annex, without alteration, for reasons
heretofore assigned, and to which we can add nothing beyond the
expression of our sincere and earnest admiration.
“A horizontal cylinder of about four and a half feet in diameter, is
mounted on a shaft, with appropriate bearings; about one-fourth of the
circumference of this cylinder constitutes the bed of the press, which
is adapted to receive the form of types—the remainder is used as a
cylindrical distributing table. The diameter of the cylinder is less
than that of the form of types, in order that the distributing portion
of it may pass the impression cylinders without touching. The ink is
contained in a fountain placed beneath the large cylinder, from which it
is taken by a ducter roller, and transferred by a vibrating,
distributing roller to the cylindrical distributing table; the fountain
roller receives a slow and continuous rotary motion, to carry up the ink
from the fountain.
“The large cylinder being put in motion, the form of types thereon,
is—in succession—carried to four or more corresponding, horizontal,
impression cylinders, arranged at proper distances around it, to give
the impression to four or more sheets, introduced one by each impression
cylinder. The fly and feed-boards of two of the impression cylinders are
similar to those on the well-known double cylinder press; on the other
two, the sheet is fed in below and thrown out above. The sheets are
taken directly from the feed-board, by iron fingers attached to each
impression cylinder. Between each two of the impression cylinders there
are two inking rollers, which vibrate on the distributing surface while
taking a supply of ink, and—at the proper time—are caused to rise by a
cam, so as to pass over the form, when they again fall to the
distributing surface. Each page is locked up upon a detached segment of
the large cylinder, called by the compositors a “turtle,” and this
constitutes the bed and chase. The column rules run parallel with the
shafts of the cylinder, and are consequently straight, while the head,
advertising, and dash rules, are in the form of segments of a circle. A
cross section of the column rules would present the form of a wedge,
with the small end pointing to the centre of the cylinder, so as to bind
the types near the top; for the types being parallel, instead of
radiating from the centre, it is obvious that if the column rules were
also parallel, they must stand apart at the top, no matter how tight
they were pressed together at the base; but with these wedge-shaped
column rules, which are held down to the bed or “turtle,” by tongues,
projecting at intervals along their length, and sliding in rebated
grooves cut cross-wise in the face of the bed, the space in the grooves
between the column rules, being filled with sliding blocks of metal,
accurately fitted, the outer surface level with the surface of the bed,
the ends next the column rules being cut away underneath to receive a
projection on the sides of the tongues, and screws at the end and side
of each page to lock them together, the types are as secure on this
cylinder as they can be on the old flat bed.
“The cut represents a press with eight impression cylinders, capable of
printing from 16,000 to 20,000 impressions per hour. Eight persons are
required to feed in the sheets, which are thrown out and laid in heaps
by self-acting flyers, as in our ordinary cylinder presses.”
Two of these presses, of completest power and finish, have, we
understand, been ordered for the printing of the Public Ledger of
Philadelphia, a penny paper of the widest circulation, and of as
efficient usefulness as any journal in the United States.
For the past three years the Messrs. Hoe & Co. have maintained, at their
own expense, an evening school for the instruction of their apprentices
and employees, in Mathematics, the Exact Sciences, Mechanical Drawing,
the French and English Languages, etc. Every one of their many
apprentices is required to give a punctual attendance at the school,
which is also open to such adult members of the establishment as choose
to attend. Two teachers, Messrs. O’Gorman and Dick, are regularly
employed, and Prof. Hyatt has just closed the winter term with a course
of lectures on Experimental Philosophy. They were attended by nearly all
the workmen as well as the apprentices. We mention these facts because
we consider them worthy of being imitated by other large employers of
laboring men.
We have scarcely words in which to convey our respect and admiration for
the genius, skill, enterprise, energy and perseverance by which those
intelligent and able young men have attained to their present high and
enviable position; and by which they have placed the American press—so
far as the perfection of time-gaining, and labor-saving machinery, and
the attainment of facility, precision, certainty and punctuality are
concerned, far ahead of that of any other country in the world.
We regret that the conductors of some of the leading journals do not
exert as beneficial a course in the employment of the highest grades of
intellectual capacity in the preparation of their leaders, and as
earnest a resolution to perfect the tone of their presses, by the
suppression of all scandals, libels, falsehoods, and sophistries; by the
dissemination of truths, whole truths, and nothing but truths; in the
discouragement of all license and licentiousness; in the promotion and
propagation of all humane charities, justice, benevolence, morality, and
virtue, of art and science, literature and learning, as the Messrs. Hoe
have displayed in the perfectionating the material portion of the
department.
Then we should have a public press equal to the requirements, moral,
intellectual and physical, and worthy of the name of a people, which is
ever proud to array itself in the first rank of the human race, as
regards general education, intellectual capacity, and the diffusion of
knowledge among all classes; and which, beyond a doubt, does actually
number more readers, in proportion to the amount of its population, than
any other country in the universe.
To conclude: it has been said, that the greatest benefactor of the human
race is he who causes two blades of grass to grow where but one grew
before: but to our eyes, he seems a greater benefactor—inasmuch as the
intellectual are loftier and nobler than the physical wants of man—who
causes ten—we might better say ten thousand, good and wise books—ten
thousand copies of the Holy Gospel to be circulated among the people,
where but one was circulated before.
And, of a truth, we know none to whom the above high praise is more
justly applicable than to the inventors and owners of the Fast Printing
Power-Press. Fortune and Fame attend them.
* * * * *
=OSCEOLA’S ADDRESS TO HIS WARRIORS.=
=BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.=
Our women leave in fear
Their lodges in the shade,
And the dread notes of fray go up
From swamp and everglade.
From ancient coverts scared,
Fly doe and bleating fawn,
While the pale robber beats his drum—
On, to the conflict on!
Shall tomahawk and spear
Be dark with peaceful rust,
While blood is on the funeral mound
That holds ancestral dust?
No! fiercely from its sheath
Let the keen knife be drawn,
And the dread rifle charged with death—
On, to the conflict on!
The ground our fathers trod,
Free as the wind, is ours;
And the red cloud of war shall soak
The land with crimson showers.
Upon our tribe enslaved
Bright morn shall never dawn,
While arm can strike and weapon pierce—
On, to the conflict on!
* * * * *
=THE MISERIES OF MUSIC.=
=BY CALEB CROTCHET.=
[Illustration]
I am the victim of a fine ear. Talk of the miseries of the halt, the
lame and the blind! Their condition is that of celestial beatitude as
compared with mine; and as for the deaf and dumb, they must be the
happiest mortals alive. They can neither inflict nor suffer the miseries
of sound. Blessing and blessed, how shall I contrive to gain admission
to their happy brotherhood?
Music has been the bane of my existence. My ear—the asinine organ that
has since so extravagantly developed itself—was early noticed by a
maiden aunt, and my first recollection is of her look of bland
satisfaction as, with a shrill, little, piping, three-year-old voice, I
edified an audience of spinsters, around a quilting-frame, with the
strains of “Bonnie Doon.” Heaven pardon my poor old aunt for the
wickedness of thus early encouraging a passion that has led to so many
sins of temper, and, perhaps, to so many unuttered, but deep felt
outrages upon her memory!
I shall not go over the years of probation that elapsed from these first
exhibitions of infantile vocalization, to the period of my perfect
development as a young gentleman of acknowledged taste and talent, and
my introduction, as a full-fledged connoisseur into the fashionable
circles of ——.
My passion for music clung to me. I had become learned in the science.
If I walked of a warm evening with a young lady, it was, as I expressed
it in upstart pedantry, in an _andante movement_. Slow and fast both
became decidedly low terms, and I could only condescend to say in place
of them, _adagio_ and _allegretto_. I had all the Italian musical terms,
as contained in the elementary treatises, at my tongue’s end, and, in a
practical, common sense community, would have been written down the ass
that I really was, for the ridiculous and constant use I made of them.
But in —— there was a fine field for my learned talk, and the
obscurity and nonsense of my conversation got me up a reputation for
musical science which at first flattered me, and engendered a vanity for
which I have since suffered severe retribution.
The nine days allowed for opening the eyes of young puppies having
elapsed, mine were opened to a sense of my folly, and I by degrees broke
myself of the habit I had adopted.
At the period of my entrée into the society of ——, music was the great
and leading idea. A religious and moral cycle had succeeded to a
dissipated and drinking cycle, and dancing, wine, etc., being excluded
from the leading houses, music was the only resource. At once I became a
lion.
“How beautifully Mr. Crotchet plays!” “Emma, my dear, come and look on;
I want you to study Mr. Crotchet’s exquisite touch!” “Oh, how sweet!”
These and kindred sounds issued from the lips of the witches in curls,
lace and artificials, who gathered around me as I sat at Mrs. Flambeau’s
piano, on the occasion of her first _soirée_. It was my debut, and is
therefore memorable. I was playing a _sonata_ of Beethoven’s, which I
soon found none of them comprehended. I thought of “pearls before
swine,” but went on, working out the mysteries and the meaning of the
composition for my own gratification.
The witches, at the close, seemed rather weary, and could do little but
simper and say “beautiful,” but the chief of them, one Madame Hecate, to
whom tradition attached French parentage and critical taste, approached
me and said—
“Pray, Monsieur Crotchet, (she always spoke with a French accent to
strangers) do you play the Battle of Prague?”
I can recollect nothing but an emphatic “No, madam”—a feeling as of a
pail of iced water pouring down my back—a confused breaking up of the
circle around the piano—a fruitless search for a glass of wine—a
_prestissimo_ movement to the entry—a successful search for my hat—a
rush to the street, and as I shut the door, the martial strains of the
Battle of Prague, drummed out by a more complaisant amateur than myself,
for the benefit of Madame Hecate.
Oh, that Battle of Prague! Who shall ever pretend to give its official
bulletin? Who shall describe the cries of the wounded and the groans of
the dying, elicited from its auditors as it has been “fought o’er again”
on countless pianos? Its victims are legion. Its progress is
remorseless. It goes on and will go on to the end of time, murdering the
peace of mind of every luckless owner of an ear such as mine. Its
composer—if the writer of such a disturbing work can be called a
composer—must have been possessed of an evil spirit from the fatal
battle-field, condemned to roam this earth for the torment of the race,
and seeking retribution for his own victimization by victimizing all
that come after him.
My next essay of the musical life of the city, was at a _soirée_ of
Professor Millefiori, the fashionable Italian vocal teacher—a sort of
compromise, in appearance, between a Paris _petit maître_ and an
American Figaro. His pupils were all to sing, and by the courtesy
usually extended to amateurs, I was invited.
The first piece announced for the evening’s entertainment was _Casta
Diva_. Of course it was. Was there ever an amateur _soirée_ that it was
not the first piece?
At the appointed time, a young lady of sixteen summers, with very bare
neck and arms, hair done up in curls and furbelows by a French
_coiffeur_, hands in white kid gloves, a variety of her mother’s jewels
on head, hands and breast, a little pug of a nose beneath two very
innocent-looking eyes, and, as was said, a splendid _soprano_ voice,
stood up by the professor’s piano to personate the Druid priestess.
“_Ca-ha-ha-hasta Dee-e-evar_,” she began, emphasizing each division of
the words, and screaming them out as if she really thought she could
make the _Casta Diva_—the moon—hear her vociferous appeal, and paying
no regard to the fact that the chaste goddess was, at that particular
time, enlightening the other side of the globe.
The whole of the _andante_ was in this scream, which threw the audience
into ecstasies. Then she began, “_Ah bello, a me ritorna._” How she
dashed through it—leaping over bars with a racer’s agility, plunging
through barriers and ditches of sound—up hill and down hill—over
ledger lines and under them—helter skelter—chromatics and
ecstatics—flats and sharps—screech and scream—over and over—with
face hideously distorted, the veins and muscles of her neck swelled to
bursting, while Millefiori’s hands kept thundering at the piano and
urging her on to louder labors.
Shade of Bellini! was there not one of your chords to stop the throat
uttering these musical blasphemies?
At last she ended, amid a tumult of applause, for which she gave one of
Monsieur Petitpas’ most graceful courtesies, bowing so as to show
Monsieur Chevelure’s handiwork upon her head-works in the most effective
manner.
She was followed by a dozen or more of soprani, mezzo-soprani,
contralti, baritoni and bassi, of whose performances I have but a dim,
obscure recollection as of so many contests for the palm of superior
noise; all of them being exhibited in the tremendous screaming and
shouting pieces of the modern Italians.
This was my last amateur soirée—and let me whisper a warning word to
the world that remains behind me—“Beware of amateur soirées!”
But my musical sufferings did not end here. The noises of the streets
are agony to me. The oyster and the apple-men; the strawberry and the
shad-women—what are they to me but so many liberated fiends, placed on
earth to persecute the owners of ears! And as for the news-boys—but I
will not recapitulate my sufferings from them.
I have for some time been engaged in projects for the correction of
these street evils. I leave in my executor’s hands the manuscript of the
“Shad-woman’s Complete Musical Instructor,” “The Oysterman’s Apollo,”
and “The News-Boys’ Guide to Parnassus.” In these I have arranged to the
most beautiful melodies, the common cries of “Buy any Shad!” “Ho, fresh
Oysters!” “Herald, Tribune, Ledgee, Ledgee,” “Evening Bulletin,” and the
other favorite appeals of these as yet unappeased street demons. A
variety of melodies is given to each phrase, and beautiful variations
are arranged in the “Guide to Parnassus,” for extras, double-sheets,
etc., with a special and elaborate composition arranged expressly for
the familiar words, “Another Revolution in France!”
I shall not live to enjoy the fruits of my labors. But I shall die
happy, since I have just learned that the Legislature is disposed to
treat favorably my projected “Institution for the Musical Education of
News Boys.”
As yet I endure more than the torments of the rack, whenever I venture
out of doors; and even within doors, it is scarcely better. When I come
in, with ears aching from the hideous cries of the street, to pore over
the score of a new opera just received from Italy, how am I to provide a
remedy for my home miseries?
The “quiet street” which I selected for its retirement, is infested with
organ-grinders, who reap a daily harvest among the infantile population
for which quiet streets are remarkable. My landlady—worthy Mrs.
Squall—has six little Squallets, who delight in hand-organs, and who
interrupt my musical waking-dreams of the twilight hour, every day, with
appeals for sixpence to give “the new organ-grinder, with his sweet
little monkey.”
Since I came into these quarters, a youth, with a pale face and a letter
of introduction to recommend him to me, has established himself in the
room above me. He has taken to flute-playing! His design is either
suicide or murder; and unless the first soon takes place, and his brains
are blown out through his instrument, I feel that murder will be the
result, and myself the victim.
Across the way dwells a practitioner on the trombone, and twice a week a
brass band meets in his room to practice, while again twice a week the
choir of —— church assembles next door to me to rehearse for their
Sunday performances. Was any one ever plunged into such a combination of
horrors?
I have heretofore refrained from giving up this lodging among the
fiends, by the presence of Mrs. Squall’s young niece, Rosalie ——. She
is young and fresh, fair as a strain from _La Dame Blanche_, graceful as
an air of Mozart, eloquent in speech as one of Mendelssohn’s _Lieder
Ohne Worte_, and symmetrical in figure as a _scena_ from Rossini. She
has brown hair, blue eyes, a knowledge of French and Italian, a
smattering of the German language, and a thorough knowledge of German
wools, $5000 a year, an amiable disposition, and, as I fancy, a decided
penchant for me.
I was already nearly on my knees to her this morning, when she suggested
that we should sing together, and herself selected the duet “_La ci
darem la mano_,” from Don Giovanni. Such a selection was divine, and I
eagerly sought out the opera and began my part, feeling convinced that I
should ratify the vows of the song in plain prose and good English as
soon as it was over.
I held my breath as I waited for the first tones of what I felt must be
an angel’s voice, but what mortal agony could equal mine, when I found
her pretensions to divinity all a sham? She sung a full semi-tone above
the piano, and with a hard, rasping, metallic voice that grated like a
file, and fairly set my teeth on edge.
“Oh! false, false, false Rosalie!”
It is possible that I did not finish the duet as I began it. I had lost
all consciousness, except of the horror of my situation, and a sense of
a heart crushed in its first and purest affections by a false voice—far
worse to me than a false heart.
We parted; she to her worsted work and her $5000 a year, I to seek
another refuge, or to pursue my hopeless pilgrimage over the world, in
search of harmony—to mourn over my blighted hopes, and the perfidious
voice of my Rosalie, and to sink at last into an untimely grave. Let my
epitaph be, not “Died of a Broken Heart,” as the world might construe
the fact, but simply
“Died of a Discord!”
* * * * *
=NOT DEAD.=
And thou art gone, the meek flowers wave
In sadness o’er thine early grave;
The wild-bird comes with mellow song,
And balmy airs sweep lightly on;
O’er all the rank and nodding grass
The summer’s shadows gently pass,
While children glad go softly by
With timid step and tearful eye.
Too well I know that thou art gone,
Thy brow is cold, thy cheek is wan;
Pale buds are in thy sunny hair,
Thy chill hands clasp a lily fair,
A shroud, with white and moveless fold,
Lies on thy heart so still and cold;
And yet not thus I think of thee—
Thou art not dead, beloved, to me.
’Twas yesternight, when white-browed girls,
With star-like eyes and golden curls,
Came sadly in the twilight deep
And bent above thy grave to weep;
That I, too, came, with wild unrest,
With yearnings for the grave’s sweet rest;
But peace and hope, and trust in Heaven,
Were to my sorrowing spirit given.
Not dead! in what a blessed trance
My spirit heard, through Heaven’s expanse,
Those sweet words float; those words of life
That calmed the bootless, bitter strife.
Thine angel wings swept far away
The mists that veiled a brighter day;
And now Life’s path in hope I tread,
Although its joyous light is fled.
L. L. M.
* * * * *
=THE GAME OF THE MONTH.=
=BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “FRANK FORESTER’S FIELD SPORTS,”
“FISH AND FISHING,” ETC.=
[Illustration: =THE SUMMER DUCK, OR WOOD DUCK. (_Anas Sponsa._)=]
This lovely species, the most beautiful of the whole Duck tribe, is
peculiar to the continent and isles of America, being familiarly known
through almost every portion of the United States, and according to
Wilson common in Mexico and the West India islands. In Florida it is
very abundant, as it is, more or less, on all the fresh waters so far
north as the interior of the State of New York; in the colder regions,
to the north-eastward, though not unknown, it is of less frequent
occurrence than in more genial climates.
Its more correct title, “Summer Duck,” is referable to the fact, that it
is not, like most of the _Anatides_ and _Fuligulæ,_ fresh water and sea
ducks, more or less a bird of passage, retiring to the fastnesses of the
extreme north, for the purposes of nidification and rearing its young;
but, wherever it abounds, is a permanent citizen of the land, raising
its family in the very place where itself was born, and not generally,
if undisturbed, moving very far from its native haunts. I think,
however, that in the United States it is perhaps better known under its
other appellation of Wood Duck; and I am not prepared to say, although
the former is the specific name adopted by all naturalists, that the
latter is not the better, as the more distinctive title, and applying to
a more remarkable peculiarity of the bird. For it, alone, so far as I
know, of the Duck family, is in the habit of perching and roosting on
the upper branches of tall trees, near water-courses, and of making its
nest in the holes and hollows of old trunks overhanging sequestered
streams or woodland pools, often at a great height above the surface of
the water.
The Summer Duck is the most gayly attired of the whole family; it has,
moreover, a form of very unusual elegance, as compared with other ducks;
and a facility of flight, and command of itself on the wing, most unlike
to the ponderous, angular flapping of the rest of its tribe, wheeling
with a rapidity and power of pinion, approaching in some degree to that
of the swallow, in and out among the branches of the gnarled and
tortuous pin-oaks, whose shelter it especially affects.
From two very fine specimens, male and female, now before me, I take the
following description.
Drake, in full summer plumage. Length from tip of bill to tip of tail,
21 inches. Length of wing, 9 inches. Bill, 1-1/5 inch. Tarsus, 1½.
Middle toe, 2 inches. Body long, delicately shaped, rounded. Head small,
finely crested; neck rather long and slender. Eye large, with
golden-yellow irides. Legs and feet orange-yellow, webs dusky, claws
black. Plumage soft, compressed, blended. Bill orange-red at the base,
yellow on the sides, with a black spot above the nostrils, extending
nearly to the tip; nail recurved, black.
The colors are most vivid. The crown of the head, cheeks, side of the
upper neck and crest changeable, varying in different lights, from
bottle-green, through all hues of dark blue, bright azure, purple, with
ruby and amethyst reflections, to jet black. From the upper corner of
the upper mandible a narrow snow-white streak above the eye runs back,
expanding somewhat, into the upper crest. A broader streak of the same
extends backward below the eye, and forms several bright streaks in the
lower part of the crest. Chin and fore throat snow-white, with a sort of
double gorget, the upper extending upward a little posterior to the eye,
and nearly reaching it, the lower almost encircling the neck at its
narrowest part. The lower neck and upper breast are of the richest
vinous red, interspersed in front with small arrow-headed spots of pure
white. Lower breast white, spotted with paler vinous red; belly pure
white. Scapulars, and lower hind neck, reddish brown, with green
reflections. Back, tail-coverts and tail black, splendidly glossed with
metallic lustre of rich blue-green and purple. Wing-coverts and
primaries brown, glossed with blue and green, outer webs of the
primaries silvery white; secondaries glossy blue-black. A broad
crescent-shaped band of pure white in front of the wings, at the edge of
the red breast-feathers, and behind this a broader margin of jet black.
The sides of the body rich greenish yellow, most delicately penciled
with narrow close waved lines of gray. On the flanks six distinct
semi-lunated bands of white, anteriorly bordered with broad black
origins, and tipped with black. The vent tawny white, the rump and under
tail-coverts dark reddish purple.
The duck is smaller and duller in her general coloring, but still bears
sufficient resemblance to the splendid drake to cause her at once to be
recognized, by any moderately observant eye, as his mate.
Her bill is blackish brown, the irides of her eyes hazel brown, her feet
dull dusky green. Crown of her head and hind neck dusky, faintly glossed
with green, and with the rudiments of a crest; cheeks dusky brown. A
white circle round the eye and longitudinal spot behind it. Chin and
throat dingy white. Shoulders, back, scapulars, wing-coverts, rump and
tail brown, more or less glossed with green, purple and dark crimson.
Primaries black, with reflections of deep cerulean blue and violet;
outer webs silvery white. Secondaries violet-blue and deep green, with
black edges and a broad white margin, forming the speculum or beauty
spot. Upper fore neck, breast, sides and flanks deep chestnut-brown,
spotted in irregular lines with oval marks of faint tawny yellow; belly,
vent and under tail-coverts white, flanks and thighs dull brown.
The young males of the first season are scarcely distinguishable from
the ducks.
The Summer Duck breeds, in New York and New Jersey, according to the
season, from early in April until late in May; in July the young birds
are not much inferior in size to the parents, though not yet very strong
on the wing. I well remember on one occasion, during the second week of
that month, in the year 1836, while out woodcock shooting near Warwick,
in Orange county, New York, with a steady brace of setters, how some
mowers who were at work on the banks of the beautiful Wawayanda, hailed
me, and, pointing to a patch of perhaps two acres of coarse, rushy
grass, told me that six ducks had just gone down there. I called my dogs
to heel, and walked very gingerly through the meadow, with my finger on
the trigger, expecting the birds to rise very wild; but to my great
surprise reached the end of the grass, on the rivulet’s margin, without
moving any thing.
The men still persisted that the birds were there; and so they were,
sure enough; for on bidding my setters hold up I soon got six dead
points in the grass, and not without some trouble kicked up the birds,
so hard did they lay. It was a calm, bright summer’s day, not a duck
rose above ten feet from me, and I bagged them all. They proved to be
the old duck and five young birds of that season, but in size the latter
were quite equal to the mother bird.
I consider the Summer Duck at all times rather a less shy bird than its
congeners, though it may be that this is owing to the woody covert
which, unlike others of its tribe, it delights to frequent; and which
perhaps acts in some degree as a screen to its pursuer; but except on
one other occasion I never saw any thing like the tameness of that
brood.
The other instance occurred nearly in the same place, and in the same
month, I think, of the ensuing year. I was again out summer cock
shooting, and was crossing a small, sluggish brook, of some twelve or
fourteen feet over, with my gun under my arm, on a pile of old rails,
which had been thrown into the channel by the haymakers, to make an
extemporaneous bridge for the hay teams; when on a sudden, to my very
great wonderment, and I must admit to my very considerable flusteration
likewise, almost to the point of tumbling me into the mud, out got a
couple of Wood Ducks from the rails, literally under my feet, with a
prodigious bustle of wings and quacking. If I had not so nearly tumbled
into the stream, ten to one I should have shot too quickly and missed
them both; but the little effort to recover my footing gave me time to
get cool again, and I bagged them both. One was again the old duck, the
other a young drake of that season.
In the spring, the old duck selects her place in some snug, unsuspicious
looking hole in some old tree near the water edge, where, if unmolested,
she will breed many years in succession, carrying down her young when
ready to fly, in her bill, and placing them in the water. The drake is
very attentive to the female while she is laying, and yet more so while
she is engaged in the duties of incubation; constantly wheeling about on
the wing among the branches, near the nest on which she is sitting, and
greeting her with a little undertoned murmur of affection, or perching
on a bough of the same tree, as if to keep watch over her.
The following account of their habits is so true, and the anecdote
illustrating them so pretty and pleasing, that I cannot refrain from
quoting it, for the benefit of those of my readers who may not be so
fortunate as to have cultivated a familiar friendship with the pages of
that eloquent pioneer of the natural history of the woods and wilds and
waters of America, the Scottish Wilson, who has done more for that
science than any dead or living man, with the sole exception of his
immortal successor, the great and good Audubon; and whose works will
stand side by side with his, so long as truthfulness of details,
correctness of classification, eloquence of style, and a pure taste and
love for rural sounds and sights shall command a willing audience.
Speaking of this bird he says—
“It is familiarly known in every quarter of the United States, from
Florida to Lake Ontario, in the neighborhood of which latter place I
have myself met with it in October. It rarely visits the seashore, or
salt marshes, its favorite haunts being the solitary, deep, and muddy
creeks, ponds and mill-dams of the interior, making its nest frequently
in old hollow trees that overhang the water.
“The Summer Duck is equally well known in Mexico and many of the West
India islands. During the whole of our winters they are occasionally
seen in the states south of the Potomac. On the 10th of January I met
with two on a creek near Petersburgh, in Virginia. In the more northern
districts, however, they are migratory. In Pennsylvania the female
usually begins to lay late in April, or early in May. Instances have
been known where the nest was constructed of a few sticks laid in a fork
of the branches; usually, however, the inside of a hollow tree is
selected for this purpose. On the 18th of May I visited a tree
containing the nest of a Summer Duck, on the banks of the Tuckahoe
River, New Jersey. It was an old, grotesque white-oak, whose top had
been torn off by a storm. It stood on the declivity of the bank, about
twenty yards from the water. In this hollow and broken top, and about
six feet down, on the soft, decayed wood, lay thirteen eggs, snugly
covered with down, doubtless taken from the breast of the bird. These
eggs were of an exact oval shape, less than those of a hen, the surface
exceedingly fine grained, and of the highest polish, and slightly
yellowish, greatly resembling old, polished ivory. The egg measured two
inches and an eighth by one inch and a half. On breaking one of them,
the young bird was found to be nearly hatched, but dead, as neither of
the parents had been observed about the tree during the three or four
days preceding, and were conjectured to have been shot.
“This tree had been occupied, probably by the same pair, for four
successive years, in breeding time; the person who gave me the
information, and whose house was within twenty or thirty yards of the
tree, said that he had seen the female, the spring preceding, carry down
thirteen young, one by one, in less than ten minutes. She caught them in
her bill by the wing or back of the neck, and landed them safely at the
foot of the tree, whence she afterward led them to the water. Under this
same tree, at the time I visited it, a large sloop lay on the stocks,
nearly finished; the deck was not more than twelve feet distant from the
nest, yet notwithstanding the presence and noise of the workmen, the
ducks would not abandon their old breeding place, but continued to pass
out and in, as if no person had been near. The male usually perched on
an adjoining limb, and kept watch while the female was laying, and also
often while she was sitting. A tame goose had chosen a hollow space at
the root of the same tree, to lay and hatch her young in.
“The Summer Duck seldom flies in flocks of more than three or four
individuals together, and most commonly in pairs, or singly. The common
note of the drake is _peet, peet_; but when, standing sentinel, he sees
danger, he makes a noise not unlike the crowing of a young cock, _oe
eek! oe eek!_ Their food consists principally of acorns, seeds of the
wild-oats, and insects.”
Mr. Wilson states, as his opinion, that the flesh of this lovely little
duck is inferior in excellence to that of the blue-winged teal. But
therein I can by no means coincide with him, as I consider it, in the
Atlantic states, inferior to no duck except the canvas-back, which is
admitted _facile princeps_ of all the duck tribe. The Summer Duck is in
these districts probably the most graminivorous and granivorous of the
family, not affecting fish, tadpoles, frogs or field-mice, all of which
are swallowed with great alacrity and rejoicing by the mallards,
pin-tails, and other haunters of fresh water streams and lakes.
On the great lakes of the west and north, where all the duck tribe feed
to fattening on the wild-rice and wild-celery, _zizania aquatica_ and
_balisneria Americana_, no one species is better than another, all being
admirable; but in the course of an autumn spent on the northern shores
of Lake Huron and the rivers debouching into it, and thence
north-westward to Lake Superior, I do not remember seeing any specimens
of this beautiful bird, though I feel sure that it cannot but exist in
those waters, which are in all respects so congenial to its habits.
Another peculiarity of this species, which I have repeatedly noticed,
when it has not been disturbed by any sudden noise or the pursuit of
dogs, is thus neatly touched upon by Mr. J. P. Giraud, Jr., the
enthusiastic and accomplished ornithologist of Long Island, whose
unpretending little volume should be the text book of every sportsman in
the land who has a taste for any thing beyond mere wanton slaughter.
“Often when following those beautiful and rapid streams that greatly
embellish our country, in pursuit of the angler’s beau ideal of sport,
have I met with this gayly-attired duck. As if proud of its unrivaled
beauty, it would slowly rise and perform a circuit in the air, seemingly
to give the admiring beholder an opportunity of witnessing the gem of
its tribe.”
The Summer Duck is very easily domesticated, if the eggs be taken from
the nest and hatched under a hen, and the young birds become perfectly
tame, coming up to the house or the barn-yard to be fed, with even more
regularity than the common domestic duck; nay, even the old birds, if
taken by the net and wing-tipped, will soon become gentle and lose their
natural shyness.
In the summer of 1843 I had the pleasure of seeing a large flock of
these lovely wild fowl perfectly gentle, answering the call of their
owner by their peculiar murmur of pleasure, and coming, as fast as they
could swim or run, to be fed by his hand.
This was at the beautiful place of the Hon. Mahlon Dickinson, formerly a
member of General Jackson’s cabinet, not far from Morristown, in New
Jersey, which is singularly adapted for the rearing and domesticating
these _feræ naturâ_; since it has, immediately adjoining the trim and
regular gardens, a long and large tract of beautiful wild shrubbery,
full of rare evergreens, and interspersed with bright, cool springs and
streamlets feeding many ponds and reservoirs, where they can feed and
sport and breed, as undisturbed as in the actual wilderness; while, the
adjacent country being all tame and highly cultivated, they have no
inducement to stray from their abode.
Beside Summer Ducks, Mr. Dickinson had, at the period of my visit, Dusky
Ducks, better known as Black Ducks, Green-winged Teal, Golden-eyes, and
I think Widgeon; but the Summer Ducks were by far the tamest, as the
Dusky Ducks were the wildest of the company. I should long ago have
attempted to naturalize them on my own place, but that a large river,
the Passaic, washing the lower end of my lawn and garden, from which it
would not be possible to exclude them, I have felt that it is useless to
attempt it, the rather that there is a large patch of wild-rice
immediately adjoining me, which would tempt them to the water, whence
they would drift away with the current or the tide, and be lost or shot
in no time.
The best time for shooting and for eating these fowl is late in October,
when the acorns and beechmast, of both of which they are inordinately
fond, lie thick and ripe on the woodland banks of the streams and pools
they love to frequent. And this reminds me of a little sketch,
illustrative of their habits, taken down almost _verbatim_, from the
lips of a right good fellow, and at that time a right good sportsman
also; though now, alas! the untimely loss of the inestimable blessing of
eyesight has robbed him, among other sources of enjoyment, of that
favorite and innocent pastime—the forest chase:
“Are there many Wood Ducks about this season, Tom?” asked Forester,
affecting to be perfectly careless and indifferent to all that had
passed. “Did you kill these yourself?”
“There was a sight on them a piece back, but they’re gittin’
scase—pretty scase now, I tell you. Yes, I shot these down by Aunt
Sally’s big spring-hole a Friday. I’d been a lookin’ round, you see, to
find where the quail kept afore you came up here—for I’d a been
expectin’ you a week and better—and I’d got in quite late, toward
sundown, with an outsidin’ bevy, down by the cedar swamp, and druv them
off into the big bog meadows, below Sugarloaf, and I’d killed quite a
bunch on them—sixteen, I reckon, Archer; and there wasn’t but eighteen
when I lit on ’em—and it was gittin’ pretty well dark when I came to
the big spring, and little Dash was worn dead out, and I was tired, and
hot, and thunderin’ thirsty, so I sets down aside the outlet where the
spring water comes in good and cool, and I was mixin’ up a nice, long
drink in the big glass we hid last summer down in the mud-hole, with
some _great_ cider sperrits—when what should I hear all at once but
whistle, whistlin’ over head, the wings of a whole drove on ’em, so up I
buckled the old gun; but they’d plumped down into the crick fifteen rod
off or better, down by the big pin oak, and there they sot, seven ducks
and two big purple-headed drakes—beauties, I tell you. Well, boys, I
upped gun and tuck sight stret away, but just as I was drawin’, I kind
o’ thought I’d got two little charges of number eight, and that to shoot
at ducks at fifteen rod wasn’t nauthen. Well, then, I fell a thinkin’,
and then I sairched my pockets, and arter a piece found two green
cartridges of number three, as Archer gave me in the spring, so I drawed
out the small shot, and inned with these, and put fresh caps on to be
sarten. But jest when I’d got ready, the ducks had floated down with the
stream, and dropped behind the pint—so I downed on my knees, and
crawled, and Dash alongside on me, for all the world as if the darned
dog knowed; well, I crawled quite a piece, till I’d got under a bit of
alder bush, and then I seen them—all in a lump like, except two—six
ducks and a big drake—feedin’, and stickin’ down their heads into the
weeds, and flutterin’ up their hinder eends, and chatterin’ and
jokin’—I could have covered them all with a handkercher, exceptin’ two,
as I said afore, one duck and the little drake, and they was off a rod
or better from the rest, at the two different sides of the stream—the
big bunch warn’t over ten rods off me, nor so far; so I tuck sight right
at the big drake’s neck. The water was quite clear and still, and seemed
to have caught all the little light as was left by the sun, for the
skies had got pretty dark, I tell you; and I could see his head quite
clear agin the water—well, I draw’d trigger, and the hull charge ripped
into ’em—and there was a scrabblin’ and a squatterin’ in the water now,
I tell you—but not one on ’em riz—not the fust one of the hull bunch;
but up jumped both the others, and I drawed on the drake—more by the
whistlin’ of his wings, than that I seen him—but I drawed stret,
Archer, any ways; and arter I’d pulled half a moment I hard him plump
down into the crick with a splash, and the water sparkled up like a
fountain where he fell. So then I didn’t wait to load, but ran along the
bank as hard as I could strick it, and when I’d got down to the spot, I
tell you, little Dash had got two on ’em out afore I came, and was in
with a third. Well, sich a cuttin’ and a splashin’ as there was you
niver did see, none on you—I guess, for sartin—leastwise I niver did.
I’d killed, you see, the drake and two ducks, dead at the first fire,
but three was _only_ wounded, wing-tipped, and leg-broken, and I can’t
tell you what all. It was all of nine o’clock at night, and dark as all
out doors, afore I gathered them three ducks, but I did gather ’em;
Lord, boys, why I’d stayed till mornin’, but I’d a got them, sarten.
Well, the drake I killed flyin’ I couldn’t find him that night, no how,
for the stream swept him down, and I hadn’t got no guide to go by, so I
let _him_ go then, but I was up next mornin’ bright and airly, and
started up the stream clean from the bridge here, up through Garry’s
back-side, and my bog-hole, and so on along the meadows to Aunt Sally’s
run—and looked in every willow bush that dammed the waters back, like,
and every bunch of weeds and brier-brake, all the way, and sure enough I
found him, he’d been killed dead, and floated down the crick, and then
the stream had washed him up into a heap of broken sticks and briers,
and when the waters fell, for there had been a little freshet, they left
him there breast uppermost—and I was glad to find him—for I think,
Archer, as that shot was the nicest, prettiest, etarnal, darndest, long,
_good_ shot, I iver did make, anyhow; and it was so dark I couldn’t see
him.”
Many of his friends and mine will recognize the character, to whom I
allude, as he figures largely in the pages of “The Warwick Woodlands,”
from which the above extract is taken, of “My Shooting-box,” and the
other sporting scenes of Frank Forester, wherein nothing good or
generous or kind is related of Tom Draw, that does not fall far short of
the reality.
Before closing this article, I will correct an error into which I
perceive I have inadvertently fallen in the first page of it, wherein I
said that this duck, _alone of the family_, has the habit of perching,
roosting, and nesting on trees.
I should have said _alone of the American family_; for I find a note by
Mr. Brewer, the last editor of Wilson, annexed to his article on our
bird, which I prefer to subjoin instead of merely making a verbal
alteration, since I doubt not many others are in the same error, who
will be glad to be corrected in detail. It appears, as will be seen
below, that, although there are no European tree-ducks, nor any other
American, there is a family of Asiatic and African congeners of our
Summer Duck, for which an especial name has been proposed, though not as
yet generally adopted. I might add that the present Latin name of our
bird, _anas sponsa_, signifies, being interpreted, the _bride duck_,
from the rare elegance of its form and beauty of its plumage—a pretty
name for a pretty creature.
“These lovely ducks may be said to represent an incessorial form among
the _anatidæ_; they build and perch on trees, and spend as much time on
land as upon the waters; Dr. Richardson has given this group, containing
few members, the title of _dendronessa_ from their arboreal habits. Our
present species is the only one belonging to America, where it ranges
rather to the south than north; the others, I believe, are all confined
to India. They are remarkable for the beauty and splendor of their
plumage, its glossy, silky texture, and for the singular form of the
scapulars, which, instead of an extreme development in length, receive
it in the contrary proportion of breadth; and instead of lying flat, in
some stand perpendicular to the back. They are all adorned with an ample
crest, pendulous, and running down the back of the neck. They are easily
domesticated, but I do not know that they have been yet of much utility
in this state, being more kept on account of their beauty, and few have
been introduced except to our menageries; with a little trouble at
first, they might form a much more common ornament about our artificial
pieces of water. It is the only form of a _Tree Duck_ common to this
continent; in other countries there are, however, two or three others of
very great importance in the natural system, whose structure and habits
have yet been almost entirely overlooked or lost sight of. These seem to
range principally over India, and more sparingly in Africa; and the
Summer Duck is the solitary instance, the United States the nearly
extreme limit, of its own peculiarities in this division of the world.”
With this note I close this paper, expressing only the hope that the
bird will become more largely domesticated; as no more beautiful
adornment can be conceived to the parks and shrubberies of gentlemen,
such more especially as possess the advantages of small inland rivulets,
or pieces of ornamental water, whether natural or artificial.
* * * * *
=SONNET.=
Oh! she was young, and beautiful, and good,
But called away, while Age toils faintly on:—
Gone to the voiceless land of shadows—gone
In the bright morning of her womanhood.
Cheered by the blue-bird’s warble of delight,
Springtime, the tender childhood of the year,
With bursting bud and sprouting grass is here,
And Nature breathes of resurrection bright:
It seems unmeet that one so fair should die,
When sounds are heard so charming to the ear,
And sights beheld so pleasant to the eye:
Hush vain regrets! a land of fadeless bloom
Is now her home—its passage-way the tomb.
Wm. H. C. Hosmer.
* * * * *
=THE PEDANT:=
=OR CHAPTERS FROM A LIFE SPENT PARTLY IN CAROLINA.=
=BY HENRY HOLM, ESQ.=
PROEM.
I never had the least thought of writing any anecdotes of my youth till
last summer, when I was in Holland, and met with your correspondent Mr.
B——, at the Oùde Doelen, in Amsterdam. As we were chatting over a
bottle of Bordeaux wine, in a very dark, long, wainscotted
dining-room—the weather being rainy—Professor Broeck, of Utrecht, came
in, and being a monstrously inquisitive old man, extracted from me quite
an account of my travels in America and my youthful studies.
“Why, Holm,” said my American friend, “you ought to put this into a
book.”
At this, I was much taken aback; for bookish as I have been, I never in
all my life put any thing into print, except—when a schoolmaster—a
small edition of Greek epigrams from the Anthology, which I compiled
from the Paris edition—and this was a failure. On recollection, I must
add a Latin elegy, which my head boy made with my help on the death of
Washington. It was printed at Richmond, and abounded in errors of the
press, so that I was fain to suppress the edition, all but a few copies
to patrons, which I corrected with a pen. But Mr. B. insisted I should
jot down some of the events of my life, saying that, now in my old age,
it would be a comfort to me; and that Lord Kaimes used to give this
recipe to any of his friends who happened to be low-spirited—“Write a
book.” He added, that it was so uncommon for an American of the old
school, and a Carolinian to boot, to have been several times in Europe,
and then to nestle in his quondam home on the Roanoke; that,
notwithstanding a certain long-windedness, no longer modish, he was sure
my scraps would find readers, if among none else, yet among my old
pupils, some of whom are in Congress, besides one in a foreign legation.
I therefore rigged my little craft, put up a bit of sail, and with a
smart whiff of a breeze got out of sounding ere I was aware. Here
goes—therefore, and I commit myself to the good will of the friends
aforesaid, praying that this may be gently received in quality both of
preface and dedication.
H. H.
CHAPTER I.
“Weigh anchor; spread thy sails; call every wind,
Eye thy great Pole-Star; make the land of life.”
Young.
The date of my birth is a secret. Time was when I used to laugh at
people for being slow to tell their age; but sounder philosophy has
shown me a certain wisdom in this reserve. Why should men so pry into
the infirmities of their fellows? One may be gray and wrinkled without
being octogenarian. Let it suffice to know that I was born a subject of
George the Third, and in one of the greatest places on the noble river
Roanoke, of which the name is derived from the small shell which the
Indians employed as a currency. My father and mother were English, and
came in middle life from the valley of the Trent, leaving their elder
offspring settled in Warwickshire, where I have met their descendants.
My father was an Oxford man, bred to medicine, which, however, he never
practiced in America. His plantation was great, if you count the number
of acres, but meager enough in arable land.
I remember the spring seasons in that delicious climate, with a sort of
fragrancy in the reminiscence. April was a month which resembled a
Northern May; for the calycanthus was blooming in the swamps, the coral
honeysuckle blushed in every thicket, and the sweet-briar perfumed the
open places and old fields, without cultivation.
Southern boys grow up equestrians. How freshly do I recall the extempore
races along the wide bottoms of the creeks—as we call such brooks in
America—mounted on switch-tailed colts, rough and shaggy from want of
grooming, and without shoes, hat or saddle, my competitors being the
black Catos, Hectors, and Antonies of the plantation.
There was what was called an old-field school about a mile from the
court-house, taught by a Scotchman—a Jacobite—who accompanied the
famous and beautiful Flora McDonald to Carolina. His name was McLeod,
and he used the Highland mull to such an extent, that we learned to call
him Sneeshin Sawney. But, when he was sober—which occurred frequently
before dinner—he was one of the best classical teachers I ever had.
Greek was not his forte; but commend me to him for rattling off screeds
of Virgil, Horace and Ovid, as well as whole pages of the historians and
orators. He had a chest full of sundry modern Latin books, some of which
he would chuckle over when mellow. One of his favorites was Buchanan’s
History. How he would roll in laughter over the description of the
bagpipe in Buchanan’s Latinity; and how he gloried in the oft-quoted
phrase, the _ingenium perfervidum Scotovum_. He had a pocket copy of
Vida, which—from bad company—was almost as sternutatory as his
impalpable snuff. The most I learned of him was, a rude acquaintance
with Latin, a little French—horribly mispronounced, and a few rules of
Traill’s Algebra. But, meanwhile I had enjoyed free pasture in a garret
of books, belonging to my father. These were chiefly medical; and I
sought out, with boyish zeal and cunning, all the most piquant cuts of
surgical operations, and came at length to fancy myself possessed of
half the diseases in the old nosology. When I afterward visited Leyden,
I recognized some of the ancient quartos of Van Swieten and Swammerdam,
in the vast but musty library. By-the-bye, when you go thither, note
well that the said library contains one of the best portraits of
Grotius, and one of the most striking of Erasmus. The garret had also
the Elegant Extracts, in three thick volumes, and odd ends of good
English literature. Among apples, flax, and invalid saddles, I used to
lie on the floor of this loft, and read till the sun went down. But
sometimes I had to bestride my horse, and take letters to the post, at
the court-house; and here I frequented the abode of a Mrs. Grieve, the
widow of a Highland captain, who came over in the troubles of ’45, and
fell a victim to his insane fondness for the prince, having been shot in
a duel with a young surgeon of Hanoverian sentiment.
Bless me! Do not think I was born at that time? Mrs. Grieve had been
many years a widow. She liked me, and I liked Marion; and this was the
reason of my being summarily shipped off to England, lest I should incur
the burdens of matrimony. They say, I was what—in that part of the
earth—is called a “likely” fellow; round-faced, hardy,
broad-shouldered, and agile, but very shy, and full of _gaucherie_.
CHAPTER II.
“_Male herbe croît plutost que bonne._”
Old French Proverb.
Montaigne dwells with a chirping, senile complacency on the pains which
his father took to make his childhood happy. Though, Arthur Holm, my
honored parent took no pains at all about the matter, he so managed
matters that his hopeful son—myself, Henry Holm, meaning—passed as
delightful a boyhood and youth as ever the best son of the best
gentleman of Perigord.
I will hang a veil over the infirmities of this loving old gentleman.
His days and sometimes his nights were spent at the court-house—a term
by which, in Carolina, the hamlet which contains the county tribunal is
called—and those were days of high play and deep bowls, with a fiery
dash of French brimstone, and sans-culotte theology.
The best and gentlest mother that man ever had was gone to her rest.
“Mas’ Harry”—my aforesaid self, meaning—was left to wander at his own
sweet will, and wander he did, with a witness, in all the byways of such
reading as half-a-dozen gentlemen’s houses, and the parson’s study,
afforded.
What ensued? I was five and forty before I ever knew that I was a
pedant. German was not yet a language in which Americans sought literary
gratification; but my neighbor, Marion Grieve, and I turned over many a
volume of French—half comprehended, and I boggled through an odd volume
of Don Quixote in Spanish, and several plays of Calderon. Verses of
course—as an unavoidable excretion of the youthful brain—proceeded
from me in large amount; not such as now emulate the measures of Beppo
or Oriana, but imitations of Darwin and Miss Seward.
For delightful boyhood, I maintain the world has no clime comparable to
the old States of the South. Wide stretches of country, open forests for
hounds, interminable meads in some parts, blooded horses at command,
ambrosial mornings, evenings made vocal by the mocking-bird, young
comrades in great array, open doors on every estate—we say nothing of
the “domestic institution,” and the conveniences of an ample
retinue—develop any capacities for unstinted satisfaction, which a gay
young master may possess. Something there may be of Horace’s _sudavit et
alsit_, but chiefly in hard riding after a fox, or keeping up with a
coach, full of damsels, going far to an assembly at the next town.
Very different is this from the similar stage in the case of the English
boy, which I have considered, and which also has its manly discipline;
but is marked by long separations from home, direful fagging at public
schools, and the restraints of a conventionalism, which is only not
Chinese. In looking back, I am very sure it was good for me to be taken
away early from scenes of so much indulgence; and I would, if I knew
how, subject my boys to a collar somewhat stiffer than that in which I
spent my adolescence. Say what you will, young blood needs the pressure
of a stern discipline, to induce self-denial, the germ of all
self-command; so I can rejoice in hardships now they are over. Yet, in
those days, it was but hypocritically that I hummed over the _Olim
meminisse juvabit_.
I am writing among the same spring zephyrs, and gorgeous vegetation of
the South, spectacles on nose, and my feet in list slippers; but I can
leap over a long intercalation, and live over again the hours of the
eighteenth century. My departure had, however, the bitterness of an
exile.
CHAPTER III.
The tear forgot as soon as shed.
Gray.
The vessel in which I sailed was a round-sterned bark, very black, and
English built, with hogsheads of tobacco for Bristol. I was under the
care of Mr. Moir, a clergyman from the south of Virginia, who was
returning to get orders for his son from the Bishop of London. The son
and his brother were twins, and were gay companions. We were out seven
weeks, and were several times in great peril. But I forgot all when I
saw England in mid May. The transition is peculiarly strong in contrasts
for one who goes from a region not abounding in greensward and roadside
flowers, and equally destitute of the castle and the cottage. In June I
heard a nightingale near Warwick castle, and took my first lesson in
cricket on the green near Hampton Court; I dined at the Mitre, and
shortly after looked at the Eton boys shooting their “four-oars” on the
Thames. London was all mapped off in my head; and the impression had not
been forestalled by a previous sight of Philadelphia, then our only
great city. I was acquainted with Sir Roger de Coverley’s haunts; I knew
where to go for the Boar’s Head, which had not yet been thrust aside for
a king’s statue. The very names of the streets were redolent of
memories; St. Swithin’s Lane, Aldermanbury, the Minories. Billingsgate
was in its full Aristophanic glory; not yet invaded by a lordly
structure of brick market-houses. “O rare Ben Jonson!” how I gloated
over thy memorial in the Poet’s Corner! Though roses no longer bloom in
the Temple Garden, yet I walked there as proud as if my veins carried
the red and white of York and Lancaster. Methinks I was an antiquary
before my time; but certain it is that I whiled away whole weeks in the
odd, out-of-the-way corners of old London, and almost venerated
Pie-corner, where the structures remain as of old, before the Great Fire
stopped short at that bounding locality.
My quarters were at the Axe Inn, Aldermanbury. This is not very far from
Christ-Church hospital; and the Blue-coat boys—whom I daily met, in
their yellow nether-stocks, dark frocks, and clerical bands—carried me
back to the times of old, and made me a frequent visitor of those
antique and hospitably open cloisters.
My studies toward the Law, were to be under the guidance of a gentleman
of Gray’s Inn, long since dead; John Thweat, Esq.—His son is now a
solicitor in chancery—He was a typical Englishman. In his wig—when he
drove in a chaise, without hat, to Westminster Hall—his face was not
unlike a boiled lobster, in a garnish of cauliflower. I soon found that
my study was to be pen-work, and that my apprenticeship—if entered
into—would be a slavish drawing of forms. My father was easier in his
ways every year; so he assented to my spending a few months in travel.
Do not imagine that I am going to record my journeys? These were the
glorious old days of coaching. From the George Inn, opposite Addle
street, Aldermanbury, I used to see forty coaches set out.
It was near my lodgings. The Hogarthian coachman was then not extinct.
In my last visit, I detected one or two of the old sort, degenerated
into omnibus-men. Hyde Park was not what it has since become, but it was
a marvel, nevertheless; and I studied, with daily application, the
heraldry of all the turn-outs, and the horsemanship of gentlemen in
boots and small-clothes, who, to my American eyes, seemed sad riders,
from the English trick of “rising to the trot.”
But when summer was over, and the short days came on, and the shops had
candles at noon, and the Strand and Holburn were dank and miry, and
London smoke became a wetting nimbus, I gathered up my odds and ends,
and make a dash over to Ireland. But this should be reserved for another
chapter.
CHAPTER IV.
“That Latin was no more difficile,
Than to a black-bird ’tis to whistle.”
Butler.
The sloop which conveyed me from Holy Island to Kingstown, on my way to
Dublin, had on board a merry Irishman, to whom I found myself attracted,
because he had been in America. He was further acquainted with the
family into which my mother’s brother had intermarried—the O’Mearas of
Dundalk, of whom one, who was an officer in the garrison, was the object
of my present visit.
Dennis was full of odd stories about Irish schoolmasters, fit successors
of Swift’s Tom Sheridan; and he informed me that Captain O’Meara had
once been a classical tutor, and was still rather conceited in regard to
his attainments. He was a companion of Doctor Barrett, of Trinity
College, and, as Dennis affirmed, carried more book-learning under a
red-coat than many a bishop under a black one. But the half had not been
told me.
After seeing the sights of a very beautiful city, driving round Phoenix
Park, surveying the Four Courts, and Cathedral, and the palaces, and
lawns of Trinity College, I sat down to make myself at home at Captain
O’Meara’s. This was the less difficult, as the captain had four
daughters, near enough in kindred and age to relieve me from my
_mauvaise honte_, and Irish enough in complexion, mirth, and wit, to set
my inexperienced brain in a very pleasurable whirl.
But the captain absorbed every thing to himself. When he discovered that
I could comprehend a Latin saying, he gave up all other pursuits for
that of riddling me with a fusilade of citations. I am sure such a
character is unknown out of Ireland. Miss Mitford has given, in happy
detail, the picture of one species in this genus, in her late work. We
often meet with this sanguineous, overflowing, half-subtle,
half-blundering, off-hand, good fellow, among unlettered Irishmen; but,
in good truth, my Cousin O’Meara was a bit of a scholar, had taken
prizes at college, was a correspondent of divers learned guilds, and had
talked Latin, by the fortnight, with Sulpicians, who came over from
France on church errands.
Imagine my gallant captain at his mahogany field of manœuvre, with
forces of claret moving over the polished plane. Imagine him
well-spread, rubicund, moist with the gentle drops of Bacchic dew,
breathing heavily, gesturing vehemently, with fat, dimpled hand, and
smiling as none but Hibernian lips and teeth can smile. Behold me in the
costume of 1796, slender and brown, as becomes an American, unused to
long potations, trembling lest I miss a meaning or violate a quantity,
and anxiously waiting for the summons to follow the ladies to coffee.
“Cousin Henry,” said my host, with all the rotundity of a dean, “you say
you have not read Aulus Gellius. Ah! we shall turn him over to-morrow.
Not to have read the Attic Nights is, _mon cher_, the next thing to
being a child of darkness. Aulus, my dear fellow—let the bottle tend
hitherward—was an Athenian by domiciliation; in this, like Pomponius,
who, you know, was denominated Atticus. Aulus came to Athens, my very
respected and regarded kinsman—fill your glass—for the purpose of
hearing those great expounders, Taurus and Phavorinus; much as you, _mon
cher_, have come to classic Dublin, to hear—to hear—a-hem—to
confabulate with your poor old kinsman.” And here he looked down on the
amplitude of his well-stretched waistcoat, and the unwrinkled surface of
a plump, feminine hand. “Barrett and I have often kept it up—pray let
me see the claret—hour after hour, as to the question whether
Phavorinus was a Roman or a Greek. You remember what Aulus says—ah! no,
you have yet to peruse him—you shall hear my _excursus_ on the later
schools of Athens. Their dissertatiuncles—allow the phrase—were
conversational; _noctes coenaeque deorum_.”
Here my fidgets became marked, especially as the clear ringing of a
girlish trio was heard above stairs.
“Don’t move—you know I am off duty—you don’t weary me—the claret is
good. Did I ever tell you what happened on a Twelfth night at Lord
Mountstewart’s? My lord threw the key out of the window, and swore the
party should not rise till a certain hogshead of claret was exhausted.”
Fidgets more alarming. “On that night I delivered the speech which is so
like Ammianus.”
In hopes of angering him, and so getting off, I ventured here on a
citation of Gibbon, charging Ammian with bombast. But the smile only
bespread his full-blown visage more benignly, as he continued—
“Nay, _mon cher_, Gibbon was incapable of measuring such dimensions of
style as those of Ammianus Marcellinus. O, that we had his opening
books! They are lost—unless Mai should turn them up in some Ambrosian
palimpsest. Out of Dublin—the claret—there are not ten men who can
taste the richness of Ammian. I will pronounce to you his description of
one of Julian’s battles.”
Here a fit of irrepressible coughing took me to the window, and my
diaphragm was so agitated, that the rehearsal was interrupted. Making my
recovery as protracted as might be, I found my captain—still holding
his glass, and still smiling—sunk into a sweet slumber, under cover of
which, I slipped into the ladies’ apartment.
“Ha!” cried Grace O’Meara, “papa has let you off well. You have scarcely
heard him pronounce the second Philippic.”
“No, no—that must still await me. But when did Irish officers become so
enamoured of the ancients?”
“You must know, Cousin Harry,” said Miss Barbara, “papa dreams of little
else. He has tried to teach us all Latin; but we made game of the
accidence so effectually, that he is willing now to compound for French
and Italian.”
Captain O’Meara, when claret was out of the question, was placid,
sensible, and even dull. With a strong antipathy to the Saxon, he united
an overweening regard for America, and drank Jefferson’s health with
religious veneration. On his horse, in the Park, he looked every inch
the hero, like those handsome, pursy, red-coats one sees in gilt frames
around the hall in Free-Mason’s Tavern. His color was of the red, red
rose, his teeth were ivory, and his voice was full and dulcet.
Notwithstanding his pedantry, he communicated to me some most valuable
hints concerning my Greek and Latin reading, and explained to me many a
hard place in Plautus and Lucretius; reading from tall octavos of the
Bipont edition, in crimson uniform. But he suffered no man to dispute
the preëminence of Trinity College, or the authenticity of the Celtic
annals. Remembering my father as a doctor, he would not hear me explain
that I was not intending to walk in his steps.
“You will,” said he, “complete a course at Trinity—then, ho! for
Leyden. There is the spot for the healing art. I know two Americans
there; one of them fought O’Shaughnessy, our adjutant. Leyden, _mon
cher_, is the modern Salerno. Never name Edinburgh—where the
prelections—_horresco referens_—are in English. Leyden is your place.
Don’t touch their gin—we call it Geneva, a corruption of the Dutch
_gedever_, or juniper—stick to claret. You will find a _compotator_,
that is, a bottle-companion, in Professor Van Valkenburg, in the street
by the old Roman castle. Their anatomical preparations are alone worth a
visit. And then the library”—
But I weary my readers with gossip of fifty odd years ago. My eyes grow
dim. I must bid adieu to Dublin and the O’Meara’s.
* * * * *
=TO ADHEMAR.=
=BY E. ANNA LEWIS.=
I think of thee till all is dim confusion,
And reason reels upon her fragile throne—
The past and present blend in strange illusion;
Thoughts, feelings, all commingle into one,
As streams and rills into the ocean run;
And my pale cheeks are drenched with a suffusion
Of drops upheaved from lava-founts of wo;
And while these burning tides my lids o’erflow,
Impassioned Fancy to thy presence hies,
And suns her in the radiance of thine eyes—
At the pure well-spring of thy bosom sips,
And feeds upon the nectar of thy lips;
Then back, with gathered sweets, returns to me,
As homeward comes at eve the honey-freighted bee.
* * * * *
=MY FIRST SUNDAY IN MEXICO.=
=FROM THE JOURNAL OF A VOLUNTEER OFFICER.=
=BY W. W. H. DAVIS.=
I had reached the goal of my hopes and my ambition, and was comfortably
quartered in the city of the Montezumas. There, in that proud and
ancient capital, and surrounded with so many of the comforts and
luxuries of life, I almost forgot the toils and sufferings of the march
and the bivouac, and here, for awhile in comparative ease, “the pomp,
pride and circumstance of glorious war,” which is so fascinating to the
untried soldier, seemed almost realized. The American army had occupied
the city long enough to establish order, by a well-regulated and
efficient military police, and the enemy having retired some distance,
the officers and men began to extend their sphere of observation beyond
the limits of the capital, when off duty, to the beautiful suburban
towns and villages near by.
I spent my first Sunday in sight-seeing, in a visit to the somewhat
celebrated city of Guadalupédee Hidalgo, about four miles to the north
of Mexico. It is situated at the foot of a rocky mount, called Tapeyac,
in the midst of a romantic but not very fertile country, and is
approached by one of the six causeways which lead out from the city.
They are broad, straight, finely McAdamized, and planted on each side
with shade-trees, and have been constructed through the waters of the
lake at great expense. In point of size this place is not of much
importance, and does not contain more than a thousand inhabitants all
told. Besides the church erected there, dedicated to the patron saint of
the country, and a few religious establishments, the buildings are of
mud and reeds, inhabited by a miserable and filthy population. Here it
was the “Virgin of Guadalupé” is said to have made her miraculous
appearance, and here, once every year, a great festival and celebration
is held in honor of her, which is looked upon as one of the most
important days in the church. The manner in which the “Virgin” made her
first appearance is very remarkable, and the story, as related by one of
the early bishops, seems quite as incomprehensible to us, who are
without the pale of the church, as the myths which come down to us from
pagan antiquity. But since the priesthood appear to put full faith in
the _modus operandi_ of her advent, the people of the country, as a
matter of course, believe it.
The legend runs as follows: In the year 1531, an Indian, named Juan
Diego, was passing by this mountain of Tapeyac, on his return home from
the city, when the Most Holy Virgin appeared to him, and directed him to
go back to the city and tell the bishop to come out there and worship
her. The bishop refused to admit him into his presence, having no faith
in the miracle. In passing by the same spot a few days afterward she
appeared to him a second time, and told him to return to the bishop and
say that, “I, Mary, the Mother of God, have sent you.” Again the bishop
refused to admit the Indian to his presence, being still incredulous,
but required some token of the annunciation. The Virgin appeared to the
Indian the third and last time, two days afterward, and ordered him to
ascend the mountain and pluck roses therefrom and present them to the
bishop as his credentials. Now, this mountain is a barren rock, without
a particle of vegetation upon it. The Indian, however, went as he was
directed, and there found flowers, which he threw into his _tilma_, a
sort of apron worn by the inhabitants of the country. He returned to the
city and was admitted into the presence of the bishop, but when he
opened his _tilma_, instead of the roses which he had gathered and put
into it, there appeared an image of the Holy Virgin, which is said to be
preserved to this day in the church which bears her name. From the name
of the town she was called the Virgin of Guadalupé, and has been made
the patron saint of the country. This is the history they give of her
appearance, and it is as bad as rank heresy for Catholics to disbelieve
it. With them she is all important, and appears to have a powerful
influence over all the affairs of life. With the great mass of the
population she is the only identity in religious reverence, the alpha
and omega, the beginning and the end of all their faith and worship. She
is appealed to on every occasion, and her name is given to nearly half
the females in the country; her image is hung up in every house, and
even in the butcher-stalls and drinking-shops she occupies a conspicuous
place, where her presence is supposed to preserve the meat sweet in the
one, and to bring customers to the other.
On Sunday, the 12th of December, 1847, I rode out to Guadalupé, to
witness the ceremonies in honor of this saint. I mounted my horse at an
early hour, and set out alone, but by the time I had reached the Garita
and turned upon the causeway, I found myself in the midst of a crowd
tending the same way. It was as pleasant and beautiful a morning as ever
broke over that lovely valley, and every thing reminded me of spring
time or early summer. The air had that balmy softness peculiar to the
season of opening flowers, and the gentle zephyrs which came from the
shining bosom of lake Tescoco, were loaded with a delightful odor. The
trees and bushes and grass were dressed in their garb of living green,
and the merry-hearted songsters were singing their sweetest melodies in
honor of the opening day. Such a delightful season in winter seemed like
reversing the order of nature. The crowd which came pouring out of the
city was immense, and as checkered in appearance as ever made pilgrimage
to the shrine of a saint. From their appearance there were all sorts and
conditions of persons, and every class of the proud capital was fully
represented, ranging from the caballero to the lepero. Here might be
seen an elegant carriage, drawn by sleek-looking mules, whose smiling
inmates looked the very personification of luxury and ease—there came a
rude, country cart, lined with raw hide and filled with the family of
some poor ranchero, drawn by a raw-boned ox made fast by thongs around
his horns—here ambled by a crowd of donkey cavalry, whose riders, with
feet trailing on the ground, urged the animals forward in hot haste
toward the scene of festivities—then thousands came on foot, some
carrying children strapped to their backs, some bending under loads of
nick-knacks for sale. Men, women and children, mules, donkeys and dogs,
were all mingled together in one throng, and the noise of confused
sounds reminded me somewhat of a modern Babel on a small scale. Among
this mottled group were many American officers, in their neat uniforms
and mounted on prancing steeds. On each side of the road, up to the very
gates of Guadalupé, booths were erected for the sale of cakes, drinks
and sweetmeats, and where all kinds of buffoonery were being performed;
gambling tables were numerous, loaded with shining coin, and here and
there I noticed pits for cock-fighting, with anxious crowds assembled
round to witness the cruel sport, and bets seemed running high on the
favorite chickens. The whole assemblage seemed enjoying and amusing
themselves to the utmost of their capacity in eating and drinking,
gambling and dancing. The dancers were assembled under the shade of the
wide-spreading trees, where, to the music of the harp and guitar, they
performed their national dances with much spirit, dressed in the
romantic costume of the country. Inside the inclosure where the sacred
edifice stands, was a perfect jam of men, women and children, old and
young, white, yellow and black, greasy and well-clad, who had come up
here to do honor to the saint who rules over their destinies.
When I arrived at the gate leading into the inclosure where the
performance was to take place, the procession of the Host was passing,
and if it had not been a religious ceremony, I could not have prevented
myself from laughing loud, the scene was so ludicrous and ridiculous.
The image of the Virgin was borne aloft on a pole, followed by a number
of priests in their stove-pipe hats and sacred vestments—then came a
platoon of filthy-looking soldiers, with a band of music playing some
national air, the whole brought up in the rear by a crowd of “red
spirits and white, blue spirits and gray,” shooting squibs and hallooing
at the top of their voices. It reminded me much more of a Fourth of July
celebration, or a militia training in a frontier settlement of the
United States, than a religious festival. Dismounting, I gave my horse
to a soldier standing near, to hold, while I went in and witnessed the
performance. On entering, I found much difficulty in getting through the
crowd, but by dint of a good deal of pushing and elbowing, and also
rapping a few stubborn, greasy-looking fellows over the shins with my
sabre, who were slow to make room, I at last reached the door of the
sacred edifice. The crowd was as dense within as without, and it seemed
wholly impossible to be able to enter; beside, an odor, not as pleasant
as the ottar of roses, arose from the assemblage. These considerations
were sufficient to induce me to turn back and retrace my steps. This was
no easy matter, as the crowd had closed up again immediately, and I
found myself in as dense a throng as ever. However, return I must, and
putting full faith in the old adage, “That where there is a will there
is a way,” I set about the matter in good earnest, and in a short time I
found myself at the point from which I had started. I again mounted my
horse, but was uncertain which way to turn. Just then, I was joined by
two officers of my regiment, who proposed to ride round the base of the
hill toward the left, and if possible, ascend it on horseback. We
spurred our horses through the crowd, which opened to let us pass, and
turning to the right, rode along the base until we had reached a point
nearly opposite to the place from which we started. The hill of Tapeyac
is some six or eight hundred feet in height, and is a mass of rocks of
igneous origin, the surface being quite smooth and bare of vegetation.
It rises up from the plain abruptly, and is steep in its most sloping
part. We found the ascent much more difficult than we had anticipated,
and it required a great deal of hard labor to get up it. We kept in the
saddle for some distance, but at last were obliged to dismount and lead
our horses up the steep slope. It was really painful to see the poor
animals struggle up the smooth surface of the rock, and now and then it
seemed almost impossible for them to keep their footing. Thus we labored
upward, and at last stood upon the summit, when man and beast rested
from their toil. And while we sat down, holding in our hands the reins
of the faithful animals, we looked abroad upon the varied scene below us
and enjoyed the beautiful prospect. It was really magnificent, and fully
repaid us for the toil we had in ascending. The elevation of our
position brought under our view the famous valley of Mexico for many
miles in every direction. To the south lay the city, with the bright sun
shining in gilded rays upon the steeples and cupolas of the cathedral
and churches, giving them almost the appearance of burnished gold and
silver. More distant, in the same direction, the two snow-capped
mountains of Popocatapetl and Ixtaccihuatl loomed up in stern grandeur
into the clear, blue sky, and stood out from all their fellows in
beautiful relief. To the left, the eye swept over the sparkling surface
of lake Pezcoca, which washes the eastern barrier that shuts in this
fair Eden of the New World. Nearer, to the front and to the right, the
eye rests upon a wide expanse of plain, variegated with cultivated
fields, with their irrigating ditches, like threads of silver,
meandering through them. Here and there flocks and herds were grazing on
the verdant pasture, or seeking the shade of the trees to shield them
from the sun. Such, in a few words, is the nature of the beautiful
landscape which opened to our view from the rocky summit where we were
seated, and for the reader fully to appreciate it, he must be aware of
the freshness and enchantment the balmy air and crystal skies of that
clime lend to every scene. We enjoyed it to the utmost stretch of human
capacity to enjoy the beauties of nature, and as we descended the rocky
mount, so loth were we to have it shut from our sight, that we cast
“many a longing, lingering look behind,” ere we reached the level of the
plain.
On nearly the highest point, on the spot where the Indian is said to
have plucked the roses, a small church has been erected, which tradition
says, sprung up out of the rock in a single night. It is a dark-looking
stone building, built in the heavy Spanish style of two centuries ago.
It is reached from below by a winding stairway, cut in the solid rock,
considerably crumbled by time, and worn by the footsteps of the
thousands who pass up to worship at the shrine of their favorite saint.
We entered the sacred edifice, and found it thronged with devotees,
mostly half-naked Indians, who had come from the mountains and valleys
beyond, on this their annual pilgrimage to the Mecca of their spiritual
hopes, and who, like the devout Moslem who yearly kneels at the tomb of
his Prophet, having finished his mission, is ready to lie down and die.
They jostled and pushed each other in their anxiety to approach the
altar and touch the garments of the image of the Virgin, and deposit
their offering of money in the dish ready to receive it. Parents,
anxious that their little ones should behold the great saint, lifted
them up over the head of the multitude, and at a given signal the whole
assemblage prostrated themselves on the hard paved floor to receive the
blessing of the good father who ministered there. The poor Indians gazed
in mute astonishment at all they saw, but to them the riddle was not to
be solved, they were taught to believe, not to inquire. When they had
deposited their offerings, and received a blessing, they turned away to
make room for others who were continually pressing on.
Turning away from this scene, we led our horses down the stone stairway
into the inclosure below. The crowd was not so dense as before, and we
now found no difficulty in making our way through. Giving our horses to
a Mexican to hold, we entered the sacred edifice dedicated to the Virgin
of Guadalupé. The building was yet crowded with people, and the high
dignitaries of the church were performing some solemn ceremony,
commemorative of the occasion. In appearance this church is by far the
most magnificent one I was in, in Mexico. It seemed almost one blaze of
gold and silver in the bright sunlight which streamed through the
windows, and played upon the rich decorations. The whole ceiling, and
especially the dome, is painted in the most beautiful fresco, and so
life-like are the images, that they appear almost to speak from the
panels. Above the altar, at the east end of the church, in a frame-work
of solid gold, is an image of the Virgin as large as life. Her dress is
spangled with precious stones, and inside the frame are strips of gold
running the whole length, thickly studded with diamonds, pearls, and
emeralds—golden rays issue from each side, and suspended above it is a
silver dove as large as an eagle. The altar is of finely polished
marble, and highly ornamented, and in front runs a railing of silver. On
both sides of the middle aisle, extending from the altar to the choir,
some sixty feet, is a railing covered with pure silver half an inch in
thickness. In addition to these, there are many silver lamps suspended
from the ceilings, silver candlesticks before and around the altar, and
some of the sacred desks are beautifully wrought in the precious metals.
The choir is made of a beautiful dark wood, richly carved and
ornamented, and the ceiling is supported by several marble pillars,
highly polished, and of great beauty. As we crossed the threshold, the
rich, deep tone of the organ, accompanied by the sound of many voices
chanting a song of praise, swelled beneath the lofty dome, and impressed
the listeners with feelings of reverence and thanksgiving. The building
was odorous with the perfume of the scattered incense which had a few
minutes before been cast abroad over the worshipers, and numerous
priests, in their rich robes, were ministering around the altar. The
anxious gazing multitude, within the temple, seemed fully impressed with
the solemnity of the occasion, and conducted themselves with much
propriety. We remained there a short time, and then returned to the yard
to look at one or two objects of interest before we rode back to the
city. Not far from the church is a “holy well,” over which a small
chapel has been erected. The water is supposed to be sacred, and to have
the power of healing wounds and preserving all who are touched by it.
Crowds were gathered there, some dipping the tips of their fingers in,
and crossing themselves, others applying a handful to the face, while
some of the anxious mothers plunged their dirty children in, in order
that the influence of the holy water might be sure to spread throughout
the whole system, that is, if the dirt of the little urchins did not
prevent it from penetrating. Being now tired of Guadalupé, and the dirty
crowd we met there, we rode out of the inclosure, and galloped down the
causeway toward Mexico, where we arrived in time to dine.
Having indulged in a short siesta, I again mounted my horse toward
evening, and in company with General C., rode to the Alemeda and Passeo
Nuevo. The Alemeda is a public square, in the western part of the city,
planted with trees and shrubbery, adorned with shady avenues, fountains
and statuary, and beautifully laid out in walks and drives. It contains
about ten acres, and is the most pleasant place of resort in or near the
city. The shrubbery is kept neatly trimmed and attended with great care,
and is odorous the live-long year with the perfume of opening flowers.
The trees clothed in their perpetual green foliage are fairly alive with
birds of bright plumage and sweet song, which carol their morning and
evening hymns free from harm. In the centre of the square is a large
fountain, surmounted by the Goddess of Liberty, which spouts pure water
high up in the air, and at its base crouch four lions, from whose mouths
spout up smaller jets. A semicircular row of seats surrounds the
fountain, and the surface of the space within is paved with large flat
stones, laid in tasteful figures. From this point the paths and
gravel-walks radiate in every direction, which are again met by others
running from other centres, the point where they cross being adorned by
smaller fountains. In pleasant weather hundreds of children assemble in
this charming place in the afternoon, and amuse themselves with their
innocent gambols in the shade of the wide-spreading trees. Hither the
beauty and fashion of the capital, who seek pleasure on foot, resort
toward evening, to promenade through the shady avenues. There the
student carries his book, and, in some quiet secluded corner, apart from
the fashionable world which rejoices around him, he sits alone and
pursues his favorite study; and there also the lovers repair at the
enchanting hour of eventide, and whisper anew their vows of faith and
constancy. A numerous throng were gathered there, enjoying themselves in
many ways, apparently unmindful that “grim visaged war” had erected his
shrine in their beautiful city, and that foreign soldiery were
overlooking them on the corner of every street. We rode through these
shady avenues and then passed out at the south-west angle into Passeo
Nuevo, with the crowd which moved that way. This is one of the
fashionable and most frequented public drives of the city; it is a
beautifully McAdamized road, half a mile in length, planted on each side
with fine shade-trees, and adorned in the centre by a fountain, which
spouts four jets of water. Seats are placed at intervals along each side
of the drive, and opposite to the fountain, for the accommodation of
foot people. Here all the world of Mexico may be seen toward evening, on
a bright afternoon, in carriages and on horseback, and a lively,
animated scene it presents. Rich equipages glitter in the declining sun,
noble steeds, superbly caparisoned, and ridden by gay caballeros,
proudly prance along, and beauty smiles upon every beholder. Everybody
who can command any kind of a vehicle drives to the Passeo, and
sometimes it is so much crowded, as to be quite difficult to drive or
ride along it. The equipages which throng this path of fashion are
various, and some of them are quite unique; and it is not uncommon to
see the elegant turn-out of the English minister, side by side with a
common country cart, lined with oxhide, and drawn by a poor old apology
for a horse that would hardly dare to look a vulture in the face. Yet
both parties are enjoying themselves in the fashionable world. The
custom of this drive is somewhat peculiar, which all follow to the very
letter of the law; it is to drive the full length twice, stop in the
centre opposite the fountain to salute your friends, as they pass by,
and then return home. To show our knowledge of the fashionable world, we
conformed as nearly as possible to the ways of those who were initiated
into the mysteries of the Passeo, and thereby, no doubt, passed for
current coin. We spent one hour thus, in seeing and being seen, pleased
with the animated scene we had witnessed, and then returned to our
quarters. Thus I passed my first Sunday in the city of the Montezumas,
and although not as religiously kept as would have been done at home, it
had no evil effect upon the spiritual or moral man.
* * * * *
=ENDYMION.=
=BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.=
What time the stars first flocked into the blue
Behind young Hesper, shepherd of the eve,
Sleep bathed the fair boy’s lids with charméd dew
Mid flowers that all day blossomed to receive
Endymion.
Lo, where he lay encircled in his dream!
The moss was glad to pillow his soft hair;
And toward him leaned the lily from the stream;
The hanging vine waved wooing in the air
Endymion.
The brook that erewhile won its easy way
O’errun with meadow grasses long and cool,
Now reeled into a fuller tide and lay
Caressing in its clear enamored pool
Endymion.
And all the sweet, delicious airs that fan
Enchanted gardens in their hour of bloom,
Blown through the soft invisible pipes of Pan,
Breathed mid their mingled music and perfume,
Endymion.
The silvery leaves that rustled in the light
Sent their winged shadows o’er his cheek entranced;
The constellations wandered down the night,
And whispered to the dew-drops where they danced
Endymion.
Lo! there he slept; and all his flock at will
Went, star-like, down the meadow’s azure mist:—
What wonder that pale Dian, with a thrill,
Breathed on his lips her sudden love and kist
Endymion!
* * * * *
=THE VINTAGE.=
=BY A. B. REACH.=
[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]
Let us to the joyous ingathering of the fruits of the earth—the great
yearly festival and jubilee of the property and the labor of Medoc.
October is the joyous “wine month.” For weeks, every cloud in the sky
has been watched—every cold night-breeze felt with nervous
apprehension. Upon the last bright weeks in summer, the savor and the
bouquet of the wine depend. Warmed by the blaze of an unclouded sun,
fanned by the mild breezes of the west, and moistened by morning and
evening dews, the grapes by slow degrees attain their perfect ripeness
and their culminating point of flavor. Then the vintage implements begin
to be sought out, cleaned, repaired, and scoured and sweetened with hot
brandy. Coopers work as if their lives depended upon their industry; and
all the anomalous tribe of lookers-out for chance jobs in town and
country pack up their bag and baggage, and from scores of miles around
pour in ragged regiments into Medoc.
There have long existed pleasing, and in some sort poetical,
associations connected with the task of securing for human use the
fruits of the earth; and to no species of crop do these picturesque
associations apply with greater force than to the ingathering of the
ancient harvest of the vine. From time immemorial, the season has
typified epochs of plenty and mirthful-heartedness—of good fare and of
good-will. The ancient types and figures descriptive of the vintage are
still literally true. The march of agricultural improvement seems never
to have set foot amid the vines. As it was with the patriarchs in the
East, so it is with the modern children of men. The goaded ox still
bears home the high-pressed grape-tub, and the feet of the trader are
still red in the purple juice which maketh glad the heart of man. The
scene is at once full of beauty, and of tender and even sacred
associations. The songs of the vintagers frequently chorussed from one
part of the field to the other, ring blithely into the bright summer
air, pealing out above the rough jokes and hearty peals of laughter
shouted hither and thither. All the green jungle is alive with the
moving figures of men and women, stooping among the vines or bearing
pails and basket-fulls of grapes out to the grass-grown cross-roads,
along which the laboring oxen drag the rough vintage carts, groaning and
cracking as they stagger along beneath their weight of purple tubs
heaped high with the tumbling masses of luscious fruit. The congregation
of every age and both sexes, and the careless variety of costume, add
additional features of picturesqueness to the scene. The white-haired
old man labors with shaking hands to fill the basket which his
black-eyed imp of a grandchild carries rejoicingly away. Quaint
broad-brimmed straw and felt hats—handkerchiefs twisted like turbans
over straggling elf-locks—swarthy skins tanned to an
olive-brown—black, flashing eyes—and hands and feet stained in the
abounding juices of the precious fruit—all these southern peculiarities
of costume and appearance supply the vintage with its pleasant
characteristics. The clatter of tongues is incessant. A fire of jokes
and jeers, of saucy questions, and more saucy retorts—of what, in fact,
in the humble and unpoetic but expressive vernacular, is called
“chaff”—is kept up with a vigor which seldom flags, except now and
then, when the butt-end of a song, or the twanging close of a chorus
strikes the general fancy, and procures for the _morceau_ a lusty
_encore_. Meantime, the master wine-grower moves observingly from rank
to rank. No neglected bunch of fruit escapes his watchful eye. No
careless vintager shakes the precious berries rudely upon the soil, but
he is promptly reminded of his slovenly work. Sometimes the tubs attract
the careful superintendent. He turns up the clusters to ascertain that
no leaves nor useless length of tendril are entombed in the juicy
masses, and anon directs his steps to the pressing-trough, anxious to
find that the lusty treaders are persevering manfully in their
long-continued dance.
Thither we will follow. The wine-press, or _cuvier de pressoir_,
consists, in the majority of cases, of a massive shallow tub, varying in
size from four square feet to as many square yards. It is placed either
upon wooden tressels or on a regularly built platform of mason-work
under the huge rafters of a substantial out-house. Close to it stands a
range of great butts, their number more or less, according to the size
of the vineyard. The grapes are flung by tub and caskfulls into the
cuvier. The treaders stamp diligently amid the masses, and the expressed
juice pours plentifully out of a hole level with the bottom of the
trough into a sieve of iron or wicker-work, which stops the passage of
the skins, and from thence drains into tubs below. Suppose, at the
moment of our arrival, the cuvier for a brief space empty. The
treaders—big, perspiring men, in shirts and tucked-up
trowsers—spattered to the eyes with splatches of purple juice, lean
upon their wooden spades, and wipe their foreheads. But their respite is
short. The creak of another cart-load of tubs is heard, and immediately
the wagon is backed up to the broad, open window, or rather hole in the
wall, above the trough. A minute suffices to wrench out tub after tub,
and to tilt their already half-mashed clusters splash into the reeking
_pressoir_. Then to work again. Jumping with a sort of spiteful
eagerness into the mountain of yielding, quivering fruit, the treaders
sink almost to the knees, stamping and jumping and rioting in the masses
of grapes, as fountains of juice spurt about their feet, and rush
bubbling and gurgling away. Presently, having, as it were, drawn the
first sweet blood of the new cargo, the eager tramping subsides into a
sort of quiet, measured dance, which the treaders continue, while, with
their wooden spades, they turn the pulpy remnants of the fruit hither
and thither, so as to expose the half-squeezed berries in every possible
way to the muscular action of the incessantly moving feet. All this time
the juice is flowing in a continuous stream into the tubs beneath. When
the jet begins to slacken, the heap is well tumbled with the wooden
spades, and, as though a new force had been applied, the juice-jet
immediately breaks out afresh. It takes, perhaps, half or three-quarters
of an hour thoroughly to squeeze the contents of a good-sized cuvier,
sufficiently manned. When at length, however, no further exertion
appears to be attended with corresponding results, the tubfulls of
expressed juice are carried by means of ladders to the edges of the
vats, and their contents tilted in; while the men in the trough,
setting-to with their spades, fling the masses of dripping grape-skins
in along with the juice. The vats sufficiently full, the fermentation is
allowed to commence. In the great cellars in which the juice is stored,
the listener at the door—he cannot brave the carbonic acid gas to enter
further—may hear, solemnly echoing in the cool shade of the great
darkened hall, the bubblings and seethings of the working liquid—the
inarticulate accents and indistinct rumblings which proclaim that a
great metempsychosis is taking place—that a natural substance is rising
higher in the eternal scale of things, and that the contents of these
great giants of vats are becoming changed from floods of mere mawkish,
sweetish fluid to noble wine—to a liquid honored and esteemed in all
ages—to a medicine exercising a strange and potent effect upon body and
soul—great for good and evil. Is there not something fanciful and
poetic in the notion of this change taking place mysteriously in the
darkness, when all the doors are locked and barred—for the atmosphere
about the vats is death—as if Nature would suffer no idle prying into
her mystic operations, and as if the grand transmutation and projection
from juice to wine had in it something of a secret and solemn and awful
nature—fenced round, as it were, and protected from vulgar curiosity by
the invisible halo of stifling gas? I saw the vats in the Château
Margaux cellars the day after the grape-juice had been flung in.
Fermentation had not as yet properly commenced, so access to the place
was possible; still, however, there was a strong vinous smell loading
the atmosphere, sharp and subtle in its influence on the nostrils;
while, putting my ear, on the recommendation of my conductor, to the
vats, I heard, deep down, perhaps eight feet down in the juice, a
seething, gushing sound, as if currents and eddies were beginning to
flow, in obedience to the influence of the working Spirit, and now and
then a hiss and a low bubbling throb, as though of a pot about to boil.
Within twenty-four hours, the cellar would be unapproachable.
Of course, it is quite foreign to my plan to enter upon any thing like a
detailed account of wine-making. I may only add, that the refuse skins,
stalks, and so forth, which settle into the bottom of the fermentation
vats, are taken out again after the wine has been drawn off, and
subjected to a new squeezing—in a press, however, and not by the
foot—the products being a small quantity of fiery, ill-flavored wine,
full of the bitter taste of the seeds and stalks of the grape, and
possessing no aroma or bouquet. The Bordeaux press for this purpose is
rather ingeniously constructed. It consists of a sort of a skeleton of a
cask, strips of daylight shining through from top to bottom between the
staves. In the centre works a strong perpendicular iron screw. The
_rape_, as the refuse of the treading is called, is piled beneath it;
the screw is manned capstan fashion, and the unhappy seeds, skins and
stalks, undergo a most dismal squeezing. Nor do their trials end there.
The wine-makers are terrible hands for getting at the very last
get-at-able drop. To this end, somewhat on the principle of rinsing an
exhausted spirit-bottle, so as, as it were, to catch the very flavor
still clinging to the glass, they plunge the doubly-squeezed _rape_ into
water, let it lie there for a short time, and then attack it with the
press again. The result is a horrible stuff called _piquette_, which, in
a wine country, bears the same resemblance to wine as the very dirtiest,
most wishy-washy, and most contemptible of swipes bears to honest porter
or ale. Piquette, in fact, may be defined as the ghost of wine!—wine
minus its bones, its flesh, and its soul! a liquid shadow!—a fluid
nothing!—an utter negation of all comfortable things and associations!
Nevertheless, however, the peasants swill it down in astounding
quantities, and apparently with sufficient satisfaction.
And now a word as to wine-treading. The process is universal in France,
with the exception of the cases of the sparkling wines of the Rhone and
Champagne, the grapes for which are squeezed by mechanical means, not by
the human foot. Now, very venerable and decidedly picturesque as is the
process of wine-treading, it is unquestionably rather a filthy one; and
the spectacle of great, brown, horny feet, not a whit too clean,
splashing and sprawling in the bubbling juice, conveys, at first sight,
a qualmy species of feeling, which, however, seems only to be
entertained by those to whom the sight is new. I looked dreadfully
askance at the operation when I first came across it; and when I was
invited—by a lady, too—to taste the juice, of which she caught up a
glassfull, a certain uncomfortable feeling of the inward man warred
terribly against politeness. But nobody around seemed to be in the least
squeamish. Often and often did I see one of the heroes of the tub walk
quietly over a dunghill, and then jump—barefooted, of course, as he
was—into the juice; and even a vigilant proprietor, who was
particularly careful that no bad grapes went into the tub, made no
objection. When I asked why a press was not used, as more handy,
cleaner, and more convenient, I was everywhere assured that all efforts
had failed to construct a wine-press capable of performing the work with
the perfection attained by the action of the human foot. No mechanical
squeezing, I was informed, would so nicely express that peculiar
proportion of the whole moisture of the grape which forms the highest
flavored wine. The manner in which the fruit was tossed about was
pointed out to me, and I was asked to observe that the grapes were, as
it were, squeezed in every possible fashion and from every possible
side, worked and churned and mashed hither and thither by the
ever-moving toes and muscles of the foot. As far as any impurity went,
the argument was, that the fermentation flung, as scum, to the surface,
every atom of foreign matter held in suspension in the wine, and that
the liquid ultimately obtained was as exquisitely pure as if human flesh
had never touched it.
In the collection of these and such like particulars, I sauntered for
days among the vineyards around; and utterly unknown and unfriended as I
was, I met everywhere the most cordial and pleasant receptions. I would
lounge, for example, to the door of a wine-treading shed, to watch the
movements of the people. Presently the proprietor, most likely attired
in a broad-brimmed straw hat, a strange faded outer garment, half
shooting-coat half dressing-gown, would come up courteously to the
stranger, and learning that I was an English visitor to the vintage,
would busy himself with the most graceful kindness, to make intelligible
the _rationale_ of all the operations. Often I was invited into the
château or farm-house, as the case might be; a bottle of an old vintage
produced and comfortably discussed in the coolness of the darkened,
thinly-furnished room, with its old-fashioned walnut-tree escrutoires,
and beauffets, its quaintly-panneled walls, and its polished floors,
gleaming like mirrors, and slippery as ice. On these occasions, the
conversation would often turn on the rejection, by England, of French
wines—a sore point with the growers of all save the first-class
vintages, and in which I had, as may be conceived, very little to say in
defense either of our taste or our policy. In the evenings, which were
getting chill and cold, I occasionally abandoned my room with
illustrations from the _Tour de Nesle_ for the general kitchen and
parlor of Madame Cadillac, and, ensconcing myself in the chimney
corner—a fine old-fashioned ingle, crackling and blazing with hard wood
logs—listened to the chat of the people of the village; they were
nearly all coopers and vine-dressers, who resorted there after the day’s
work was over to enjoy an exceedingly modest modicum of very thin wine.
I never benefited very much, however, by these listenings. It was my bad
luck to hear recounted neither tale nor legend—to pick up, at the hands
of my _compotatores_, neither local trait nor anecdote. The conversation
was as small as the wine. The gossip of the place—the prospects of the
vintage—elaborate comparisons of it with other vintages—births,
marriages, and deaths—a minute list of scandal, more or less
intelligible when conveyed in hints and allusions—were the staple
topics, mixed up, however, once or twice with general denunciations of
the niggardly conduct of certain neighboring proprietors to their
vintagers—giving them for breakfast nothing but coarse bread, lard, and
not even piquette to wash it down with, and for dinner not much more
tempting dishes.
In Medoc, there are two classes of vintagers—the fixed and the floating
population; and the latter, which makes an annual inroad into the
district, just as the Irish harvesters do into England and Scotland,
comprising a goodly proportion of very dubious and suspicious-looking
characters. The _gen-d’armerie_ have a busy time of it when these gentry
are collected in numbers in the district. Poultry disappear with the
most miraculous promptitude; small linen articles hung out to dry have
no more chance than if Falstaff’s regiment were marching by; and
garden-fruit and vegetables, of course, share the results produced by a
rigid application of the maxim that _la proprieté c’est le vol_. Where
these people come from is a puzzle. There will be vagrants and strollers
among them from all parts of France—from the Pyrenees and the
Alps—from the pine-woods of the Landes and the moors of Brittany. They
unite in bands of a dozen or a score men and women, appointing a chief,
who bargains with the vine-proprietor for the services of the company,
and keeps up some degree of order and subordination, principally by
means of the unconstitutional application of a good thick stick. I
frequently encountered these bands, making their way from one district
to another, and better samples of the “dangerous classes” were never
collected. They looked vicious and abandoned, as well as miserably poor.
The women, in particular, were as brazen-faced a set of slatterns as
could be conceived; and the majority of the men—tattered,
strapping-looking fellows, with torn slouched-hats, and tremendous
cudgels—were exactly the sort of persons a nervous gentleman would have
scruples about meeting at dusk in a long lane. It is when thus on the
tramp that the petty pilfering and picking and stealing, to which I have
alluded, goes on. When actually at work, they have no time for picking
up unconsidered trifles. Sometimes these people pass the night—all
together, of course—in out-houses or barns, when the _chef_ can strike
a good bargain; at other times they bivouac on the lee-side of a wood or
wall, in genuine gipsy fashion. You may often see their watch-fires
glimmering in the night; and be sure, that where you do, there are
twisted necks and vacant nests in many a neighboring hen-roost. One
evening, I was sauntering along the beach at Paulliac—a little town on
the river’s bank, about a dozen of miles from the mouth of the Gironde,
and holding precisely the same relation to Bordeaux as Gravesend does to
London—when a band of vintagers, men, women, and children, came up.
They were bound to some village on the opposite side of the Gironde, and
wanted to get ferried across. A long parley accordingly ensued between
the chief and a group of boatmen. The commander of the vintage forces
offered four sous per head as the passage-money. The bargemen would hear
of nothing under five; and, after a tremendous verbal battle, the
vintagers announced that they were not going to be cheated, and that if
they could not cross the water, they would stay where they were.
Accordingly, a bivouac was soon formed. Creeping under the lee of a row
of casks, on the shingle of the bare beach, the women were placed
leaning against the somewhat hard and large pillows in question; the
children were nestled at their feet, and in their laps; and the men
formed the outermost ranks. A supply of loaves was sent for and
obtained. The chief tore the bread up into huge hunks, which he
distributed to his dependents; and upon this supper the whole party went
coolly to sleep—more coolly, indeed, than agreeably; for a keen north
wind was whistling along the sedgy banks of the river, and the red blaze
of high-piled fagots was streaming from the houses across the black,
cold, turbid waters. At length, however, some arrangement was come to;
for, on visiting the spot a couple of hours afterward, I found the party
rather more comfortably ensconced under the ample sails of the barge
which was to bear them the next morning to their destination.
The dinner-party formed every day, when the process of stripping the
vines is going on, is, particularly in the cases in which the people are
treated well by the proprietor, frequently a very pretty and very
picturesque spectacle. It always takes place in the open air, amongst
the bushes, or under some neighboring walnut-tree. Sometimes long tables
are spread upon tressles; but in general no such formality is deemed
requisite. The guests fling themselves in groups upon the ground—men
and women picturesquely huddled together—the former bloused and bearded
personages—the latter showy, in their bright short petticoats of
home-spun and dyed cloth, with glaring handkerchiefs twisted like
turbans round their heads—each man and woman with a deep plate in his
or her lap. Then the people of the house bustle about, distributing huge
brown loaves, which are torn asunder, and the fragments chucked from
hand to hand. Next a vast cauldron of soup, smoking like a volcano, is
painfully lifted out from the kitchen, and dealt about in mighty
ladlefulls; while the founder of the feast takes care that the tough,
thready _bouilli_—like lumps of boiled-down hemp—shall be fairly
apportioned among his guests. _Piquette_ is the general beverage. A
barrel is set abroach, and every species of mug, glass, cup, and jug
about the establishment is called to aid in its consumption. A short
rest devoted to chatting, or very often sleeping in the shade, over, the
signal is given, and the work recommences.
“You have seen our _salle à manger_,” said one of my courteous
entertainers—he of the broad-brimmed straw-hat, “and now you shall see
our _chambre à coucher_.” Accordingly, he led me to a barn close to his
wine-cellars. The place was littered deep with clean, fresh straw. Here
and there rolled-up blankets were laid against the wall; while all
round, from nails stuck in between the bare bricks, hung by straps and
strings the little bundles, knapsacks, and other baggage of the
laborers. On one side, two or three swarthy young women were playfully
pushing each other aside, so as to get a morsel of cracked mirror stuck
against the wall—their long hair hanging down in black elf-locks, in
the preliminary stage of its arrangement.
“That is the ladies’ side,” said my _cicerone_, pointing to the girls;
“and that”—extending his other hand—“is the gentlemen’s side.”
“And so they all sleep here together?”
“Every night. I find shelter and straw; any other accommodation they
must procure for themselves.”
“Rather unruly, I should suppose?”
“Not a bit. They are too tired to do any thing but sleep. They go off,
sir, like dormice.”
“_Oh, sil plait à Mossieu!_” put in one of the damsels. “The chief of
the band does the police.” (_Fait la gen-d’armerie_)
“Certainly—certainly,” said the proprietor, “the gentlemen lie here,
with their heads to the walls; the ladies there; and the _chef de la
bande_ stretches himself all along between them.”
“A sort of living frontier.”
“Truly; and he allows no nonsense.”
“_Il est meme éxcessivement severe_,” interpolated the same young lady.
“He needs be,” replied her employer. “He allows no loud speaking—no
joking; and as there are no candles, no light, why they can do nothing
better than go quietly to sleep, if it were only in self-defense.”
One word more about the vintage. The reader will easily conceive that it
is on the smaller properties, where the wine is intended, not so much
for commerce as for household use, that the vintage partakes most of the
festival nature. In the large and first-class vineyards the process goes
on under rigid superintendence, and is, as much as possible, made a cold
matter of business. He who wishes to see the vintages of books and
poems—the laughing, joking, singing festivals amid the vines, which we
are accustomed to consider the harvests of the grape—must betake him to
the multitudinous patches of peasant property, in which neighbor helps
neighbor to gather in the crop, and upon which whole families labor
merrily together, as much for the amusement of the thing, and from good
neighborly feeling, as in consideration of francs and sous. Here, of
course, there is no tight discipline observed, nor is there any absolute
necessity for that continuous, close scrutiny into the state of the
grapes—all of them, hard or rotten, going slap-dash into the
_cuvier_—which, in the case of the more precious vintages, forms no
small check upon a general state of careless jollity. Every one eats as
much fruit as he pleases, and rests when he is tired. On such occasions
it is that you hear to the best advantage the joyous songs and choruses
of the vintage—many of these last being very pretty bits of melody,
generally sung by the women and girls, in shrill treble unison, and
caught up and continued from one part of the field to another.
Yet, discipline and control it as you will, the vintage will ever be
beautiful, picturesque, and full of association. The rude wains,
creaking beneath the reeking tubs—the patient faces of the yoked oxen—
the half-naked, stalwort men, who toil to help the cart along the ruts
and furrows of the way—the handkerchief-turbaned women, their gay
red-and-blue dresses peeping from out the greenery of the leaves—the
children dashing about as if the whole thing were a frolick, and the
gray-headed old men tottering cheerfully a-down the lines of vines, with
baskets and pails of gathered grapes to fill the yawning tubs—the whole
picture is at once classic, venerable, and picturesque, not more by
association than actuality.
A strange feature in the wine country is the wonderously capricious and
fitful nature of the soil. A forenoon’s walk will show you the earth
altering in its surface qualities almost like the shifting hues of shot
silk—gravel of a light color fading into gravel of a dark—sand
blending with the mould, and bringing it now to a dusky yellow, now to
an ashen gray—strata of chalky clay every now and then struggling into
light only to melt away into beds of mere shingle—or bright,
semi-transparent pebbles, indebted to the action of water for shape and
hue. At two principal points these blending and shifting qualities of
soil put forth their utmost powers—in the favored grounds of Margaux,
and again, at a distance of about fifteen miles farther to the north, in
the vineyards of Lafitte, Latour, and between these latter, in the sunny
slopes of St. Jullien. And the strangest thing of all is, that the
quality—the magic—of the ground changes, without, in all cases, a
corresponding change in the surface strata. If a fanciful and willful
fairy had flown over Medoc, flinging down here a blessing and there a
curse upon the shifting shingle, the effect could not have been more
oddly various. You can almost jump from a spot unknown to fame, to
another clustered with the most precious vintage of Europe. Half-a-dozen
furrows often make all the difference between vines producing a beverage
which will be drunk in the halls and palaces of England and Russia, and
vines yielding a harvest which will be consumed in the cabarets and
estaminets of the neighborhood. It is to be observed, however, that the
first-class wines belong almost entirely to the large proprietors. Amid
a labyrinth of little patches, the property of the laboring peasants
around, will be a spot appertaining to, and bearing the name of, some of
the famous growths; while, conversely, inserted, as if by an accident,
in the centre of a district of great name, and producing wine of great
price, will be a perverse patch, yielding the most commonplace tipple,
and worth not so many sous per yard as the surrounding earth is worth
crowns.
How comes this? The peasants will tell you that it doesn’t come at all.
That it is all cant and _blague_ and puff on the part of the big
proprietors, and that their wine is only more thought of because they
have more capital to get it bragged about. Near Château Lafitte, on a
burning afternoon, I took refuge beneath the emblematic bush; for the
emblem which good wine is said not to require, is still, in the mid and
southern districts of France, in universal use; in other words, I
entered a village public-house.
Two old men, very much of the general type of the people of the
country—that is, tall and spare, with intelligent and mildly-expressive
faces and fine black eyes, were discussing together a sober bottle. One
of them had lost an arm, and the other a leg. As I glanced at this
peculiarity, the one-legged man caught my eye.
“Ah!” he said, “looking at our misfortunes; I left my leg on Waterloo.”
“And I,” chimed in his companion, “left my arm at Trafalgar.”
“_Sacré!_” said the veteran of the land. “One of the cursed English
bullets took me in the knee, and spoiled as tight a lancer as they had
in the gallant 10th.”
“And I,” rejoined the other, “was at the fourth main-deck gun of the
Pluton, when I was struck with the splinter while we were engaging the
Mars. But we had our revenge. The Pluton shot the Mars’ captain’s head
off!”—a fact which I afterward verified. Captain Duff, the officer
alluded to, was thus killed upon his quarter-deck, and the same ball
shattered two seamen almost to pieces.
“_Sacré!_” said the _ci-devant_ lancer, “I’d like to have a rap at the
English again—I would—the English—_nom de tonnerre_—tell me—didn’t
they murder the emperor!”
A rising smile, which I could not help, stopped him. I had spoken so few
words, that the fact that a son of _perfide Albion_ was before them was
only manifested by the expression of my face.
“_Tiens!_” continued the Waterloo man, “_You_ are an Englishman.”
The old sailor, who was evidently by no means so keen a hand as his
comrade, nudged him; a hint, I suppose, in common phrase, to draw it
mild; but the ex-lancer of the 10th was not to be put down.
“Well, and if you are, what then, eh? I say I would like to have another
brush with you.”
“No, no! We have had enough of brushes!” said the far more pacific man
of the sea. “I think, _mon voisin_—that you and I have had quite enough
of fighting.”
“But they killed the emperor. _Sacré nom de tous les diables_—they
killed the emperor.”
My modest exculpation on behalf of Great Britain and Ireland was
listened to with great impatience by the maimed lancer, and great
attention by the maimed sailor, who kept up a running commentary:
“_Eh! eh! entendez cela._ Now, that’s quite different (to his friend)
from what you tell us. Come—that’s another story altogether; and what I
say is, that that’s reasonable.”
But the lancer was not to be convinced—“_Sacré bleu!_—they killed the
emperor.”
All this, it is to be observed, passed without the slightest feeling of
personal animosity. The lancer, who, I suspect, had passed the forenoon
in the cabaret, every now and then shook hands with me magnanimously, as
to show that his wrath was national—not individual; and when I proposed
a bottle of rather better wine than they had been drinking neither
soldier nor sailor had a word to say in objection. The wine was brought,
and very good it was, though not, of course, first-class claret.
“What do you think of that?” said the sailor.
“I wish I had as good every day in England,” I replied.
“And why haven’t you?” said the fierce lancer. “You might, if you chose.
But you drink none of our wines.”
I demurred to this proposition, but the Waterloo man was down on me in
no time. “Yes, yes; the wines of the great houses—the great
proprietors. _Sacré_—the _farceurs_—the _blageurs_—who puff their
wines, and get them puffed, and great prices for them, when they’re not
better than ours—the peasant’s wines—when they’re grown in the same
ground—ripened by the same sun! _Mille diables!_ Look at that
bottle!—taste it! My son-in-law grew it! My son-in-law sells it; I know
all about it. You shall have that bottle for ten sous, and the Lafitte
people and the Larose people would charge you ten francs for it; and it
is as good for ten sous as theirs for ten francs. I tell you it grew
side by side with their vines; but they have capital—they have power.
They crack off their wines, and we—the poor people!—we, who trim and
dig and work our little patches—no one knows any thing about us. Our
wine—bah!—what is it? It has no name—no fame! Who will give us
francs? No, no; sous for the poor man—francs for the rich. Copper for
the little landlord; silver—silver and gold for the big landlord! As
our curé said last Sunday: ‘Unto him who has much, more shall be given.’
_Sacré Dieu de dieux!_—Even the Bible goes against the poor!”
All this time, the old sailor was tugging his comrade’s jacket, and
uttering sundry deprecatory ejaculations against such unnecessary
vehemence. The Trafalgar man was clearly a take-it-easy personage; not
troubled by too much thinking, and by no means a professional
grievance-monger. So he interposed to bring back the topic to a more
soothing subject, and said that what he would like, would be to see lots
of English ships coming up the Gironde with the good cottons and
woollens and hardware we made in England, and taking back in exchange
their cheap and wholesome wines—not only the great vintages (_crus_)
for the great folk, but the common vintages for the common folk.
“Indeed, I think,” he concluded, “that sitting here drinking this good
ten sous’ wine with this English gentleman—who’s going to pay for
it—is far better than fighting him and hacking him up, or his hacking
us up, with swords and balls and so forth.”
To this most sensible opinion we had all the pains in the world to get
the doughty lancer to incline. He couldn’t see it at all. He would like
to have another brush. He wasn’t half done for yet. It was all very
well; but war was grand, and glory was grand. “_Vive la guerre!_” and
“_Vive la gloire!_”
“But,” said the sailor, “there is death in glory!”
“_Eh bien!_” shouted the warrior, with as perfect French sentiment as
ever I heard, “_Vive la mort!_”
In the end, however, he was pleased to admit that, if we took the
peasant wines, something might be made of us. The case was not utterly
hopeless; and when I rose to go, he proposed a stirrup-cup—a _coup de
l’itrier_—to the washing down of all unkindness; but, in the very act
of swallowing it, he didn’t exactly stop, but made a motion as if he
would, and then slowly letting the last drop run over his lips, he put
down the glass, and said, bitterly and coldly, “_Mais pourtant, vous
avez tué l’Empereur!_”
I have introduced this episode principally for the purpose of showing
the notions entertained by the small proprietary as to the boasted
superiority of the large vineyards; but the plain truth is, that the
great growers are perfectly in the right. I have stated that the quality
of the soil throughout the grape country varies almost magically. Well,
the good spots have been more or less known since Medoc was Medoc; and
the larger and richer residents have got them, by inheritance, by
marriage, and by purchase, almost entirely into their own hands. Next
they greatly improved both the soil and the breed of plants. They
studied and experimentalized until they found the most proper manures
and the most promising cultures. They grafted and crossed the vine
plants till they got the most admirably bearing bushes, and then,
generation after generation, devoting all their attention to the quality
of the wine, without regard to the quantity—scrupulously taking care
that not a grape which is unripe or over-ripe finds its way into the
tub.
* * * * *
=LIGHT OF NATURE.=
=BY WM. ALEXANDER.=
How insufficient Nature’s light to guide
Our world’s poor blinded, woful wanderers home!
The wide spread universe—the azure dome—
The stars which in their golden chariots ride,
Divinity’s design and work proclaim—
But can no further go. It may emit
A sad, a sickening note of wo; yet it,
When questioned of the “Great Restorer’s” name,
Nor voice, nor answer e’er returns. ’Tis here
Thy helplessness, O Nature! lies—
Speakest thou but of Him who built the skies;
“Things seen made not of things which do appear;”
No Sun of Righteousness is ever known from thee;
No vision and the people perish utterly.
* * * * *
=THE MOTHER’S PROPHECY.=
=BY MRS. JULIA C. E. DORR.=
CHAPTER I.
It was a cold, windy night in the winter of 179-. The tall pines that
had climbed to the highest summits of the Green Mountains, bent beneath
the rushing of the blast; and as the wind careered among their branches,
gave out moans and shrieks that seemed in the darkness like the wailing
of weird spirits. Ever and anon the air would be filled with tiny
particles of ice and snow, and the cold, fitful gleaming of the moon, as
it occasionally emerged from behind a cloud, only served to make the
scene more desolate, as the tall, gaunt shadows were rendered distinctly
visible.
But in the quiet little valley that lay nestling at the very foot of one
of the tallest peaks, there were no traces of storm. The strife of the
elements disturbed not its repose, for the encircling mountains bent
over it lovingly, and with their giant arms seemed to ward off all
dangers, and keep back all foes that might harass this—the pet lamb
that rested in their embrace.
A single farm-house, rudely constructed of logs, stood beneath the
shadow of forest-trees; and, indeed, but few of those ancient dwellers
in the valley had as yet bowed their haughty heads at the stroke of the
woodman’s axe. Every thing around the little dwelling betokened that it
was the abode of one of the hardy pioneers who had left the sunny banks
of the Connecticut for a home amid the wilds of Vermont. But there was a
ruddy light gleaming from the small window, that spoke invitingly of
peace and comfort within; and occasionally the sound of woman’s voice
singing a low, soft lullaby fell dreamily upon the ear; or rather, might
have done so, had there been an ear to listen.
In the principal apartment of the house—the one that served alike for
kitchen and parlor, sat Andrew Gordon and his fair and gentle wife—Amy.
A bright-eyed boy, apparently about four years old, played upon the
nicely-sanded floor, and in the mother’s arms lay a babe, very lovely,
but very fragile, upon whose face the eyes of Amy Gordon dwelt with a
long, yearning gaze. Few words were spoken by the little group. The
husband and father sat gazing thoughtfully upon the glowing embers; the
wife rocked the child that was cradled upon her breast; and little
Frederick silently builded his “cob-house,” stopping now and then to
scan with a pleased eye the progress of his work, or uttering an
exclamation of disappointment as the tottering fabric fell to the floor.
There was an air of refinement about the master and mistress of that
little domicil, that contrasted somewhat strangely with their rude home
and its appurtenances. The dress of the wife, although coarse and plain,
was arranged so tastefully, so _genteely_, as the young ladies of the
present day would say, that you would scarcely have noted its texture,
or the absence of ornament. Her slight figure, and the faint color upon
her cheek, spoke of a delicacy of constitution hardly suited for the
hardships and trials of an emigrant’s life; but the meek light within
her eye, her calm, broad forehead, and the slight smile that lingered
upon her lip, told that she possessed that truest of all
strength—strength of mind and heart.
There was something in the face of Andrew Gordon that, to a close
observer, was not exactly pleasing; and yet you could not have denied
that it was a very handsome face—quite sufficiently so to warrant the
unmistakable look of admiration that his wife occasionally cast upon it.
Intellect was there—courage was there—firmness of purpose, and a
resolute will; and there was a depth of affection in his eye whenever it
dwelt upon the group around him that proved him the possessor of a
kindly heart. Perhaps it was some early disappointment—some real or
fancied wrong—some never-to-be-forgotten act of harshness or injustice
on the part of another that, once in a while, cast such a shadow over
his fine face, and gave such a bitter expression to his well formed
mouth.
For half an hour they remained as we have pictured them above; and then
the mother tenderly placed her little one upon the bed that stood in one
corner of the room—cradles were a luxury unknown in those days—and
glancing at the clock that pointed to the hour of eight, said,
“Come, Frederick, put away your cobs, dear. It is bed-time for little
boys.”
“Oh, I wish it wouldn’t be eight o’clock so soon when I am making
cob-houses,” replied the child; “just wait one minute, mamma, until I
make a chimney—then my house will be done. There, now—isn’t it a nice
one?” So saying, Freddy gave the finishing touch to his edifice—looked
at it admiringly for a moment, then giving it a light pressure with his
hand, his evening’s work was demolished in an instant. Laughing heartily
at the havoc he had made, he hastily gathered the cobs in a basket near
him, and sprang to his mother’s side.
Ah, Freddy, Freddy! how like you are to many a “child of larger growth,”
who toils, month after month, year after year, building a temple, it may
be to love, or wealth, or fame; and then, when it is nearly or quite
completed, by a single false step, or a single ill-regulated action,
destroys the shrine he has been rearing with so much care and labor! But
here the similitude ceases. You laugh and clap your hands in childish
glee at the downfall of _your_ house, _he_ sits down desolate and alone
by the ruin he has made, and mourns over hopes and prospects buried
beneath it.
Thoughts somewhat like these may have passed through the mind of Andrew
Gordon, for there was a cloud upon his brow, as he watched his wife
while she undressed the playful child, and smoothed his dark curls
preparatory to the night’s repose. Then kneeling by her side, and
folding his little hands together, Frederick repeated after her a simple
prayer—a child’s prayer of love and faith, asking God’s blessing upon
those dearest to him—his father, mother, and little sister, and His
care and protection through the night.
“Now I must kiss papa good-night,” said the little boy; “and then,
mamma, wont you please to sit by me, and tell me a pretty little story?
I will shut my eyes up, and go right to sleep _so quick_ if you will.”
The good-night kisses were exchanged; Frederick soon nestled closely in
his soft, warm pillow, and true to his promise, closed his eyes, while
his mother, in a low, soothing voice, told him a story of the birds and
lambs and flowers. Presently he was fast asleep, and pressing the
tenderest of kisses upon his rosy cheek, Amy returned to her seat by the
fireside.
“Dear little fellow! how sweetly he sleeps,” said she, moving her chair
as she spoke nearer to her husband. “I wonder what the future hath laid
up in store for him,” she continued, musingly, with her eyes fixed upon
the bright blaze that went roaring and crackling up the broad chimney.
“And yet if the book of fate were laid open before me, I should fear to
turn to the page on which his destiny is inscribed.”
“I hope, at any rate, that the word _wealth_ is written there,” said
Andrew Gordon, speaking for the first time since he had taken his wonted
seat by the fire that evening. “I am not a very great believer in books
of fate or in irrevocable destiny. Man makes his own destiny, with some
little help from others—and Frederick shall be a rich man before he
dies, if my exertions are of any avail.”
“He may be taken from us, even in childhood, Andrew;” and the mother’s
eye turned anxiously toward the little bed, as if the bare thought of
death was enough to awaken her solicitude. “I would rather he would be
_great_ than _rich_—and _good_ than either.”
“He will be great if he is rich—that is, he will have influence, and be
looked up to; and as for goodness—pshaw! who ever heard of a rich man’s
doing wrong?” he continued, with that bitter smile, of which we have
before spoken, curling his thin lip. “If a man possesses wealth, he may
oppress the poor, strip the widow and the fatherless of their last
penny, cheat his neighbors, and rob his own brother—but it is all
_right_!”
“Then may God grant that our boy may never be a rich man, Andrew,” said
his wife, solemnly. “But you speak too bitterly, dearest. Your own
misfortunes have made you unreasonable upon this point.” And Amy lifted,
caressingly, the dark locks that fell over her husband’s high forehead.
“Unreasonable, Amy! Have I not cause to speak bitterly? Have I not been
defrauded of my just rights? Have I not been robbed—ay, literally
_robbed_ of the fortune my father left me when I was too young to know
its value? Can I forget that one, one of my own kith and kin, too, lives
in the dwelling of my forefathers, and calls their broad lands his, when
he knows, and I know, and the world knows, that I am the rightful heir?
Can I forget all this, and that I am _here_?” he added, glancing
contemptuously round upon the rough walls of his cottage. “And you, too,
Amy—you, who were born and reared in a home of luxury—you, whose
presence would grace the proudest drawing-room in the land; you, whom I
wooed and won before I dreamed that I was to tread a path like this; and
yet, angel that you are, you who have never breathed a word of reproach,
or a syllable of complaint, your home, too, is here in this rude
cabin”—and the proud man bowed his head, and something that looked
strangely like a tear, glittered a moment in the firelight.
“But you are here with me in this rude cabin as you call it, dearest,
you and our little ones; and how many times must I tell you that I would
rather be here, provided I am by your side, than to sit upon the throne
of the Indies without you? I believe you say these things,” she
continued, playfully, kissing his flushed brow as she spoke, for she
would fain have won him back to more cheerful thoughts, “I believe you
say these things just for the sake of hearing me tell you over and over
again how dearly I love you, and how happy I am with you. Is it not so,
darling?”
But Andrew Gordon was not to be cheered even by the tender caresses of
his wife. His mind would dwell upon themes, the contemplation of which
was destroying his peace of mind, and fast changing his very nature.
“I tell you, Amy,” he said, rising and pacing the apartment with a
hurried step, “I tell you, Amy, I will be rich! and Frederick shall be
as rich, ay, richer, than if his father had not been cheated out of his
inheritance. They think,” he added, with a flashing eye, “that they have
trampled me in the very dust, but they cannot keep me there. I will be
rich and influential; and as soon as Fred is old enough to learn the
lesson, I will teach him how to make money, and how to keep it, too.”
“No, no, Andrew—spare me that last blow, I implore you,” said Amy, and
tears were rapidly chasing each other down her pale cheeks. “If you will
give up your whole mind and soul to the pursuit of wealth, as you have
done for the last two years—if you will coin your very heart’s blood
for gold, and allow this feverish thirst for gain to become, as it were,
the very essence of your being, spare me this last blow. Teach not this
lesson to our child. Teach him to be prudent, industrious, economical as
you will, and my example and teachings shall be added to your own; but
impress not upon his young mind the doctrine that the acquisition of
wealth is the chief end of his existence, and its possession the chief
source of man’s enjoyment. Just as surely as you do is misery in store
for him. A mother’s heart is a prophetic heart, and I repeat it—just as
surely as you do is misery in store for him and you; just so surely will
his sun and yours set in darkness and in gloom. Oh, Andrew, Andrew! for
your own sake—for my sake—for the sake of these precious ones,” she
added, drawing him to the couch where their children lay, “cease this
struggle that is wearing your life away, and changing you so greatly,
that at times I can scarcely recognize the Andrew Gordon of my early
love.”
The fire upon the hearth had burned low; but, at that moment, a broad,
ruddy glow filled the room, and Andrew Gordon stood with his eyes fixed
steadfastly upon his wife’s face. Who can tell the emotions that swept
over his soul during those few, brief moments? Good and evil spirits
were striving for the mastery upon the arena of his heart, and his
countenance worked strangely as one or the other prevailed. At last, he
turned hastily away, and muttering—as if to himself—“But Frederick
must be a rich man,” he sought his pillow.
He had chosen his part!