Harper's magazine.
New York, etc. : Harper & Brothers, 1850-
http : //hdl . handle . net/2027/mdp . 39015056090619
HathiTrust
www.hathitrust.org
Public Domain, Google-digitized
http://www.hathitrust.0rg/access_use#pd-g00gle
We have determined this work to be in the public domain, meaning that it is not subject to copyright. Users are free to copy, use, and redistribute the work in part or in whole. It is possible that current copyright holders, heirs or the estate of the authors of individual portions of the work, such as illustrations or photographs, assert copyrights over these portions. Depending on the nature of subsequent use that is made, additional rights may need to be obtained independently of anything we can address. The digital images and OCR of this work were produced by Google, Inc. (indicated by a watermark on each page in the PageTurner). Google requests that the images and OCR not be re-hosted, redistributed or used commercially. The images are provided for educational, scholarly, non-commercial purposes.
Kgitize*frbr>
Go
Digitized by
Go 'gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Digitized by
Go 'gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
HARPER’S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
VOLUME XXIX.
JUNE TO NOVEMBER, 1864.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 327 to 835 PEARL STREET,
VBAIIKL1 N SQUABS.
1864.
ty Google
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Digitized by
Go 'gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
CONTENTS OF VOLUME XXIX.
AFRICA, CLUB-MAN IN Charles Nordhoff 281
AMONG THE SHEAVES 783
ANGELS OF THE HOUSEHOLD F. W. Dellcw 821
ARIZONA, A TOUR THROUGH J. Ross Browne 553, 689
at home .rnrnr'
ATLANTA, HOW WE FIGHT AT Henry 0. Dwight 663
AUNT THORNEYPINE 502
AUSTRALIA, ADVENTURE ON THE COAST OF W. Parker Snow 417
AUTUMN TIME 782
BEND, THE Elizabeth S. Phelps 323
BET, OUR .TTTT.TT. TTlt -
BOAT, MY 206
BONDS, IN Helen W. Pierson 488
BROKEN IMAGES N. G. Shepherd 876
CAFF GRECO, THE C. P. Cranch 505
CANDIDATE FOR ST. JUDE’S. THE George Wurts 630
CHAMPLAIN, LAKE, WAR ON B. J. Lossing 147
CLUB-MAN IN AFRICA Charles Nordhoff 281
COAL AND COAL- MINING Henry D. Rogers 163
CONTRAST, THE 259
COOLIE TRADE, A CHAPTER ON Edgar Holden 1
COST, THE REAL Louise E. Fumiss 741
COUSIN ALICE’S GRAVE Wm. C. Richards 769
CROW-CHILD, THE Mary E. Dodge 763
CRUISE ON THE SASSACUS Edgar Holden 712
DEAD LOVE, A N. G. Shepherd 93
DEATH AND LOVE 645
DENIS DUVAL W. M. Thackeray 213, 358
DIAMOND MINES, ON THE WAY TO Harriet E. Prescott 724
“DIXIE,” IN G. S. Plumley 232
DOBBS’S HORSE Mary E. Dodge COT
DOOMED TO MUSIC A. C. Wheeler 190
DROWNED, TREATMENT OF THE APPARENTLY 377
DRUMMER-BOY’S BURIAL, THE Julia R. Dorr 145
EDITOR S DRAWER.
Drawee for June 135 Drawer for September 547
Drawer for Juet 268 Drawer for October 678
Drawer for August 409 Drawer for November 813
EDITOR’S EASY CHAIR.
Chair for June 131 Chair for September 643
Chair for Jult 264 Chair for October 673
Chair for August 405 Chair for November 809
ESQUIMAUX, AT HOME WITH THE Alfred II. Guernsey 432
FASHIONS, THE
Fashions for June 143 Fashions for September 551
Fashions for Jult 279 Fashions for October 687
Fashions for August 415 Fashions for November 823
FIRST TIME UNDER FIRE J '. W. De Forrest 475
FOOTING, ON THE RIGHT S. S. Nash 371
FORTUNES OF WAR, THE Robert Tomes 227
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
iv
CONTENTS.
FOUR EXPERIENCES IN WALTZING Alfred Carroll 278
HEART’S LONGINGS, THE .V. G. Shepherd 240
HEIR OF RAYMOND HILL Mary E. Sherwood 15
HEREAFTER Julia R. Dorr 584
HIGH PRIVATE C. B. Conant 431
HOMtEOPATHY John A. Bolles 104
HOW IT HAPPENED Mary E. Dodge 187
HOW WE FIGHT AT ATLANTA Henry 0. Dwight 663
IN BONDS Helen W. Pierson 448
INNER LIFE, THE 576
LAMPS, OLD FOR NEW Louise E. Fumiss 235
LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY Dinah Maria Mulock 510
LAST OF SEVEN, THE Louise Chandler Moulton 470
LAURA AND HER HERO ‘ Nora Perry 168
LETTER, A 7. N. G. Shepherd 637
LETTER G, THE Fanny Barrow 85
LIBRARIES S. IV. G. Benjamin 482
LITERARY NOTICES.
Speke's Discovery of the Source of the Nile, 12T. mac and Rapidan ; K cade’s Savage Africa ; Parton'a Hunt's Life of Edward Livingston; Furness’s Veil Partly Life of Franklin; Nineteen Beautiful Years; Guide- Lifted, 128. McWhorter's Hand-Book of the New Test- Book of Central New Jersey Railroad ; Mitchell’s Seven ament; Clark’s Daleth; Private Miles O’Reilly’s Book; StorieB ; Harper's Hand-Book for Europe and the East, National Almanac; Annual of Scientific Discovery; 4)4. Brown ;*’s Crusoe Island; Azarian; Willson's Vaux's Villas and Cottages, 129. Mayhew's Horse Spellers, 806. Captain Brand; The Blennerhassett Management; Hackett’s Christian Memorials of the Papers; Lindesfarn Chase; Not Dead Yet; Maurice War; Farnham’s Woman and her Idea ; Dufour’s Strat- m Dering; Semmes^ Cruise of the Alabama, 807. McPher- egy and Tactics, 130. Carlyle's Frederick the Great; son's Political History; Library Editions of Dickens, Spring’s Pulpit Ministrations; Bethune on the Heidel- Merrivale, Gil Bias, and Thackeray, 808.
berg Catechism ; Barbara’s History, 403. Quint's Poto-
LITTLE MONK, THE R H . Stoddard 638
LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN, SHELLS ON Charles Gates 629
LOST N. G . Shepherd 749
MAGALLOWAY, EXPLORING THE Francis Parkman 735
MILITARY HOSPITALS AT FORTRESS MONROE JohnS . C. Abbott 306
MISSING B. B. Stanton 305
MONROE, JAMES, AND HIS ADMINISTRATION Joshua Leavitt 461
MONTGOMERY, THREE YEARS IN W. Hedges 196
MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.
United States.— Congress, 124, 536. Prohibition of Slavery, 124 Freedman’s Bureau, 124 Gold Bill, 124. House Resolution respecting Mexico, 124. Mr. Long's Disunion Speech, 1*25. The National Banking Law, 125. The Red River Campaign, 125, 260, 401. Battles . at Cane River and Pleasant Hill, 125. Gun-boats at- " tacked on Red River, 125, 260. Operations in Texas, 125. Treaty witli Japan, 127. The Army of the Poto- mac, 125, 260, 399, 538, 668. Affairs in Arkansas, 126, 260. Kentucky and Tennessee, 126. Massacre at Fort Pillow, 126. Elections, 126, 805. Retreat of the Red River Expedition, 260. Retreat of General Steele to Little Rock, 260. Defeat at Pine Bluff, 260. Disaster at Plymouth, North Carolina, 260. Advance of Grant, and Battles in the Wilderness, 261. Battle at Spotfcsyl- vnnia, 262, 399. Butler’s Advance from Fortress Mon- roe, 262. Kautz’s Raid, 262. Fort Darling, 263. Sher- idan’s Raid, 263. Sigel’s Defeat near Mount Jackson, 263. The Army of the Mississippi, 263, 401, 539, 670, 804 Sherman’s Advance from Chattanooga, 263. Bat- tle at Rosaca, 2G3. Battles near Spottsylvanla Court House, 399. Grant’s Movement to the loft, 400. Cross- ing the North Anna, 400. Occupation of Coal Harbor,
400. Battles near the Chickahominy, 400. Grant’s new Plan ; Crossing the James River, 400. Butler's with- drawal from Fort Darling, 400. Battle at Staunton, 401. Operations in the Valley of the Shenandoah. 401. Occu- pvtlon of Allatoona Pass, 401. Wheeler’s Raid toward Chattanooga, 401. Close of the Red River Curapaign,
401. Canby in Command on the Mississippi, 401. Mor- gan's Raid into Kentucky, 401. Lews of Gun-boats, 401. The Cleveland Convention ; Nomination of Fremont and Cochrane, 401. The Baltimore Convention; Nomina- tion of Lincoln and Johnson, 40L Adjournment of Con- gress, 536. The Tariff and Internal Revenue Laws, 536. Soldiers' Pay, Commercial Intercourse, and Reconstruc- tion Laws, 537. Opeuing of the Siege of Petersburg, 538. Actions of Jane 10-22, 538. Attack on the Weldon
Railroad, 538. Hunter's Failure at Lynchburg, 538. Early's Advance down the Shenandoah, 538. Sigel abandons Sharpsburg and Harper’s Ferry, 539. Battle of Monocacy, 539. Baltimore and Washington threat- ened, 539. Failure on James Island, near Charleston, 539. Battles near Lost Mountain, Georgia 539 Hood supersedes Johnston, 539. Battles of June and July, 534h Minor Operations, 540. Destruction of the Ala- bama, 540. Resignation of Mr. Chase, and Appoint- ment of Mr. Fessenden, 541. Financial Policy of the New Secretary, 541. Address of Opposition Congress- men, 541. The Saunders and Greeley Peace Negotia- tions, 542. Operations before Petersburg, July 21-27, CG8. Failure of the Mine, 669. Explosion of the Ken- drick, 669. Actions of August 12-21, 669. The Confed- erate Retreat from Maryland, 669. Federal Defeat at Winchester, 669. Burning of Chambershurg, 669. Sher- idan placed in Command in Middle Virginia, 669. Oper- ations in the Valley, 670. Shennan’s Operations before Atlanta, 670. Battle at Joneshorough, 670, 804. Cap- ture of Atlanta, 670, 804. Stotieman and Cook's unsuc- cessful Expeditions, 670, 804. Operations of Wheeler and Forrest, 670. Operations near Mobile; Capture of Forts Powell, Gaines, and Morgan, CTO. The Cruiser Tallahnssee, 671. The Chicago Convention; Nomina- tion of McClellan and Pendleton ; Speeches and Platform, 671. Sheridan’s Victories near Martinsburg and Fish- er's Hill, 8< 6. Cattle captured near Richmond, 805. Withdrawal of Fremont and Cochrane, 805. Elections in Vermont and Maine, 805.
Southern* America.— Maximilian’s Acceptance of the Mexican Crown, 127. His Arrival at Vera Cruz, 402. The French in Mexico, 672. Spanish Occupation of the Chinchft Islands, 263. The Slave Trade in Cuba, 402. 8eizure of Slaves ; the Case of Arguelles, 402.
Europe. — The Schleswig-Holstein War, 126, 263, 402, 542, 672. The Polish Insurrection, 126. Execution ef the Leaden, 672. Disturbance* in Hungary, 126. Ja-
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
CONTENTS.
T
Mo.htht Rboosd.— Continued.
paneae Era base y to Europe, 126. The Britlah Govern- Capture of the Georgia, <772. Danish Truce, 402. Naval ment and the Confederacy, 126, 263, 402, 642, 672. Battle between the Danes and Prussians, 402. Ur. Garibaldi, 126 ; expelled from England, 263. The Al- Cobden on the Alabama, 402. Semraes in England, 642. exandra, 126, 263. Capture of DiippeL, 263. Earl Rus- The Peace Conference, 542. The Queen's Speech, 672. sell on the Seizure of the Confederate Rams, 263, 402. New Experiments with Guns and Armor, 672. Treaty Bale of the Confederate Steamer Georgia, 263, ML between Germany and Denmark, 672.
MORTE D’ARTHUR Alfred Tennyson 11
MRS. GISBORNE’S WAY Harriet E. Prescott 585
NOBLE, ONE OF THE Belle Z. Spencer 201
NORTHERN FARMER, OLD STYLE Alfred Tennyson 667
NORTHWARD 114
OCTOBER N. G. Shepherd 695
OLD LAMPS FOR NEW Louise E. Fumiss 286
ON THE RIGHT FOOTING S. S. Nash 371
ON THE WAY TO THE DIAMOND MINES Harriet E. Prescott 724
ONLY TWELVE LEFT .'. Charles Gates 84
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND Charles Dickens 67, 241, 380, 516, 646, 784
POOR WHITES OF THE SOUTH, THE J. R. GiUmore 115
PRESENTATION WEEK AT YALE Julius H. Ward 497
PRICES AND INVESTMENTS Alfred H. Guernsey 398
PRINCESS, AN UNFORTUNATE 760
PRIVATEERING IN THE WAR OF 1812 B. J. Lossing 696
REFUGEES, MY Elizabeth S. Phelps 754
SASSACUS, A CRUISE ON THE Edgar Holden 712
SCENES IN THE WAR OF 1812 B. J. Lossing 147, 696
SHAKSPEARE’S TERCENTENARY M. D. Conway 337
SILVER SPOON, MY Mary N. Prescott 769
SISTER, MY LOST: A CONFESSION Louise W. Barker 464
SISTERS, THE N. G. Shepherd
SHELLS ON LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN Charles Gates 629
SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON, THE Anthony Trollope 41
SOLDIER, MY 734
SOLDIER’S WIFE, FROM A Belle Z. Spencer 622
SOUNDINGS Charlotte Taylor 179
ST. JUDE’S, THE CANDIDATE FOR George Wurts 630
STRAW BONNETS ’ E. W. Carpenter 576
SWORD SONG, MY Richard Real/ 40
THEODOSIA BURR James Parion 293
THREE LIVES 3 b
THREE TROPHIES FROM THE WAR Katharine C. Walker 60
THREE YEARS J/F. Fitz 196
TIGER, A ROYAL BENGAL Charles tiordhoff 619
TOWARD SUNSET Samuel Osgood 109
TRAGEDY, THE DECLINE OF Charles T. Congdon 745
TREATMENT OF THE APPARENTLY DROWNED 377
UNKIND WORD, THE Dinah Maria Mulock 206, 346
UPS AND DOWNS O. H. Dutton 776
WAR, THE FORTUNES OF Robert Tomes 227
WHY I WROTE IT Louise W. Barker 94
WINE-MAKING IN CALIFORNIA A. Haraszthy 22
WEDDING, THE .a 502
WOMAN ON THE FARM Mary E. Dodge 355
WOMAN’S PROFESSION DISHONORED Catherine Beecher 766
YOUR HUMBLE SERVANT Robert Tomes 53
Digitized by Gougle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
1. Coolies Embarking 1
2. An enraged Coolie 2
3. Barracoons at Macao 3
4. A Chinese Sampan 4
5. Chinese Interpreters 4
6. Preserving the Peace 5
7. A Providential Mischance 6
8. Closing the Main Hatch 7
9. Firing down the Hatchway 7
10. Chained to the Hatch 8
11. A vain Attempt 8
12. The Writing in Blood 9
13. On the Lower Deck 10
14. The Finding of Excalibur H
15. Death of King Arthur 14
16. Buena Vista Ranch and Vineyard. ... 22
17. Baena Vista Vinicultural Association 23
18. Planting the Vine 25
19. Training the Vine 26
20. Tanks in the Wine Works 27
21. Cellars of the Vineyard 29
22. In the Garden at AUington 41
23. Charles Dickens 66
24. A Flattering Prospect 141
25. Hard Indeed 142
26. Rather Doubtful 142
27. Breakfast Robe 143
28. Out-Door Dress for June 144
29. The Drummer-Boy’s Burial 145
30. Scene of Battle on Lake Champlain . . 147
31. Thomas Macdonough 148
32. Alexander Macomb 149
33. Moore’s House, Champlain 149
34. Stone Mill at Plattsburg 150
35. Sampson’s, near Plattsburg 150
36. Stone Church, Beekmantown 151
37. Platt’s Residence 152
38. Up the Saranac, from Fort Brown . .%. 153
39. United States Hotel, Plattsburg 156
40. Graves of the Slain, Plattsburg 156
41. Macomb’s Monument 157
42. Fort Pickering, Salem 158
43. The Stonington Flag 159
44. Cobb’s House, Stonington 160
45. Half-Moon Battery, Castine 160
46. Blake’s Residence, Bangor 161
47. Crosby’s Wharf, Hampden 161
48. Remains of Fort George, Castine 162
49. Old Manner of Coal-Mining 163
50. Coal-cutting Machine 166
51-88. Soundings — 38 Hlustrations 180
89. The Cottage in the Highlands 206
90. At Rudge’s — Denis Duval 213
91. Last Moments of the Count deSaverne 214
92. Evidence for the Defense 219
93. The Bird of Prey 242
94. Witnessing the Agreement 243
95. Ruinous Prices 277
96. A Juvenile Connoisseur 277
97. Progress of Taste 277
98. Waltzing — The Start 278
99. Waltzing — The Engagement 278
100. Waltzing — Giving Way 278
101. Waltzing — Surrender 278
102. Morning Toilet for July 279
103. Home Dress for July 280
104. Wild Bull of Equatorial Africa 281
105. An African Tornado 283
106. The Gorilla Dance 285
107. Detained in Equatorial Africa 287
108. By Ox and Hammock in Angola. . . . 289
109. The Djikikunka 290
110. Christmas-Eve in the Casein anche . . 291
111. Theodosia Burr— Three Portraits . . . 293
112. Military Hospital at Hampton 306
113. Chesapeake Militaiy Hospital 307
114. Hospital Ward 309
115. The Drug Shop 310
116. Washer-Women of the Hospital .... 311
117. The Horse “Frank” 314
118. The Dog “Sport” 314
119. The Hospital Grave-Yard 315
120. The Grave-Digger 316
121. The Low-Diet Kitchen 317
122. Scene in the Hospital 320
123. The Hospital Chapel and Library. . . 321
124. Bringing in Patients 322
125. Shakspeare — The Stratford Bust ... . 336
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
ILLUSTRATIONS.
126. Shakspeare— The Droeshout Print . .
127. Shakspeare — The Chandos Portrait. .
128. Shakspeare — The Jansen Portrait. . .
129. Shakspeare — The Sonnet Portrait. . .
130. Shakspeare — The Kesselstadt Mask . .
131. M‘Diannid’s Explanation
132. Denis Duval — The Letter
133. Denis’s Valet
134. The Apparently Drowned — First
135. The Apparently Drowned — Second..
136. The Apparently Drowned — Third...
137. The Apparently Drowned — Fourth . .
138. At the Bar — Mutual Friend
139. Mr. Venus and his Trophies
140. Here’s Richness
14U The Juvenile Excelsior Club
142. Bridal Toilet
143. Child’s Pelisse ...
144. Under-Sleeves
145. Muslin Waist
146. The Storm off Australia
147. At the Mouth of Clarence River ....
148. Home of the Cedar-Cutter
149. A Tent in the Forest
150. Harry’s Wooing
151. The Night Alarm
152. The Fight for the Bride
153. The Women’s Caucus
154. The Ghost of the Rescue
155. The George Henry in Winter-Quarters
156. Wreck of the Rescue
157. Exploration by Water
158. Innuit Seal-Hunter
159. C. F. Hall, Tookoolito, and Ebierbing
160. Innuit Summer Village
161. Innuit Hospitality
162. Harpooning a Walrus
163. A Pupil of the Bear
164. Bear and Walrus . .
165. Waiting for a Seal
166. Watching at a Seal Hole
167. Young Polar coming to the Point. . .
168. Innuit Musician
169. A Snow Village
170. Innuit and Seal Dog
171. An Esquimaux Dog Train
172. A Fight for a Meal
173. Opening the Igloo
174. EsquimauxWomanrelatingTraditions
175. Discovery of Frobisher Relics
1 76. Traveling in the Snow
Digitized by
Gck igle
|
336 |
177. |
|
336 |
178. |
|
336 |
179. |
|
336 |
180. |
|
343 |
181. |
|
354 |
182. |
|
358 |
183. |
|
364 |
184. |
|
377 |
185. |
|
378 |
186. |
|
379 |
187. |
|
379 |
188. |
|
380 |
189. |
|
381 |
190. |
|
413 |
191. |
|
414 |
192. |
|
415 |
193. |
|
416 |
194. |
|
416 |
195. |
|
416 |
196. |
|
417 |
197. |
|
420 |
198. |
|
424 |
199. |
|
425 |
200. |
|
426 |
201. |
|
428 |
202. |
|
429 |
203. |
|
430 |
204. |
|
432 |
205. |
|
433 |
206. |
|
434 |
207. |
|
435 |
208. |
|
436 |
209. |
|
437 |
210. |
|
438 |
211. |
|
439 |
212. |
|
440 |
213. |
|
441 |
214. |
|
442 |
215. |
|
443 |
216. |
|
444 |
217. |
|
445 |
218. |
|
446 |
219. |
|
447 |
220. |
|
448 |
221. |
|
449 |
222. |
|
450 |
223. |
|
451 |
224. |
|
452 |
225. |
|
453 |
226. |
|
453 |
227. |
vii
Lancashir#Doxology 510
Our Bet 511
The Boffin Progress 516
The Happy Pair 517
Podsnappery 521
Waiting for Father 533
The Rival Anglers 549
Not Bad to Take 550
Evening Toilet and Child’s Dress. . . 551
Morning Dress 552
On the March in Arizona 553
San Jose de Tumacacori 555
Rocky Mesa on the Gila 556
Silver Mines, Santa Rita Mountains . 557— —
A Hardy Adventurer 558
Tucson, Arizona 559
Pimo Indian 562
San Pedro, Arizona 563
Wilmington, Arizona 564
Cafion of San Felippe 567
Fort Yuma 570
Yuma Indian . 572
Yuma Chiefs 573
After the Distribution 574
George 574
The Inner Life 575
Italian Bonnet Makers 576
Betsey Baker 578
Union Straw Works, Foxborough . . . 579
New England Bonnet Makers 580
Portion of Press Room 582
Portion of Wiring Hall 583
First American Straw Bonnet 584
Harbor of Marblehead 596
Clipper-built Privateer Schooner 596
Commodore Barney 597
Samuel C. Reid 604
Henry Van Meter 606
Rural Tableau 685
Hint for Politicians 686
Promenade Robe for October 687
Circular Pardessus 688
Pimo Indian Girls 689
Castle Dome, Arizona 691
Gila City 693
Mission Camp, Corunnasim Peak 694
Antelope Peak 695
Mesa Tower 698
Scene of the Oatman Massacre 699
Apache Hanging 702
Apache Crucified 703
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
yiii
ILLUSTRATIONS.
228. White’s Mill ♦ 704
229. Pimo Village 704
230. Pimo Varsoma 705
231. PimoHampta 705
232. Pimo Woman grinding Wheat 705
233. Pimo Widow in Mourning 706
234. El Pecacho 707
235. Painted Bocks on the Gila 708
236. The Paintings on the Rocks 709
237. Casas Grandas 710
238. Collision with the Sassacus 712
239. Oh! we’re Gone! 713
240. Effect of the Collision 714
241. The Chase through the Fog 715
242. Blockade-runner Wild Dayrell Ashore 716
243. The Cabin of the Wild Dayrell 717
244. Attacked by Sharp-Shooters 719
245. The Admonition 719
246. Run Ashore, and Burned 720
247. Boarding the Burning Steamer 721
248. The Wet Purser 721
249. Putting out the Fire 722
250. Cabin of the Nutfield 723
251. The Drowned 723
252. Abandoned to his Fate 724
253. Cousin Alice’s Grave 769
254. Among the Sheaves 783
255. Mrs. Boffin discovers an Orphan 784
256. The Bird of Prey brought down 785
257. The Person of the House 795
258. The Dinner at Veneering’s 79G
259-267. Angels of the Household 821
268. Autumn Paletot 823
269. Corsage h Basque 824
270. Bolero Vest 824
271. Corselet and Collar .824
Digitized by Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
HARPER’S
No. i’LXIX.— K'Nli, IS64— You XXIX.
A OB A PT E U ON TH E OOOL I E TRADE.
X ?i**W of ope grweAt problems of the emicrod x liMt mm
. age— thfi firming an, eiTirottit F»/p, Uma thi*. an *>l<} fhrrj.t of^UVery to ton <n..;n
sive l«ik>v~-a very brief account of the jffsm ;} r’uig*} moU*r a new jwhio., Hfidrmmy ft dofodod :ppitbieiu fi'Trncfl ilia **-PuaUe Trade** ov<y I/ia Coote if t(M?5>y mi dbr a rnove hopeles* and «r* f<*r ing- »d eotmeertori nub that .of the mwi •■: r ibl* V?iVdftge than th>> Afrbvw Foorn ilft? («a forma the chief #t§bjeet of th<r btVc/rii1'’"-' ' ft temporary
tifsie. Al»oo*t every cme to ictsbibcxl {lie' tut a Hfr^jrag have been ft# varied ni
ifiiiUe idea of \t da a g.igamie wrong,, : the ftmfapt men* and ■«& sumom ns the Pfoter
J.'V" ■*■ - ■• , 'A A, ^ — *\v - f. X V** “ WW- ^ » .•• \ * '
.. . j» _ -z.. • ** l at.-* ii'Rm ..a a^-1 ^ '• UU ,.V>. 'j? L*Vy#u • /<«C. *.*.-*• .V *!•*'*• IV
|
|i|hw'vK?^ |
IIP |
|
SjjA'^A , ‘jJsfe |
2
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
m vs ; but the one in question is of recent date, and seems to have originated in the urgent de- mand for laborers on South American planta- tions. The term 44 Coolie” belongs of right to a predatory tribe living near the Gulf of Cutch, in Africa ; hut as applied to the trade, it is merely a European title for the lowest class of laborers in most Eastern countries, and there seems to be no connection between the two names.
The experiment of persuading these men to emigrate, as most likely to supply the place of the slave, to endure the toil, the heat, and cli- matic changes of the country, originated in 1833-39 among the planters of British Guiana, on the northeast coast of South America. The business was at the outset fair and honorable, and the following were the inducements proffered first to the Indian Coolies in the neighborhood of Calcutta : Transportation to be free ; their monthly wages to bo four dollars, and in addition two months' advance pay ; they were to have two suits of clothes annually ; they were to re- main five years, not necessarily under one mas- ter, and at the end of that time to be allowed to return ; their food and medical attendance ivere to be free of charge during their term of service. Large numbers were ready to emigrate, but the first shipments were unsuccessful ; the Coolies dying ere long from various causes, either pure- ly climatic or owing to change in style of food and habit.
Nevertheless the emigration continued, and, as might have been expected, tho greatest abuses were developed. They were collected under false representation, they were cheated in all the terms of their agreement, and in many in- stances kidnapped by wholesale. To so great an extent were these abuses carried that, in less than three years, the British Indian Government interfered and stopped the trade. Shortly after, at the earnest solicitation of tho planters, the business was resumed, uuder restrictions that in- sured a considerable degree of protection to the laborer. The Coolie Trade, however, that has excited the greatest interest and developed the worst atrocities is the Chinese.
The lowest class of Chinamen were collected Under every variety of pretext, there being no Government superintendence or protection, and shipped to Peru and the aifjueciit Chinclm Isl- ands, or to Cuba. Upon arrival they were dis- posed of to the highest bidder, tho price being sometimes as high as three hundred dollars, though I hare rarely known them to cost more than eighty on board ship. The terras upon which tins class of Coolies were induced to leave their country were simply those: Their trans- portation, as in the original Indian plan, to be free ; they were to be Wind for seven years at A salary of eighteen dollars a year, and at the end of their term of service they were to be free : that time vras sure to find them each deeply in debt to his master, and his chance of esdipe rendered each day more and more distant.. Wlmf then would be the result when years should accumu- late hundreds whose broken spirits could yet
i rise indignantly ns each succeeding cargo should ; he landed among them, bringing rebellious ones j furious at the prospect before them?
I A letter from a promiuent agent in Havana, i written in 1855, says, in regard to this point:
j • “ Upon some witate* they nru preferred to Africans ft* they superior IntelUgetinft, But they have fn iur*t
| instance* ehowu a malidoii* and vengeful UbpoiUrion, oral j have had recount to lnrfndUrt*m of tho work* »ud cane- fiehl* out of revenge at the conrve pursued toward Man*, j If tko trade he allowed, and the Importation continue with ! the present *y»t*m of oppression, the consequences must he a {*eriotM outbreak, perhaps revolution."
f.
BNBAOC1> OOOLIK.
| To give as briefly as possible some idea of the extent of the trade at Havana, the following sta- tistics are taken from a report of the lion. R. M. M*JLane, in 1858, and need no comment:
14 la 1*17 thore wes-e imported l>«f *lx hundred ; yet sire year* alVr— in 1S?>3 — the number had forfeited to three j thousand two hundred find sixty; in 1ST4 it was eight j hundred and thirty-eight ; in three thousand and i twelve."
In this year an edict of the Chinese Emperor forbade the traffic under severe penalties; and the English Government, by Act of Parliament, confiscated all ship* found in British waters not having certain prescribed j»aj>crf5. The trade, how- ever, still flourished, and the principal depot was stationed about two hundred and fifty miles up the coast from I long Kong, at Swatuo. Accord- ing to the American Commissioner, I>r. Parker, full half the tonnage from that port was Amer- ican*.' He was instructed in 185b to publicly discountenance the whole business, and pro- nounce it illegal. The edict of the Chinese* Emperor was afterward so far modified a* to allow emigration tinder rigid restrictions, and agents Were employed to protect the emigrants in their rights, and see that every one embarked willingly, with full understanding of the obliga- tion into which he was entering.
Go gle
UNI
Original from
VERSITY OF MICH
a cmvrm of xhe coolie rmm.
Uiititpgn CooUm is> ei&hryd&U*r& which were tfte galley's, the door of ioqieruhg
% head, freighting the ships often for .some oilier outward, In mJiitiiorl to t)te*e preparations <>n than ik {%&&<.< }»■> f% hut ayenihtaHf arriving -at.' the <par deck a hart kiute wo* built, running Mwtte or Hong fitted aui ready for the • athwart. ship, from rail tn tail, a ajnirr distance
trade. 1 in front of the captain’* cabin. twelve feet vbb\
Bweh the of She trade in 18.TIV f ten feet high, ntnl arranged so that n guard »>f
when tho Ld>Vp of nearly #00*> tons, j armed wn con Id, from their .notion on top, corn-
sailed from New York loaded \ykh cmv! for the • iriitmi the whole deck, while within It were tjc- Uaited rirate* naval squadron in the China sea*. { enmniodatiori* /or their sleeping. , When all It would - be. little ty the purpose of the narrative | was ready we sailed for Macao, from t he vie mi- tt) ehlesr .into a detailed oecoonr of the outward ty of which port thCr curpn iv»ts UJ he received.
#ajiSrtg at Hong Kcmg, the trarrs- Thousamls had been Ot>U^Vc| fnnnj e#rr portatipti of laborer* from1 Chinn id the Austro*- quarter of the kingdom^ under every pretetl, and liari mines or describe the tfioustfiTjd incidents crowded into hameoor^^ amid/ nor fe&. ftarfui 6f a long stay tri n Chinese port. Enough to , horrors than c haraeffcrize those of the ii«*£ (he-? s*y rhal pearly rh fee- fourths of a year Elapsed j tricts of Africa Many 3md been induced to ore- our JuJtoUrt cargo was ready: During the j leave their homes under Hie most cruel mi's rep- fottwr port. of this /tine eottensfre pieparanons ; resen tationrs, ami once at the biitracbitatf, cowed «mv ounlc to rev ‘dve them | by the lash ar torture, were tawghi: to reply as
Down the length of both loaor decks their masters coininnnded to the queSHTi.ous of
vr&re huih tier m tter of tanks, or wh><r shelve* Govern moot official* who; at long tutor* al^, earn* ^for they were \firhmH *id<^ or ^Vfdiir^r purr?- ; to inspect them. Tbj^v harracodns arc termed t itrn:s. Large qnaqllt'&s trf hn&t pork; nc«§; efcc\* j Ofa-Ke-i™itnt " Fig-rtmiP---- and frwi their «>mtl were stowed awap' Ilutrdrcda of nfttptvipA^ tllthv eoudhioh the uutoi: Matty
tilled the holds, rind cm ihd tipper or *>pnr tU&ck [ diV-d of qi-^Hh^ ifdrhh- nt to such con-
vrfcre erected 'galleys for cooking CMcr ewy ; finenienit &ttd them -w^re - not • an •
te?xhway ssvfoom were iron gm tings tupre-j imniYncnK )\.y ;c .: , . !- J
vent too fte& aeee-s from hfdow to ilte h|>per J Wc lay otf •r'hoM cc verrd m iles., and it wi» deck that one, the muio and nearly cmtrj thvrvfi'iv ucc^^ary u> bting Ulo, Goelic^ to the
it IM.04«X
ship in beats, These btf ata termed. s<tv>
iwn^and a*w capable from thirty :V0' / drm hflifdtfcd men- to&U'M the iwc-r*; A \Y$m& ifsu riUy fdf & xri . th \ ?veru to #e*'r. ■ tf mi vMn^h»e% to scnl't the 'tout, wMta joAorsi*
axili^e t>n;r ^.vVjU fttnrtij; bn (tUriks ipfojecifcd
OW •,;. -vV .' ‘ v
iVjfh*
pd the ship aftc» anoiWy -most of; tficin naked 'jUj ilifet wmfc wfcariag otait t)ifj :Coi»lijci and
htoad4>ru}imed /straw* hat. Slung ru tho Wj^BB wei* n pouch iind-jmcw* uud a hula wsebjr ijmi hobti in do ho* they knowing full wall the »hn channels. 'A few wero n, g-i'ni W? j probability of gmiug nearer their (mmo t }vu\
‘were vmHen tic fepi» tidtog/ Yfbcp wore* itfUiad a the dto>uled baymeoOTt* The ru*m ? ho Q*m.Q fat~ ihe giva^vv^y like so many Jade* of eoutin, f v\?iVd was 'immniUateJy wt ivdiof#, ainl us the mastered in ryhya ' ttyon ilia d^k; &rt»j Vjfcir I wiuj ■'ffyotitw?# fair ail hands, Of the ci»w were j^Mge or Weapon*; f ticJrrioyl rtouly for AeA. ;;/'ibe tv hole
When nil wura op fowl# ■ <&.>W*r?mient olfieiul j jrttnni*cr -of i^iywi vpi& me
came oHteiMJtbW to see ibht r h n»£ f kiri^ and caeh wttS^ttwed. aWoy k»
emigrants. A puiilfc «vo non nc« meat made rriji>'ully .en the confusion and bust h* incident to iha\ any one Who wn$ cn< board ;><j-:unst bis will • .such « bnrbnrmi* gathering nonhl Admit. Th« should step forward. Oiily had tha Qti^lMrln Auoh r t^^vined pr?uw.r part of two
dny>\ iic.sidesthoGoc*)-
•;-:'i:, :- :■•;••■ v/ •. ' . more
i*dy : and
•:.• v '•. ;' /;::;i^)yv;:.; v. ,-^ ■ > . /a' ’<v.; . ...• • drcti yetunung by tvayot.
yl.iL
ns c^'misVv^. Titov ,<vy)rt af lmlf CloTiaTnair half Fort «2 U and wpre
fer' The;
inii^ of Cddhfe on l*t^ird:
mm
A SA«U*Aft.
TUR iNTJEJU^kTinMi
|
m |
... |
|# |
,y v, |
||
|
^>V <".v' |
Go gle.
Original ffam
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
A CHAPTER ON THE COOLIE TRADE.
demolition of the contents with their chopsticks* Mitch of their time was spent in gambling, al- most always with dominoes, and when not en- gaged at this they were either quarreling or playing on musical instruments, of which they had a great number. Their barbarous music would hardly strike the car of an American vir- tuoso as melodious. It was a most ingeniously discordant variation, from the tuin-tum-ti-tillv of a onc-afring violin to the hoarse uproar pro- duced by enormous clarionets without keys, llutes six feet long, cymbals, gongs, drnms, and marine mimjKHs. Occasionally, but more par- ticularly toward the end of a voyage, they will attempt a rough sort of theatricals to while away the monotonous hours, yet in point of scenery or incident the most absurd.
Rut to proceed to our departure from Macao : The Coolies were allowed perfect freedom, in limited numbers, on the forward part of the up* per deck, and their (boil carefully prepared and served. Had it not been for a providential mis- chance on the evening of the third day out the terrific incidents that followed would have come upon ns totally unprepared. A not unusual quarrel had occurred orr the lower deck, the shouting and altercation soon running to blows. The police, some of whom it may be remarked were Cooties, were quickly on the spot, Rnd after great difficulty succeeded in quelling the riot ; not, however, in time to prevent one man being cut down with a cleaver. This man, quite seriously wounded, together with four of the principal rioters, were brought up, and the latter
Warned by their representation of the treacher- ous nature of our barbarons freight guards were stationed at all necessary points, a police force appointed, and indeed every precaution taken to subduo any disaffection that might arise. The necessity for such precaution may be appreciated if the comparatively small number of our crew (sixty, all told) be considered. The barbarians, moreover, were constantly quarreling, and with- in the very first twenty-four hours several were brought up and flogged after the old approved navy style. One or two suicides occurred, and one man was found strangled, whether by his own hand or by some of his companions was never ascertained.
A word or two regarding the way in which these Coolies passed their time and deported themselves generally may not be uninteresting. They were not usually unclean in their habits, but, on the contrary, were fond of dabbling in water like children, and some of them wore around their necks pieces of muslin to use as towels. Many had tooth-brushes, and little pieces of bone used for scraping the tongue — a habit, strangely enough, which they religiously observed. They hail but two meals daily, prin- cipally of rice and salt fish, with, at noon, or about eleven o’clock, a bowl of tea. Their rice was boiled at the galleys on deck in boskets, and the whole number of Coolies being divided into messes, the portion for each was served and carried below in other baskets. They then sat around on the deck, and, helping themselves each to a quantity in a small china bow), fell to a rapid
Digitized1 by CaOOglC
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
A PIWVrtWWTIAL MlHClIAtfCK.
chained by the wrist to the combings of the aft- er-hatch. The former, immediately upon being alone with the surgeon and interpreter, asked for the captain, and in the heat of pulsion and revenge laid out the details of a plot the most cold-blooded and inhuman.
The leaders were desperadoes who bad vol- untarily come to the barrttCoonss having studied the plot for weeks ; and ere they had been on board un hour were nt work, urging, with every plea of cupidity or revenge, the rising en ptysse, murdering over}' man who opposed, seizing the ship and cruising as they chose. The exact object of the seizure was not clour, but the plan was simply this; The temporary berths were to 1x5 torn down to furnish clubs and materials for building a fire under the foremost hatch. A large number was to be ready, when the flames should rise and the crew run forward to extin- guish it, to rush np the main -hatchway, massa- cre every man as he came in their way, arid thus gain possession. They had chosen their captain, navigator, nud other officer^, and it was concerning this choice that altercation had arisen. The opinions about the truth of this statement were various — the captain ridiculing the idea as absurd, but the two interpreters joining in their belief that it was true, and om- inously shaking their heads at the captain’s dis- belief.
For two days the matter rested, nothing far- ther being heard concerning the mutiny. The ship was bowling along finely before a nine-knot breeze toward midnight of the third day, the
moon shining beautifully, uml ail quiet save the rippling of the water under our bows, and the reg- ular trend of the sentry at his post. We were expecting to make the land nt Angier Point about daylight. Suddenly a bright gleam of dame shot up from the forecastle, and a yell like that of ten thousand demons burst on the still night. It needed no further alarm to arouse every body from sleep. Every man was np and at his post as the fearful conviction of his imminent danger presented itself. The door of the main hatch, the only means of ogress, was instantly locked; every blunderbuss, cutlass, and pistol passed out by the stewardess, who, with great presence of mind, had run to the arm chests; the ship put about, and the pumps in aimed in less time than it takes to describe it.
Knowing that a crowd was collected under and on the ladder, the top of the main housing was broken in in order to dislodge them ; but, meanwhile, several of the foremost rioters were striving to force the door withe leavers stolen from the cooks, and had partially succeeded in prying it open against a dozen men who were endeav- oring to fasten a spar across outside. In spite of the utmost exertion the door yielded far enough to allow an arm to he thrust through and a blow struck, wounding an officer. Quick as thought the muzzle of a pistol was ngainst his breast, and with its explosion the Coolie reeled backward, carrying with him all on tlic ladder, and allowing the door to be effectually closed.
Then commenced a scene the most terrific
Go> gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
A CHAPTER OS THE COOLIK TRADE.
qfcoaiw * vwz MAi m tuTcrr
tiui /troWd to fhe umn hatch* It was in Tsuri ; the door hail b^n too fltH'UlT*- I? fastened, and the guard were on the watch; ’ \j \\k' . ' '
Graslfiall vt hcrftfdl
kti ommouH lull in the yyrmr, ainl wcieurctt that K>(ue menu# hud feeti foouii to force on atfit „ Although I fore fitted that the rfcittra could with- draw oni of sight of those on *he fact, W&tf ^ a bulfc-W*d> or
jiknh, ihWfhg oft their j>*t$ ;/$t the &tfk‘
DOW* TU¥ lIAtVHWAV.
Go gle
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE,
OJlAt.VKU TO THE 1UTOU.
ami waitc-d only an opportunity to join in the melee. The instant they were discovered they sprang to their feet only to fall stunned and bleeding beneath the clubbed muskets of the guard. One was afterward found to have been killed; the other, recovering in a few minutes, started again to run forward, but was riddled with shot from a blunderbuss fired from the. bar- ricade.
Another of the four* fearful of the fate of his companions or anxious to join those below, suc- ceeded in wrenching his hands from the irons,, and, being a small man, tried to squeeze him- self through the circular opening in the summit of the arched grating. Too late lie saw his error, for, stimulated by the fear of being shot before he could succeed, he had forced himself f trough and hung by his hand* over the hold. Unable from the depth of the ^ombing to swing himself clear so as to fall lie tween decks, and seeing only the black hold, with u fall of thirty feet and certain death below, bo was struggling to get hack when a rifle-shot from the barricade pierced his brrtitt and he felt into the abyss.
Amidst such horrors pushed the bight; the flames being at times completely extinguished, as the Coolies had abandoned the use of oil on account of the smoke, and burned only what they called “josh paper’ to give great blaze and not really do much damage, for of course
they had no intention of hum Lug the ship Their only hope, after finding their plan foiled, seemed to be to terrify us by the fear of the ship’s burning into abandoning her in boats and leaving her in their hands; and had those above deck been willing to assist them, or the captain been a less brave man, the daylight would never have come again to any of us. But come it did, and with it a demand was made to the rioters to surrender the ringleaders of the mutiny. In-
a VAii< A fTsarr.
t, Go gle
9
A CHAPTER ON THE COOLIE TRADE.
TUB WJUTftW IN UUtOlt
stead of complying, one of them dipped a stylus I Two serious difficulties were now presented, in the blood upon the decks and wrote on a slip 1 the chief of which was the want of fresh water, of paper to the following effect: I fill the water-cask* being stowed away upon or
, _ . , , r „ , , f 4 ! below the lower decks. The second, that, ns
uThr c hundred C*x»!ifc* to bti allotted on deck nt one . , . . ~ ' c
«tmc.p1.er «h*n navigate the .hip, noil take Vr to Siam, j tlie P,,mPS ™ 'vlu<Jh ,lie suPPb‘ of 9*lt-wutcr for wher* a c*nnin number may leave ber, after whfe.h dte I extinguishing the fires defended, pnssed direct- nhaii to proo*e«t on her ©enr*a. WatguaU of 1 Jy np timing the Coolies, they had succeeded in
«* *h«* flbAU bb matle to attra"1 of other disabling them. The. latter,* however, was not
j of so much moment, since, after the captain's In addition to these demands was the threat reply to their demands, they would scarcely dare that, unless instantly complied with, the ship to start their fires again. The deck*, moreover, should be humeri. j were now thoroughly saturaljd with water.
The yards were hacked, the bolus made ready I The demand for fresh water became every to rescue the ladies and crew, every Chinaman moment more urgent. One of the ladies suf- above decks was hound so that lie could give no faring from effects of long illness, with a young assistance to the mutineers, and when all was infant demanding her constant care, was sink- ready the captain returned answer to “Burning under the accumulated horrors. At any
and bo -;?T but every man of them should lie 1 moment iho mutineers might succeed in gain-
fmofheml and burn in her. The result of this f mg the upper deck, and by force of mere n un- decisive stand was a consultation below, and ; hers overpower and massacre all on board. The another message, written in blood, to the effect \ torture of increasing thirst, however, soon over* that no more fires should be built until night at ruled even our thoughts of peril, and some ef- any rate. j fort must be made to supply fresh water. To
A tcmjwrary q^iet was then restored, the ! ask the fiemls ou the berth deck to pass it up yards a^ain squared* and the ship put on her - was folly; they only laughed, and offered the original course, Anus were re-examined, extra ; black bloody water on the decks. To go for it guards stationed, and the strictest sun'eillance would have madness, Providentially there maintained. The ladies bravely devoted them* I was a small engine on board used for loading and selves to providing f»x*d, making cartridges, and unloading ship, and the plan of condensing steam indeed doing every thing in their power to ren- was suggested. An extern poraneons condenser dcr assistance. was soon made, and ere long we had the satis-
Go gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE,
ON TJIK LOW KB tlfiOK.
faction of collecting water enough for every im- their ujo$h paper” and waving torches or clubs mediate want. about their heads. But it would he useless to
Effort was then made to cleanse the upper attempt to picture cither the fury of the nuiti- deck. The wonnded were Collected, and the neers or the feelings of the defenders. Even- few who had been killed were thrown overboard, menus of egress was tried and retried in vain. Many were found hidden away in aH sorts of Only one or two were shot during the night, but positions, to which they had fled during the we waited in torturing anxiety the events of previous night, ami one or two stiff a ltd gory each succeeding hour.
corpses were dragged from the concealment to Ere daybreak, satisfied of the impossibility which the poor wretches, mortally wounded, had of succeeding in their purpose, quiet was re- Crawled to die. stored, and the tired wretches slept. The fol-
A demand was meanwhile made to the Cool- lowing day, after long consultation, they sued ies to pass up the dead bodies. Hours passed, for pardon.
and no disposition to comply being manifest, it From that time onward, and particularly afr- was proposed toward night to send down one of er rounding the Cape of Good Hope, no signs the Coolies who was hound on deck. Thi* pro- of insubordination arose during the passage. The postal was humanely rejected, for to the Coolies Coolies had the satisfaction of sleeping for fonr on deck the mutineers attributed their defeat at months ahout the docks as they could find space, the outset, and his instant death would he cer- no berths or accommodation of any kind being tain. A volunteer came forward from the crew, allowed them. Only a limited number were al- and, though it seemed madness, he was lowered lowed on deck at any time, and the police force down, his companions, armed to the teeth, stand- was increased at every point. It was a long ing ready to jump to his rescue or die with hint, time before it was deemed safe to allow any of Whether the boldness of the act, or the fact that the crew to go below for even the most necessary they themselves were anxious to ha rid of the provisions and water, and then only at intervals bloody corpses strewn around restrained them, it and in email numbers.
is impossible to say. Certain it is he was on mo- Upon arriving at Havana the whole mortJility Jested, and one or two even proffered assistance, of the voyage w as found to lie ahout one bun- Nigh.t came as the task was completed, and dred and thirty, of which number seventy were soon began a repetition of the orgies of the killed, or died from wounds received in the mu- last, though in a far less terrible degree. The tiny of the first few' days, and a large portion of Coolies tried unsuccessfully to force off the grat- the rest from an epidemic of dysentery which idgs and to break open the ports. They rushed occurred while lying at Havana before commenc- with demoniac shrieks along the decks, burning ing to disembark.
mu Go gle
D
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN,
MORTE D' ARTHUR.
11
BY TKNNYiiON;
-A* ARV1
JJOftK VV FROM OITT THE BOSOM OF TU£ l.AixT, UOLIMNi; THE 8W0R1>.
QO all <lay long the noise of battle roll’d Among the mountain* by the winter sea ; Until King Arthur's table, man i\y man,
Had fall'll in Lyonness about their Lord,
King Arthur t then, because his around was deep, Tho bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him.
Sir Bedivere, the lost of all his knights.
And bore him to a chapel nigh the held,
A broken chancel with a broken cro**,
111 at stood on a dark strait of biijtfti land.
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and tho moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bcdivero: “The sequel of to-day unsolder* till Tho goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world hold* record. Such a sleep
They sleep — the men I loved. 1 think that we Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our fouls with talk of knightly deeds. Walking about the garden* and the hall*
Of Camelot, a* in the days that were.
I perish by this people whicli 1 made, —
Tho1 ^Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more-but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro* the helm That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Exealibur,
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest bow In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Lose op from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed iu white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding tho award— and how l row’d aertm
Digitized by
Go gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIG
12
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere :
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.*’ To him replied the 1 old Sir Bcdivere:
“It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro* the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thv best will all perform at full,
Watch what l see, and lightly bring thee word.”
So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.
There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o’er him, drawing it, the wiuter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swifl mind,
In act to throw : but at the last' it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bcdivere :
“ Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave ? What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?”
And answer mode the bold Sir Bedivere:
“I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag.”
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : “Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d Thy fSalty, nor like a noble knight :
For surer sign had follow’d, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the more.
This is a sham ful thing for men to He.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.”
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smoto His palms together, and he cried aloud.
“ And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were dune ? What harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey. Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofita’ lc, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does What record, or what relic of mv lord
I ’
I Should be to aftertime, but empty breath j And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, j Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
I Saying, ‘King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
| Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
Niue years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.’
So might some old man speak in* the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost.*’ So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily? u What is it thou hast seen ? or what h ist heard ?"
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere :
“ I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”
To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : “Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woo is me! Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou ait,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilf ; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee lienee: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.”
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges Ughtly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword, And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern mom,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
MORTE D’ ARTHUR.
13
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King.
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: “Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?*’ And answer made the bold Sir llcdivere:
“ Sir King, 1 closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should bliud my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till 1 die,
Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men*
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; But when I look’d again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.”
And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : “My end draws nigh ; ’tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.”
So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him thro’ the placo of tombs.
But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard. Like one who feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear “Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die.”
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d, Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black clifF clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.
Then saw they how there hove a dusky (arge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stem, Beneath them ; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms Black -stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these Three Queens with crowns of gold— and from them rose
A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur’d Arthur, “Place me in the barge,” And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands,
And call’d him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white And colourless, and like the wither’d moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; And all hi9 greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls —
That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the d.iis-thronc — were parch’d with dust: Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter’d column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro’ the lists at Camclot, and charged Before the eves of ladies and of kings.
Then loudly cried the l>old Sir Bedivere,
“Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead.
When every morning brought a noble chance, And even* chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole round table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”
And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge: “The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many wavs,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in mo?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within himself make pure ! but thou,
If thou should st never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought bv prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
HAEFBB S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
tkdh fat tliPiafielves and thi^ whii^aB tluiift friend? For w tlm ^hnle nmnd earth \k *mry *vat:
Bound ty-gnld chain* ' about tu/ t:J t of *'Jo<V ? Hnt now fartwtL l am *i Idm* way
WUlr fib** th\>3 *Ktek~r\f frldeeil i'.gp—
(Mr i<tf wy.'tfttod * 4mt ,
i>3 the 'of-Ay^BW \ .
SWufre futix iiiii huilvm; r)inv &r my Nor ^pt wind Llovrs loudly ; hut it lies Utp^mpodowdi happy, fair with <m‘hiinl-IavTi3
Ami :fan*piy_ fcoBowa crnwint tBUi wgttncr «*<#, y?Hiv I rt)\ hM w of fcrfotous wtmml/'
So said b*t.and the barge with oat 3 mi taiil from the brink, like some full -breasted swan 7%it, a wild ca.ru l ere her death,
Hufttea J?«r;piire cold pirnhe, and takes the flood With, swarthy tvelw. Long etood Sir Be/IWerc fiwk&rjAg mmy memories, till the hull
Anil on the m&ir Urn - wuiliog dW awjgy.
mrr that ro$b the or thi’jj aia_
AM» KAIKS6T, T*AlI> -mh HKAI> UPON UVJt IM*
Go gle
Digitize
THE HEIR OF RAYMOND HILL.
15
THE HEIR OF RAYMOND HILL.
WE had two Hons in Summerfield. One was Fanny Clifford, the other Raymond Hill. The one was a beautiful woman, the oth- er a fine estate. You can imagine — let your tastes determine which you would have liked to see. Raymond Hill, with its park, its trees, its fine lake, or pond as we called it, the stately mansion which crowned the scene, was a rare possession for one little country town. The vil- lage lay like an appendage, a tributary of Ray- mond Hill, which had been two hundred years in the hands of a Raymond, but was now, in de- fault of a male heir; to descend to the son of a daughter of the house, who so valued his family name of Percival that he resisted all his grand- father's entreaties to change it. “ What’s in a name?” said Fanny Clifford, sancily. “I think a great deal,” said Will Percival. “ I mean to to make yon think so.” Fanny laughed. That was what she always did. She had besides her beauty, which was enough to make her cheer- ful, a happy, sunny temper, that had never known a sorrow greater than an occasional absence from her adoring father and mother, or the temporary grievances which every handsome and admired girl must suffer from the detraction and spite of the less gifted human beings who surround her.
It was the favorite remark among this class that she was a heartless coquette, a woman with- out high and noble sentiments, the plaything of an hour, etc. All these things are easily said, you know, and Time is the only gentleman who can unsay them.
Perhaps I should not have called her a “lion.” She had none of the characteristics of a “ lionne” certainly. She neither drove fast horses, smoked cigars, made startling speeches, nor wore her hair short and parted on one side ; she had no taste for any thing; but was a very sweet, laughing girl, with all the contradictions, and sometimes caprices of that incomprehensible but interest- ing species.
The heir of Raymond Hill was William Per- cival ; handsome in person, equine in taste, gen- erous of disposition, plethoric in pocket. There he lived, the young country squire, after his re- turn from college, with his widowed mother, the cynosure of all the female eyes of the neighbor- hood; rich, good-looking, and marriageable, no doubt young Percival grew rather sultan-like, and imagined he had but to “ wave his cambric” and the obedient fair would rush into the pos- session of the master of Raymond Hill.
As for the elder Percival, William’s father, he was the tradition, the romance, the dark mys- terious unknown of Summerfield ; no one knew much of him, except that Mary Raymond brought him home from England tfith her as her hus- band. Old Mr. Raymond was said not to have liked him even, but they were a close-mouthed race, and kept their own counsel ; then came a rumor of a young and beautiful woman who ap- peared at the hotel with a young child, inquir- ing for Mr. Percival. She disappeared, and not
long after Mr. Percival disappeared; he had gone to England, his wife said. Mr. Percival staid a long time in England; finally he was announced as dead, and Mary Raymond Perci- val put on a widow's cap, which she never took off; and quietly, sadly, submissively bore her secret to the grave.
Old Raymond died and William Percival grew up and prospered. Whatever had been the sins or misfortunes of the father, as yet the son had not suffered from them. Prosperity was the only thing he had to contend against. Of course he was in love with Fanny, and she laughed. However, the Judge said she would eventually marry him, because — he went on with a sigh — “ in spite of her laughing, pride is the main- spring of her character, and she could never bear to see another woman mistress of Raymond Hill.”
The Judge was a grave bachelor of forty, rath- er bald on top of head, not handsome, nor in- clined to sacrifice to the Graces. Yet he was a favorite with the fair, and every body wondered why he did not marry. Some people said an early attachment, some said coolness, some said one thing and some another; but I believe, like many another admirable man, he had an exces- sive distrust of his own powers of making a wo- man happy, and while hd had within himself all the tenderness and truth, all the constancy and elevation of sentiment which insure the happi- ness of woman, he had an indomitable shyness and doubt which made them useless. There are many such caskets of rare jewels of which the key has been lost, in this world of incom- pleteness.
Fanny knew the Judge loved her and dared not say so, and laughed. But she was more proud than she chose to acknowledge of this silent worship, and talked her best — ay, and dressed her best for him too — for these silent men use their eyes very much. /
Then came Mr. Milman, the clergyman. “The street” used to say that Will Percival went away at eight, the Judge at nine, and the Reverend Milman at ten of the clock from Mr. Clifford's house, and the knowing ones thought the min- ister was sly in staying longest, and thus sum- ming up the argument. But the minister and Fanny had many things to talk about. They read together; they had charities, Sunday-schools, and the like, to discuss, while the Judge was al- ways silent ; and as for poor Will, his high health and much driving about made him sleepy early, and he preferred retiring from the field before his powers got blunted. So Mr. Milman, whose trade it was to be “unable to sleep,” nervous, and the like, had Fanny’s ear longer than either.
Mr. Milman was the model of young clergy- men. Large-eyed, pale, slender, deep-voiced, with an occasional cough, with the blackest of coats and the whitest of neckerchiefs, he was the idol of all the elderly tea-drinkers of his parish. Mr. Milman was a good man and a good preacher. If he had some slight affec- tions, let us pass them by, as Scott says of Reu-
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from r
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
16 HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
ben Butler, “ for the man was mortal and had been a schoolmaster.”
Now Fanny Clifford did not reign undisturb- ed on her throne of Summerfield. Although unquestionably the finest young woman in the field — although her right to the throne was as good as that of Bess — auburn-haired queen of England — there were not wanting Man* Stuarts in the field, who did not intend to die without a struggle. There was the large army of the Meddleeombs — eight mortal enemies of Fanny and of every other pretty girl — eight sisters, with a moderate share of good looks, considerable smartness, and preternatural license of tongue. The Meddleeombs were bent on power in the church, in the first place ; and by dint of much serving in Sunday-school, much singing in the choir, much devotion to the sewing society, and nobody caring much for the object in question, they got it. Their immense numbers, their consequent ubiquity, their strong voices and nerves, and their indomitable impudence, gave them a considerable power. Fanny laughed at them, and received for a long time their never- ceasing arrows of slander and malignity on her impenetrable armor.
Then there was Miss Jones, the “teacher,” as we called her, that woman of “ fine family,” who consented, at immense cost of personal dig- nity, to teach our young ideas how to shoot, and who was much occupied, meantime, in endeav- oring to teach young Cupid to fire some arrows into the Judge’s heart. How Miss Jones lived for four or five years of Fanny’s supremacy no one knew. She peaked and pined, but bravely lived on, occasionally reviving by dint of a tea at the Meddleeombs, where Bho heard Fanny pretty well torn to pieces.
The descent of the Meddleeombs on Mr. Mil- man was only to be compared to the descent of a flock of wild pigeons on the rich harvest fields. They fluttered, curveted, bore down upon him with slippers, offered to hem his handkerchiefs, mend his gloves, and in ail matters of moral reform were in great league with him. He once whispered to Fanny at a Sunday-school picnic that he could not look any where without seeing a Meddlecomb ; that they were as thick as motes in the sunbeam ; when lo ! one started up under his very feet, having heard every word he had said, and in a soft voice asked him to tea. It did not suit the Meddlecomb policy ever to recognize an insult or a snub openly.
Then, on the other side, could be counted the family of the Hartmans, who were amiable and pretty, friends of Fanny, and one of them, sweet Sarah Hartman, almost a rival in the affections of Will Percival. Then there was the elegant Arabella Ramsay, who said she was descended from Allan Ramsay — a fact no one had time to prove, so we took it on trust.
Far from all this charmed circle, measuring out calico and selling tape, did Abram Brown pass his monotonous and degraded life. Are you familiar, ray dear reader, with the tremen- dous social barrier which a few country families
in some village (whose name yon have never heard of) can sometimes raise around themselves, and how, in their mean and meagre way, they ape the customs of the dukes and lords of whom they read in novels ? If not, take the cars to- morrow, and go up into the interior of some New England State. Remain there a week, and get invited out to tea. To your astonishment you will find yourself surrounded by sensible, well-informed, well-dressed people, who are as much impressed with their own importance as the Duchess of Sutherland can possibly be with hers, and as rigorous as the Herald-at-Arms in regard to the claims of 4 4 society. ” Perhaps yon know Mrs. Clay — then you are in society; per- haps you are so unfortunate as to know Mrs. Blake — then you are not in society. As far as you can see, Mrs. Blake and Mrs. Clay live in equal style, on the same side of the street — that is nothing ; an invisible but invincible presence assures you that one is, and the other is not to be known. So with poor Abram Brown. Al- though he spoke at the Lyceum very well, al- though he was constant at church, and Mr. Mil- man liked him very much and occasionally took a walk with him, although he was a well-looking and well-dressed young man, yet he was not in 4 4 society.” His profession was not 60 much the objection, fordid not the proud Arabella’s father, old Mr. Ramsay himself, 6ell red flannel, which he manufactured in a small mill which lie own- ed? but then he could be called — and was, by his wife and daughter — 44 a large operator in woolen manufactures,” and that is a title to dis- tinction, every body knows.
Then there were the Elkins boys: they all performed some manual labor. One Bold snufi for old Ball ; but Sam Elkins was called a 44 to- bacconist.” All he seemed to get by it, and be needed it, was a gratuitous sneeze now and then; and he, Sam Elkins — a thick-headed, wheezing boy — was “in society.” Voltaire Elkins, too. in spite of his metaphysical name, preferred the sincere chopping of the trees of the forest, and we called him an 44 agriculturist” — more prac- tical than theoretical, I imagine. He was de- cidedly in “society” — when he was not haying; but they had an uncle who had been in Congress, hence their patent of nobility.
Poor Abram Brown, whom nobody knew any thing about, who had no sponsors, lived thus neglected by the aristocracy of Summerfield. Sometimes a lower Meddlecomb — that is, one of the least pretty — would drive with him to a picnic, or dance with him at a public ball, or speak to him in the choir; but these oecasions were rare, and, to do him justice, he never seemed to care much for these small successes. He never had spoken to Miss Clifford or*Miss Ramsay, except to mention the price of a yard of silk. The noble William Percival looked at the place where he was, but saw nothing; and when he rose to speak in the Lyceum the elder Meddlecomb and the aristocrat Ramsay trotted their elderly feet, and said, “ Pretty good for the shop-boy ! ” What were you, Meddlecomb ? and
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE HEIR OF RAYMOND HILL.
17
what your early history, Ramsay? Tradition hesitates to say.
Aristocrats as we were in Summerfield, of the deepest dye, we yet loved a little fun ; and once a year we went off to a picnic on the borders of a beautiful pond. It was generally under- stood that the rigorous distinctions of society were on this occasion to be laid aside — Mrs. Blake and Mrs. Clay were on terms of equality. We had observed that the cake of the lower classes was apt to be better than ours, and we would fain give them gentility for goodies — rank and title for money-bags and flesh-pots.
So on one lovely August morning the little town moved to adjourn for the day to the shores of Lilypad Pond. Family arks were gotten out ; all the things which went upon four wheels were in requisition ; huge hampers of provision were with difficulty induced to get under the legs of the cramped driver. Will Percival, mad with excitement, was driving from one end of town to the other, doing nothing, but thinking he was doing worlds of work. He had determined to drive Fanny down in twenty-eight minutes ;
Svhat was his disgust at being informed by that '/ young lady that she was “previously engaged,” * 'and to see the Judge drive slowly along, in his plain old chaise, and take the lovely Fanny as a matter of course, and start off leisurely, giving the brown cob a rather more animated whack than usual as he passed the discomforted Will !
The Judge and Fanny were passed by the huge van, containing a crowd of Meddlecombs and Elkinses; by Mrs. Percival’s old family coach, where she sat in state with Mr. Milman and two Meddlecombs — there were always as many as that in every carriage ; they had to be taken by somebody, so every body resigned him- self to two; by Will Percival with Sarah Hart- man, looking lovely enough to have made up for his disappointment ; by carriage after carriage, every body looking out and joking them because they drove so slowly; to which the Judge made some jocose allusion to his old horse, and Fanny did what she always did — laughed.
Finally came two vehicles, the lumbering Ramsay concern, with the addition of Miss Jones to the family-party, who “sweetly smiled” as she looked out on the Judge and Fanny, and young Abram Brown, modestly keeping behind Mr. Ramsay and taking his dust, though Abram was driving a light wagon and a good horse, and could have distanced aristocracy in no time.
To Fanny’s great surprise the Judge touched his hat respectfully to the clerk.
“Tell me about that young man, he seems somewhat refined and educated,” said Fanny.
“Very much so,” said the Judge; “I have lately had occasion to examine him as a witness, and he showed some remarkable qualities. How- ever, if he is good for any thing he will not stay long in that country-store. I asked him why he did so : he blushed and refused to tell me.”
But the Judge and Fanny had other things to talk about. Fanny was lovely in her straw-hat and blue ribbons — the fresh morning gave her a Vol. XXIX.— No. 169 — B
glow, and she was sitting by the side of the man she most admired and respected in the world. He, shy old bachelor of forty-four, drank in her loveliness at every pore. He, too, talked his best ; and they were both disappointed when the groves which surround Lilypad Pond became visible. Every body had arrived and dismount- ed; and the Judge and Fanny had to run the inevitable gauntlet of jokes and significant looks as they drove into the circle of dismasted ve- hicles.
Miss Jones caught the Judge later in the day and found him in great spirits ; indeed, he was so gallant that her heart jumped into her throat. She was walking pensively, leaning on his arm,
! through the soft glades of the wood, when they heard Fanny’s ringing laughter at a little dis- tance.
“ What a pity Miss Clifford laughs so loud !” said Miss Jones, pensively.
“ Do you think she laughs loud? To me it is the sweetest music in the world !”
Jones’s heart jumped back again. They ate, they drank, they boated on the pond, groups wandered into the wood, groups sat on the wa- ter’s edge. Like Mary and her lamb —
“Every where that Fanny went The Judge was sure to go.”
Will Percival was furious. He drank Cham- pagne, he rowed furiously in the hot sun, he got very red ; but it did not affect the predis- posed order of things. Miss Jones sneered, the Meddlecombs twittered, Mr. Milman grew pale and sighed. It did no good. The Judge was evidently tpris.
Fanny whispered to the Judge ; he rose quick- ly and walked toward young Abram Brown and asked him to go out on the pond in the boat. Poor Brown up to this time had been neglected. No party had included him. He accepted with quiet dignity and began arranging the oars ; a Meddlccomb was immediately found ready to go, and a male Elkins; and the Judge then asked Fanny, who declined on the ground of a natural hydrophobia — she was afraid, as any sensible woman should be, of these cockle- shells. Miss Jones, however, accepted the J udge’s invitation. So they went sailing about, the Judge gallantly tugging at an oar, Jones dipping her fair hand in the water, Brown at the helm quiet and somewhat amused, the Meddlecomb and the Elkins flirting in a gro- tesque way, when over went the boat, and our party were seen struggling in the water; the Elkins came safely to land with the rescued Meddlecomb, Brown arrived with Miss Jones clinging around his neck in a pitiable condition, and before we knew it was putting back for the Judge, who was hanging on to the capsized boat unable to swim. The distance was not great, but Brown had done very well. The Judge struggled ashore, and thanked the dripping young preserver — himself a Leander who could not swim — and they all went off to get dry clothes. They reappeared in the clothes of a neighboring farmer much too large for them,
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from '
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
18
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
but bore our shouts of laughter with great phi- losophy. The Judge’s dignity was as conspicu- ous as ever, although he was deprived of his constitutional black coat.
After the submerged were properly dried we started home. The Judge, stimulated doubt- less by the douche he had taken, started the brown cob at a notable pace, but again lagged behind ; and all the vehicles passed him except Percival’s and Brown’s — Percival having asked Miss Hartman to drive around the pond by a more distant route, and that young lady having consented. As for poor Brown, with his usual luck, he could not find a sufficient wardrobe for himself to drive home in, and was waiting for his coat to dr)'.
The moon came out before the brown cob had reached the confines of the grove — that chaste luminary surprised the Judge in a manly confession of his love. With the simplicity and directness of his nature he had asked her to tell him at once his fate; and the moonlight helped him to read the charming intelligence in Fanny’s blushing face, wdiich, just at that mo- ment, she could not find words fitting to express.
It was that golden moment which comes per- haps but once in a lifetime, so full of fruition that the heart could not bear it often.
The delicious silence and happiness which wrapped them both was broken by a sound of wheels, a crash, and a shriek.
The upset boat was not the only catastrophe of the picnic.
Will Percival was unfortunately not quite j himself as he started to drive home. Too much Champagne had not improved his eye for the road. He had upset his little light wagon, and | lodged Miss Hartman in a neighboring stump- fence. Fortunately Browm had nearly caught rtp with him, and arrived at the scene of disas- ter in time to extricate Miss II., while the Judge turned his horse’s head in the direction, and ar- rived a moment later. Fanny found her friend I very much hurt ; her arm was broken ; she was j bruised and bleeding. She was put in the Judge’s chaise, Fanny crouching down on the floor thereof to make herself a support in some way for the poor wounded thing; while Will Percival, somewhat stunned, was driven home by Brown, leaving his own broken vehicle to be brought home at some future period.
The Judge’s engagement was a great piece of news all over the State, and the wedding, which took place almost as soon as poor Sarah Hart- j man’s arm was well, was the great event of Sum- raerfield. The old satin dresses which were dis- j interred for that occasion would have clothed 1 the entire chorus of the opera. The bride w'as more subdued than we had ever seen her, but lovely as possible. As for the Judge, all his friends looked at him with astonishment: such ! an effect had happiness had upon him that he ! seemed twenty years younger.
Miss Jones was there, bearing it bravely. No ( one but the Meddlecorab? saw that her brow was strangely set, though her lips were smiling. I
Will Percival had offered himself to Sarah Hartman, and been accepted. He was not, however, a very serene lover, and drank too much wine to be altogether an agreeable one.
Mr. Milman performed the ceremony. When I saw him, with the dignity and sacredness of his high office, give to another the hand which he prized most highly on earth — when I saw the heart-felt manner in which he wished her joy — I forgave him for a thousand affectations, and respected him and pitied him from the depths of my heart.
My pity was not much diminished, although my respect was, when I heard that he had suc- cumbed to the Meddlecomb attack, and was be- trothed to Kitty, the third, or fifth, or seventh daughter, and the softest-voiced and most mali- cious of them all.
After the engagement was announced, the whole tribe dilated on the long and ever repulsed affection of Mr. Milman for Kitty, and the sav- age and desperate nature of Fanny’s opposition to the match.
However, when they came to marry, the Judge and Fanny nearly furnished their house for them. The Meddlecombs showed the gifts, and dilated on Kitty’s wedding presents, but did not men- tion who gave them.
Fanny’s house was beautiful. Her position was a charming one. She went abroad for a year, and brought home all sorts of nice things. Her cup was running over.
She had too much.
One day the Judge came in quite pale, and sank on the sofa. Fanny flew to his side.
“ I feel quite faint and ill, dear wife,” taking her hand and laying it on his heart. “ There is something wrong here .”
However, it passed away. Fanny recalled years after the pang which shot through her at that moment ; for it was the knell of their hap- piness.
One or two more warnings came; and at length the horrible news went through the town that the Judge had been stricken dead in court while listening to an argument.
Disease of the heart. It was perhaps a poor consolation to know that he could not have been cured ; but it was a great and never-failing one to remember that the Angel of Death found the servant of the Most High Judge ready, with a prayerful spirit and a clear record, awaiting his coming.
Poor Fanny ! It was many a long year be- fore we heard her laugh again.
Poor Mr. Milman was next called. He had never been strong, body or mind, and his pale face grew paler, and his cough more racking, till at length he gave up his duties and took to his bed When he got very ill he sent for Fan- ny, having something important to say to her.
She went to see him. The air was heavy with Meddlecombs. Poor Milman asked them meekly to leave the room. Kitty remained, of course.
“Did your husband” — poor Milman began,
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
TIIE HEIR OF RAYMOND HILL.
19
heavily and with difficulty — “ever tell you of the existence — of certain papers— relating to the Percival family?”
“No,” said Fanny, “but he gave me opce a little trunk, which he wished me to keep safely, as he had in it some important papers belonging to another person. He gave it to me, I remem- ber, after his first seizure. I have never thought of it since.”
“Dear Fanny,” said the poor dying man, “keep that safely until old Mrs. Percival dies. It contains a secret which no one knew but your husband and myself ; and now that he is gone, and I am going, it must be given to you. Kitty, my wife, as you value my parting blessing, do you never reveal what you have heard. After old Mrs. Perciyal’s death break the lock, and give the papers to whom they belong. And write down what I have told you, put the paper in the possession of some man of respectability, that the evidence may be complete should any thing happen to you. Now, farewell, dear and excellent friend.”
Poor Mil man died without revealing the se- cret, which his wife thought a great outrage to her, and she loved Fanny even less after this scene than before.
The Meddlccombs began to observe that Fan- ny often went into Mr. Bowen's store, and had an occasional word for Abram Brown at church or Sunday-school. How a woman of her pride could so far descend was to them a wonder of wonders. Perhaps they thought it a proof of the supremacy of her position that she could do such a thing. Abram went on in the same old way, always showing some superiority to his po- sition, but never gaining ground in “society.”
Will Percival, who had married poor Sarah Hartman, had gone steadily down hill. He had become a blustering, drinking, harsh man ; and his mother grew paler day by day, and his wife sank away from a blooming young woman into one prematurely old an l sorrow-stricken.
Will had a profound despite at Brown, and never lost an opportunity of insulting him. He never could forgive him for having done him the service of bringing him home when he was drunk from the picnic. Brown bore this course of conduct, as he did everything, silently, until Percival grew too unbearably insulting in the reading-room of the public library, when Brown coolly and quietly slapped his face. Percival sprang at him like a tiger. Brown knocked him down, and held him until some gentlemen in- terfered.
“You will do me the justice to say, gentle- men, that I did not seek this quarrel, and that no gentleman could have done less,” said Brown.
“ We will, we will !” said half a dozen men.
“ Gentleman .'” hissed Percival between his teeth as he strode off.
The village of Summerfield had never had an emotion like unto that which followed the news of this quarrel, but it was soon to be startled and shocked still more ; for on one calm Sun- | day morning young Abram Brown walked to-
Digitized by
Gck igle
ward Fanny’s stately mansion, took its fair mis- tress on his arm, and walked to church with her, composedly seated himself in her pew, and in less than five minutes the electric message ran through the town that Fanny was going to mar- ry him !
The horror and disgust of the Percivals, the delight and triumph of the Meddlecombs, the wonder and disapproval of all her friends was beyond words. Between these two there was a great gulf fixed in our estimation. We nei- ther knew nor cared for the worth of the man ; we contrasted him with the man whom we had delighted to honor, the Judge, and all felt a diminished regard for Fanny.
The Judge had been dead six years. Fanny was now but thirty, but we felt that she had no right to insult his memory by marrying Abram Brown.
However, marry him she did. nc ceased to be Mr. Bowen’s clerk ; he proved to have some money, and had all his wife’s estate settled on herself.
The Browns were very happy apparently, and quite indifferent to our opinion of them.
Poor old Mrs. Percival died at length, and, true to her instructions, Fanny opened the box.
Death came not once but twice to Raymond Hill. Poor Sarah Percival had never had mupb health or happiness. The death of her gentle and sympathizing mother-in-law took away her only support and consolation in this earth, and Will grew more savage and drunken every day. He had not allowed his wife to speak to Fanny since her marriage, but on her death-bed she de- manded to see her. Fanny watched over her, sustained her, and closed her poor dying eyes.
Then Fanny went fur the neglectful husband. He was in his own room stupefying himself with wine, but Funny bade him come with her. As he looked upon the poor pale face, now no lon- ger reproachful, his manhood came back to him, and he knelt by her side. But repentance was brief with him. The horror of death came over him, and he turned to leave the room.
“Stay, William Percival,” said Fanny; “look at what you have done. You have killed this woman. Now repent while there is life in you. By the side of this dead saint promise me that you will try and reform yourself.”
“Why, Fanny, how can you talk so when you know my love for you was the cause of m v downfall?” said poor Will, whimpering. “If you had married me I should have been all right, but you married some one else, and then I sank lower and lower. This poor thing loved me, and for a little while I determined to be a bet- ter man, but my evil p.v^sions got the better of me.” Here he fell into a great fit of weeping, as he looked at the poor dead face lying there so still and pale.
“ Do not flatter yourself, Will, that any one was to blame but yourself. Self-indulgence has always been vour plan of life. I beg of you, by an old friendship, by the memory of your mo- ther, by the memory of this wife you have so
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
20
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
injured, by the honored name you bear, I en- treat you to reform. There are years left for you in which to rub out the disgrace of your life. I pray you do it.**
But her earnest words had no effect. Will was too intoxicated to appear at his wife’s funer- al, and his course was desperately downward.
Fanny made one more attempt in his favor. She took Mr. Selden, the old lawyer of the Per- civals — he who had always administered the af- fairs of Raymond Hill, and wrho watched the ruin of its heir with peculiar sorrow — and drove to his house one fine morning in early summer, a few months after poor Sarah’s death. They found him swearing at his dogs and servants, but enough of the gentleman left in him to re- ceive them courteously. Mr. Selden hemmed and hawed, and finally giving a bundle of pa- pers into Fanny’s hands begged of her to open the business.
Fanny began in the usual woman’s way, by bursting into tears. When she got composed she said :
“Will, you know, perhaps, that your father’s life was clouded in some mysterious manner, perhaps you do not know how. Here is a paper, drawn up by himself, giving his own story. He was married to a young girl in Scotland, by whom he had a son, and whom he deserted be- fore he met your mother. By changing his name and coming to this country he thought to escape the punishment of his crime. But his unfortunate wife found out his whereabouts and followed him even here. With a woman’s gen- erosity she failed to expose him, when she came to see him, but in justice to her son demanded this paper of him, swearing solemnly to conceal it until the death of his innocent victim, your mother. He gave it to her in the presence of my husband, the Judge, and not long after, borne down by the shame and contrition which overwhelmed him, he disappeared, and died soon after.
44 Not many years ago the Judge received a packet of papers from Scotland, containing the record of the marriage of the first wife, the bap- tismal record of the son, and such accounts of the whereabouts, personal appearance of the son, as to enable him to be identified without trouble. The Judge took into his confidence Mr. Milman, our late clergyman, after a certain period, in or- der that the secret might be in good hands if any thing should happen to him. Death has remov- ed both those recipients of this secret. I and two others share it with you.”
Will Percival looked stupefied and remained silent. 44 So you are come to taunt me with my want of birth and name,” he said, at length, in a husky voice.
44 No, Will, I am come to make you an offer. If you will promise me to become a better man I will bum this paper, and swear that its con- tents shall never be known.”
44 But what would my elder brother, the legit- imate brother, say to this?” said poor Will, bit- terly.
44 He has given his consent to the burning of this paper f said Fanny, slowly; and with trem- bling fingers she gave Will a letter. Will tore it open.
“I knew it; I knew it. Your present hus- band, that wretch, that scum of the earth, Abram Brown — pah ! my mouth rebels against the ple- beian word — never, no never will I accept a favor at his hands, and my name, my name is Brown . Tell me, tell me, Fanny, to what depths am I descended?”
44 Your name is Beaumont , William, if a few more letters can do you any good, and my hus- band’s name is Arthur Beaumont, your older brother; but he has lived so long under the humble and quiet alias, which he took when his mother died, that he does not care for the emp- ty distinction. You have always borne an hon- orable name, and are the heir of an honorable race. Keep it. The deception is an innocent one, as long as those most interested permit it. Keep it ; but, William, do it more honor than you do by your present most unworthy life. Be- lieve me, I do not want to frighten you into com- pliance; but so much do I wish to save you, that I have thought it proper to tell you what others are willing to forego for your sake, if for theirs you will become a better man.”
Will Percival, degraded, lost as he was, could not but be touched by this appeal ; he knelt be- fore her, he kissed her hand, but when he rose he said, quietly, 4 4 Too late, too late!”
44 It is never too late,” urged Fanny.
44 One question : Did you know this fact when you married Brown ?” said WilL
44 No, I opened this trunk of papers when your mother died. I had married Brown be- cause I loved him, because I saw in him powers and virtues which the world did not see. I only knew him as the poor clerk, and I determined, if my love could give him that position which he deserved, he should have it. He had long loved me, and for a time my pride rebelled ; but love is stronger than pride, and for his goodness and nobility of soul I had a voucher that none could fail to respect, the Judge.”
4 4 Did he know of the identity of Abram Brown and Arthur Beaumont?”
4 4 No, he was simply the recipient of confi- dence from both parties, but liked him as I did for himself. When I opened the trunk I called my husband to my side to determine what I was to do with these papers ; then for the first time he told me who he was, and produced the fel- lows to these papers. Even the wedding-ring was halved. One half was in the trunk, the other in his possession. Locks of hair were given to him, braided together in a peculiar manner, and in the trunk were the same. The coat of arms, engraved on very curious old ringB, were alike divided between the trunk and him- self.”
44 Why did he come here and live this obscure life?”
14 His mother’s family, proud and injured by her desertion, treated them coldly, and they
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE HEIR OF RAYMOND HILL,
21
came here : his mother, with true womanly gen- erosity, hesitated to sacrifice her husbands inno- cent victim. When she died her generosity de- scended to her son. Perhaps he came here, drawn by the ties of relationship, for here lived his only brother.”
The long hatred and persecution rose up be- fore him ; perhaps he felt a moment’s remorse, but the life-long pride of his character and race — for he had proud blood on both sides — choked the expression of it.
“ So, like a dog in the manger, he has de- scended as low as he could, and watched for the hour of revenge : he has made himself a base tape-seller to point my degradation. I will not accept his generosity. My property is my own, if my name is not, and publish your vile tale as soon as you please. Mr. Selden, are you an ac- cessory to this insult ?”
“Mr. Pcrcival, I was only a recipient of the confidence of Mrs. Brown so far as the words of our late clergyman, Mr. Milman, are con- cerned, and have this morning only received the particulars which you now hear. I have sworn to secrecy, and only accompanied Mrs. Brown here to lend her my protection, and to show you, as an old and trusted friend of your family, that a sincere wish for your welfare induced this visit. ”
“Fanny,” said Will, “you w'ere always a good woman, a good friend. I feel all your goodness, and I wish I were more worthy of your efforts in my behalf ; but I hate your hus- band, my brother , who has wronged me by the very fact of his being. I do not accept his offers of secrecy; go, I beg of you, announce the fact of my mother’s shame. I shall take every step to free myself from every obligation to Mr. Brown.”
He left them in a paroxysm of rage — the next thing which we heard was that he was raving in delirium tremens.
Still, while Will Percival lived the secret did not transpire ; drunk or sober he never told it. The Browns were as secret as he: as for Mr. Selden, he was a tomb of secrets.
What need to go on and detail the steps of his sure and certain descent after this? He had long ago entered upon that fearful downward path from which return by the unaided strength of the traveler is all but hopeless. Men of high moral natures have struggled vainly against the fearful propensity. Will Percival’s nature was not a high one. Besides, he bore within him a secret, known to others who had no cause to love him, which once divulged would cost him all that he still prized in life. Every month found him lower than before. At length, after months of debauch, Will Percival died. He had had mo- ments of sanity and of apparent reformation; but as Fanny had told him, “self-indulgence had been his plan of life,” and he could form no other.
When his will was opened this remarkable clause was found in it :
“I give to Fanny Clifford, the wife of Abram Brown, alias Arthur Beaumont, my older*brother (as I am told), my estate of Raymond Hill, with the portraits of my late mother and wife, and all other fixtures and furniture thereunto belonging, asking her to preserve the portraits for the love she bore to the originals, and to make such dis- position of the estate as she may think best.”
Of course the secret was known. Of course we all saw an immense change in Mr. Arthur Beaumont. Many of us remembered that we had thought his carriage noble, his face indicative of high birth. Like poor Mary Raymond, the first wife of Mr. Beaumont had been of proud and honorable lineage, and he, the father, had been the unworthy descendant of good ances- tors.
Why he had condescended to be Mr. Bowen’s clerk we never knew ; perhaps he was crushed by his mother’s misfortunes, and after her death cared little what became of him; perhaps he wished to be near his secret, for he of course knew of the little trunk ; perhaps — oh, dreadful thought ! — he did not care for the opinion of the aristocrats of Summerfield, but bided his time. Certain it was, he went on as he had begun, un- assuming, self-contained, and reserved, but faith- ful, honorable, and of good report.
William Percival sleeps by the side of his mo- ther and wife, and the marble which marks the spot bears the name he bore through life. It is an error which harms no one, and the noble estate which witnessed his ruin has received a consecration, for it is the scene of a noble char- ity. Fanny and Arthur Beaumont, after secur- ing it from change or downfall, as far as the changeful influences of our country permit, gave it as an asylum for a class of unfortunates, too little cared for in this utilitarian age ; and every year Raymond Hill returns to society some re- stored human being who needed but that “ help- ing hand to the weak” which the poet speaks of :
“A helping hand to the weak,
A. friendly arm to the friendless ;
Kind words so short to speak,
Bat whose echo is endless.
The world Is wide, these things are small.
They may be nothing, but they are all!"
And, on a soft summer evening, Fanny and Beaumont, who are one in all true and noble sentiments, walk together with their children to a consecrated spot, never without its green turf and beautiful flowers, or imperishable ivy, and talk of all his goodness and loyalty who sleeps beneath. Beaumont can afford to share his wife’s regard with that noble memory, and when Christ- mas comes the marble bust which stands always in the library, looking down with the true seren- ity of the man it images, on the group below, is surrounded by these words :
“we keep his memory green.”
Digitized by
Gck igle
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
HARPER'S NEW MONTITLY MAGAZINE.
WINE-MAKING IN CALIFORNIA
HIJENA TCbTA I? A NOLL AN I* VINEYaXVP.
(The exact figtfres, ns worked out hr Mr. liar- aszthv, are £<>61,858, 20$ 83.)
Making all due allowances for the enthusiasm of a sanguine vine-grower, and guided only hv what lias actually been demonstrated, we may he certain that the production of wine is to be- come a leading branch of the industry of the Golden State. We therefore present an account of the processes of grape-culture and wine-mak- ing as now conducted in California, at the largest establishment of the kind in the world.
The ° Buena Vista Vimculiural Association*’ is an incorporated Company* composed chiefly of residents of Sun Francisco. The estare has the largest vineyard in rite world, ami upon it the business of wine- in a king has boro reached a higher development — in so fur ns the application of machinery is concerned — than in any other vineyard iu America. There nre n greater va- riety of grape, a greater variety of production bore, than in «ny other vineyard of the State, and its extent nml production are rapidly in- creasing.
The estate of the Association, lying within thirty miles of San Framiscp, contains tjOOi) acres in one lmdy, bordering on the town of Sonoma, and miming six miles eastward toward Napa City. About; 4(.H)0 acres arc valley land* the remainder well timbered and hilly. The property is bounded on the north hv a fine creek, which runs during the whole mar; also on the northeast of the boundary-line is a large creek, called the Caneros. Besides these several oth- ers cross the estate in all directions, one form- ing a cascade of from two to three hundred ife&fc
IF any reliance can be placed upon statistics, the production of Wine is the most import- ant branch of agricultural industry on earth. At all events, there are only to be compared with it the culture of rice — which forms the staple food of nearly one-third of the human race — and that of wheat. Europe is the main scat of wine culture. According to official reports there Are in Europe twelve and a quarter millions of acres devoted to the growth of the grape, producing a little more than three thousand millions of gal- lons a year, which, estimating the average value at place of production at twenty- .live cents a gal- lon, is worth on the spot more that 775,000,000 of dollars. Making the most liberal estimate, of the cotton crop of the world, in its palmiest days, it will bq hard to bring the value up to more than one-third of this sum. Moreover, as wine is to a considerable extent an article of com- merce, fifty cents a gallon would not be n high estimate for its average value at the place of consumption. Thus the real value of the wine crop of Europe would he more than l.f» 00, 00 0,000 of dollars a year. If these figures arc exaggerat- ed the fault is not our?, \Vc find them in of- ficial reports, which ought to be reliable.
We are assured on as good authority as that of Mr. Haras? thy that California has five mill- ions of acres suited to grape-eulrore ; that in a considerable part the vine flourishes better than in the most favored regions of Europe ; so that when* in a generation or so, this shall be planted with vines, the wine product of that State will be worth, OH the spot, at only twenty-five cents a gallon, more than five hundred million dollars.
Gocgle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
litized t
WINE-MAKING IN CALIFORNIA.
23
planted eight feet opart, so that a two-horse plow cun easily pass between them. Of the 290, OQU vines, J300 were planted in 1882, 07(H) in I $54,
13.000 in 1857, 34,000 in 1858, 30,000 in 1851#,
70.000 in 1860, and 135,000 in 1861. The vines thirty-one years old nre healthy, and bear the most abundantly. They were planted by an Indian who endeavored to establish a home under the law of the Mexican republic, which offered grants of land to red men engaged in the cultivation of the soil. Salvador V allejo became the next owner ; then Benjamin Ivelsy ; then J u- littfc K. Ross, from whom Mr. A. Haraszthy pur- chased it in 1 85G. In the following years Mr. Haras/, l hy added various tracts of land to the estate, The titles of the estate went through the different forums of courts, were approved, and final Iv recognized by the United States Gov- ernment. Up to the time of the purchase of Mjr.
WufcAtf OF T HB flOZN.V VISTA VPO OPLTOUL X80OCLAT OX.
Gocgle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
24
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
ground repeatedly during the summer months the moisture would be drawn from the atmos- phere, and the plants would flourish in the loose soil. The old settlers of the valley felt sorry that the new proprietor should waste his money on so hopeless an enterprise. The vines, how- ever, throve, much to the amazement of the un- believers, who then said that the vines might grow, but would not bear grapes without irriga- tion. They waited two years, when many of the more thrifty vines had grapes much finer and sweeter than those before raised on water- ed vines. This gave conclusive evidence of the practicability of raising vines without water. Then every body began to plant, seeing that Mr. Haraszthy annually increased by thousands his plantation on land which for grain culture was not worth a cent; and now the Valley, which in 1856 had but 30 acres of vines, has more than 2000 acres in thrifty vineyards. Land in the neighborhood of Buena Vista went up from $6 to $130 the acre.
This impulse was not only felt in Sonoma, but throughout the upper part of California. The State Agricultural Society watched the progress of the promising enterprise. As early as 1858 the Board of the Society requested Mr. Haraszthy to write an essay on wine-planting, wine-mak- ing, etc. With this request he complied by writing an essay which was received with great enthusiasm ; extracts were published in most of the newspapers, and thousands were printed by the Legislature and distributed among the peo- ple. Many who never before knew any thing of vine-raising or wine-making, by this work were made familiar with the business, and found that, after all, there was no mystery in it. The proof of this is the fact that, according to the State statistics taken in 1856, there were 1,540,134 vines, large and small; and of those the old Spanish settlement of Los Angelos had 726,000 vines, the remainder were scattered through the State in old Missions and Spanish ranches, where they were irrigated. In 1862 the standing Committee of the Legislature on Vines report 20,000,000 of vines planted throughout the State.
The success which attended this enterprise, and the untold wealth which it promised the State, soon manifested itself to every one ; and to foster the rapidly growing enterprise the Leg- islature, in 1861, appointed a Commission to re- port on the Ways and Means best adapted to promote the improvement and growth of the grape in California. Mr. Haraszthy being ap- pointed one of the commissioners, proceeded to Europe, where he traveled through the princi- pal vine-growing States. Being in an official capacity, and supplied by Mr. Seward, Secreta- ry of State, with a letter to the different Minis- ters and Consuls of the United States, he had ac- cess to all reports from Government committees on vine-raising and wine-making. Besides this, his position as commissioner procured him intro- ductions to the most scientific men, who had spent their lives in practically cultivating and
making wine. These gentlemen freely gave him their mode and experience. All these, together with his personal experience, he has collected into a large and valuable book, which has received a wide circulation, not only in the United States but through Europe.*
During his European tour Mr. Haraszthy col- lected 380 of the most distinguished varieties of vines in Europe ; these are now planted on the Buena Vista estate, where they are flourishing beyond all belief. So that the Buena Vista es- tate may be said to possess all known valuable varieties of grape-vines in the civilized world.
In planting vines the soil is plowed, subsoil- ed, and well harrowed, then lined off every eight feet each way. A two-foot stake is stuck into the ground when this is done, and the lines are perfectly straight ; holes are dug two feet in di- ameter and twenty inches deep, the surface soil being thrown on one side and the bottom soil on the other. Then to each row are two men ; one with vines, which he places in the holes, spreads their roots, while the other man, with his hoe, covers the roots with the surface ground, and fills up the hole with the bottom earth. When this is done he slightly presses down the Boil around the vine with his feet. This is all that is necessary to plant the vine. In Buena Vista the planting is done in December, January, and February. Much caution is used in selecting the ground for the vines imported from Europe. The soil is first analyzed, and they are placed in such earth and locality as they had in their native country.
In the month of March the old as well as the young vines are plowed, with two-horse plows, first one way then the other. After this men with hoes follow, and hpe all around each vine ; this is done after every plowing, and so the vines are cultivated four times each way. This lasts till July, after which time nothing more is done to the vine till the gathering of the fruit.
The old vines are pruned in the months of December and January. The best lvood on the vine is selected, and cut down to spurs of three buds. The spurs are in accordance with the age and strength of the vine. Those from six to ten years old are pruned to six, and even eight spurs, to bear from ten to fifteen pounds of good healthy grapes ; older vines are pruned to more wood and bearing. The cutting is done with shears made for this purpose, and imported from France and Germany. They cut smoother and squarer than the knife. Young vines, one year old, are cut down to two buds ; all sprouts from the side and root are carefully cut away. The two-year-old vines are pruned in the same man- ner, with this difference, that two spurs are left on the vine to form a sort of head. The three- year-old vines are cut to two buds but three spurs, and then they bear grapes. In the fol- lowing years they are pruned according to their strength.
• Grape Culture* Wines* and Wine»MaJcin<j ; with Notes upon Agriculture and Horticulture. By A Haraszthy. With numerous Illustrations. Harper & Brothers.
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
WINE-MAKING IN CALIFORNIA.
Gathering the grapes is generally done in Oc- tober or November.* Men with wooden boxes similar to a claret box, and holding about fifty pounds of grapes, will each take a row of vines. They cut the grape bunches with scissors made for this purpose, fill their boxes, and carry them to a wagon, which is provided for every five men. This wagon follows with empty boxes, which are taken off as the full ones are loaded on. Thirty-five boxes form a load, which is then taken to the Press-House. One man will gather in a good vineyard 2000 pounds per day.
The wagon with the grapes is driven to the platform of the Press-House, where there is a car on two massive cast-iron wheels. On this car the boxes and grapes are placed. When full the car is drawn up to the wine-press. This is done by a two-inch rope fastened to the upper end of the car, and also attached to an iron axle tamed by a drum, which is propelled by a leath- er belt fixed on the engine below. When the car is loaded a bell gives the signal to the engi- neer. He starts the drum which pulls the rope, and thus the loaded car is raised to the third story, where there is a platform ; and next the platform is the Grape-Crusher, consisting of two cylinders two and a half feet long and twelve inches thick. The cylinders are supplied with a hopper, like a grain-mill, to hold the grapes. These cylinders have a cog-wheel on one side and a fly-wheel on the other. The whole is moved by a wheel, on which the belt runs, driv- en by the engine.
The grapes are thrown from the platform into
the hopper, a box at a time, by a man standing on the car ; another man is beside the crusher, and moves the bunches into the hopper ; by this process one load, containing about 1750 pounds, is crushed in five or six minutes. As the grapes run through the cylinders they are thoroughly crushed, and fall down into a large wooden square box beneath the crusher. But the cyl- inders are so arranged that the seeds are never broken, for that would be injurious to the wine. The box has a double bottom ; the top one is perforated with holes, which permits the grape- juice to run through into the other bottom, from whence it is carried by a spout, and through an iron tube to the basement floor, where there are twelve large vats placed to receive the juices pressed out by the crusher. The tanks are placed in a row close to a large reservoir, which is sunk in the ground beneath the tanks. The reason for not at once letting the juices into the reservoir is that the must may first settle for five or six hours in the tanks. All the foreign sub- stance and dust that may be on the grapes, and would be in the must , in the six hours will settle to the bottom of the tanks. From thence the must is drawn into the reservoir. This prevents the wine having a “ground taste.”
The square box before mentioned stands over the press, and from this the press is filled with the crushed grapes. This press has an iron screw five inches in diameter and six feet long ; the thread is very fine, so as to give the greatest pos- sible power. This screw is in the centre of a square box, measuring six feet each way, and
* The vine in sometimes propagated from the seed ; but this method is rarely used, as it take* from six to ten yean to produce grapes, and the grapes are seldom of the same quality as the original. By this mode, how- ever, many choice varieties have been produced. The usual method is by seedling:), in several ways. Sometimes by Buds, shown in Figure 1. Sound, strong buds are cut from vines early in spring, with half an inch of wood attached to each. These are planted in hot-beds and kept moderately moist. In a couple of months a bud will send out shoots two feet long.— Through Cuttings , as shown in Figure 2. Well-matured vines with many buds are chosen, from the lower part of the vine usually, with some of the last year’s wood attached, as the best roots will start from this. European authorities say that if the cuttings are made in the spring it is best to place them in wa- ter six or eight inches deep, and plant them when the buds have started about half an inch. The cuttings will send up shoots and Bend down roots, as shown in Figure 3. Through Side Shoots, or Layer*. For this method a well-matured branch of a healthy vine is taken, placed In the ground so that it will be from eight to twelve Inches deep, and have two, three, or four buds above ground. In Europe there are many fancy modes of producing vines. Sometimes a little basket is placed in the ground, about a foot from an old vine; through this basket the layer is led, and allowed to have two buds above ground. At the proper time this layer is cut off from the mother plant, and, with the basket which contains it, is planted in the place intended for it. Rooted vines produced in this manner will bear fruit within one
Figure 1.
Figure 2.
year from planting. Another method is to lead a vine through the bottom of a flower-pot filled with rich soil. In the autumn, when the grapes are ripe, the vine In the pot is cut from the mother plant, the pot carefully removed, and the Bhoot transplanted. To pro- mote the formation of roots the vine is sometimes split up a couple of inches, and the split kept open with a wedge. In a large establishment like that of the California Association, where immediate practical results are aimed at, the simple method of cuttings is chiefly employed. We trust, however, that the slow method of raising from seeds will not be neglected, variety thus produced will amply repay the cost and trouble.
Figure 3.
One first-class new
Digitized by
Go, ,gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
lour i: - J Ucy » - Tti^j sliti in\ and have ; wood, ttoi again *& fishes ;#rto£e*,
&.;quwrXer:»)f* .au ; h&ii vijMtit- lie.rwc**^ >4o (bar ihfc | uttd Yiko the :.’of voaal lill thci;|^i^ fell, i { *]>;«• — hut $ioi; itoe or — /:»;;v •:••<-.. j.e. when it t-owii'ins- &'(*)!$ eight thou^ml pound:
Ttftj \ircte .iV.n ofkeil bV' tho. The- ottorashud grtfpi#.* .
wl^n fall* is 2v.\»uki pounds* The- Whin it isi 1 all the j»r<.'H*tii£ oofuim- neewr . ihi« Hhad-^.mK . U &fi$& m heavy U:^>jfs, Am] It res rro]i$$4' *u hoar and ton inmate*. Whoa m tiion-vavd feii of limter to more jwe runs the stems, seeds, and .<&fcs».?ric
• vifit ir *t. _\d»HUo»uil presses v.\{ l - bp w.ulo thrown into baskets total uken w the h-um ta- rn order f0 jilde ?o work up in Ume ?he its iu£ ' Liui;s# which hoi ad in the bas:iw<aiy q&c
c«2d$ed produce. TJid fitting; i A the pre<* h *i! I he d<wnhj?l ‘XVb&r >J# van V M
done in the ftifi6.iyi.hij manm-v • Si*. inches of Full end vdhoihis mi'?-y*hv/: rh^.-sund p^ij.idr. eri!>hed tffap&su ihwo-iueJi rtpune piece? m n.uci is. k*i $*tO It- -.Fivnr -».i miiK .Msimlmg mi tla
• Pratt* Mt. Uv5UzfcbNVwr-rk Ip a 1 1 r » ]»< -C'di tittf w - tot t n*;> a f*>V/ . ’
in trv TKo n?aijB $$>*'§ i<f m ' /iffti'ujidf xyR> bwf thievirit* tbyiu >i ^mh *« bh Ib-iv £• |fe>toW-rfe£Uh V; .tijr. ht&v'.
ib(? 3kc&kfg f^d(f(d tH»? vltfo. \1KPw ftO? ft •ed 'Y.ruUji w&j* h' $\t hemdiiAd la $&& .**#.*> ■; 'SvviM, on fVy)}«^ llrtnl, y$i 5^4%^
v'4#/^toj?lju’«t iffrtch p.trwU tk^ ¥$*$&■■’ *<* fr”? ** w 'fHo rt“:- \U*>fT*p<4
itittrjj.oh t|nV tiv vi ov^iiitvd fn‘in the v&ith-\U3Xt vrjitWf ftfm&i divo :ii |r.?:t. •?:• -m £.%&H 1 .‘luAV, the f'ii/i Wi' />cii '.-/'Ve '• •• »•’'/- -SfJ i ,M-. ,.>v. tjm g ,4 »»,• n. i Hi T-. I Si TO
leflU #o f.l\nt c^eb h?u? odV» Lad l$fi» ;’ Aihse. ,bkr>nit?j0':
mCl Uid a^lirfp/, rh* ivttig </ut. ^ff slI*o'vh Uiv vrtvb*V tb>< Wp;- xhkf-fwtj. **■!'&. *ljApe
.fa nJtjferi- tp jet > • m w i>; :» ( *> »*li ; so l »vi> f.-*-tii<;.:' t->rU- n.xi t,v \ z* ».l.« i\,. k .Uw rtfr > ‘
and ?nnk*r> fa .dil^tT- tiomrlth*
jiHJkvtf) dAvrn toud^» !f’tWn» *vn»i[en t«r ».<T
iU< hWJ ; n»mjy «>'■■ V' tin, ntinito lMtllo‘n-y and • opier*. ;V*y> ,.\ ■«; ir^ ^ip<: W'
lieltle* up*- >bo\rt! Iti TiiV , |iHHit. Vi Mu< -»;»v»y r^”- ft
«».x ; frV.t‘pe» YJiir‘,i.Mb« t • • '• l’ ' ' • - ^ » •» ‘ ... ..••■ ■ t r -
Digitize!} by GOO^lC
Origins I -from. , •
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
W IN iV.M AK ING IS CALtirOilKIA
.fry ft Wrgi< p\tmp driv- en by steam. The Wa- ter is obtained from i he crystal s Cream rim* inrig in front of the ecllmv When within yroe tout of being. full th«, man-hole is olosVfi., leaving' only a glav* mb*- oj»un f»>v the ;;C$* to esefepetnto #
\v'£it>!r; This mass y vtttnmvd • hi - ferment from rive to fen iJays Whett .it ha* su$~ fejeatly fennijni.edu i*
'ilrHWTJ off ‘m to. the fSfcr ^fltyoir already y*4a-rt
Yffyicdfe ....JPP(
UVhri * tpfvm -pu nip t K row i n g one hundred gallons jfer the reception of thuwtiie from thouAOiiext t|»T nimut$ it is jrumped into a reservoir stand- below i%4\ a ltd fo otil one tftnk rd: etihh.e^fefe aigaatshift uf die budding on the ehJe-iull. l.-Yoni i /tfmtya; kUnming empty ready ion Hm rootmity th^ied the- .wirie.-i* Jed to tin? different cellars j of its . neigh foto Itv ibis toem^viio frnriiar ftow and hto&b . This wide U Called ^vTieTtht^' add j (ft a lyr f iOjfi&tnds rof gftihms of win# are to be d o-mi tvj indid-' brandy. i drnw?* otk on'!. ••.one frartiu tank A iumdm*. Thp
Thc idtuvo j* %\n« process used to make first • white wine is drawn t>iT three times during the.
' 'rri^HtTT vnrv\varttWti
wltrjfi.; '^,r ' nnikitH* r^ii sVitte the nseih Buf the rttfehed
gmfeif ftdihip from tip? into the
•srjWtti MjTUle.o' bn.* pbu*ed m\ht the eru^tfer is*
described, am Oikon—skrms, iiii—tu the terftjef
;£acih dftrie^ Holds fUof) grillon*, j\nd roft'efcb* f.o ■V&. ^CCond flumv In 1% h&id oftZ&h of litokd is & square hole i hrouj^j wldr^ ti# dtVs}M^
•^^•fcttr.o^h' into the nrtd
the piWriet i* r£,d 'Vina.
It Ims hoeri said alwa ilWh, kin.f, wjriur
wine, the j'liee r »Vns Ftoln .ife»3;>‘iaqiwrdT^ and press itiifi t&rifc*. belpw,' wfidre. #V h ivfc in ^rijai for se vfcfral hours. ft i* then: dtowiv kirto ft r^r evvoir o?bok into tho grofind, from i.team~p nmp I »ri ngs the <a\>±i into a dmk stftndr ihg on the sh^di.rlfe Vrorn wi)ich. jf is wbreyed •.t*«lfar3 by
Tife ^ fhiiki * ’ "‘MlMlpMiHlMMRPIPIPPPVPiPPii
/ili^d V'Hhio the top* fnnde j^f' 'horrift
ni::n Cloned in de -edljiny vln* prm-o^.s of ninkdor . \ic (in two or throe niomhs tiij t ho nine, has f»:.r- red "O! :. To.* h-anenoition will in dn-v 1.7 rnrru.T Wlton Hie fenneukuenr ir too yeh«> ftvc duyr so 'violent th.it one e.tin hMy the ■ .m*W— d.h*it iu wlun morn thftw oi^tK pet ocufe. fluid feihhi’o ftoiji>uftor Hke llxul in^ svaterd' ft ‘ Vd the Vdrie? aro .fniitnl tp t«e W
1/ mffu r reflT f rom <nght to ftfyfeit iinya for ; removed .!>>'■> V%of)fer pko^ Su'dhfe '(‘elkr.'bclpw^ iwt -h a isitifc to become *pdoL It then hegHi« to This chocfci thetoo r:*pid foviuontufmo.. VV lu>rt el -if and /VMiinic a wino taste. I the wine has fully fcnin on -f and u moly tor.
N.-Uitor rouo» jv; dune to this tank fill Janu- dejiriitir, the bottle*' it tv put on ntoL* .with* fcfev •4ry%'eyU\dpt'«{o kwp it constantly filled with simi- Tt»ck ilrnyfm’Hfd. Ttorry dfty they are. 3U»ton fnr lav wine Then tin? trink U tap{*ed fit tlur hot- | hand .so tliallin? svdimeid nuc vefMe in jiv- nerje rom, and the y/Ote drawn into t!ie next .standiiT^ and oa ihe.eurk. Tht^ protest L*»sxa r\z. weeks.. lank in tin*, fbllowicg imnnei ; A hose U at - When i'Uf * .*huiTj;e>poe i* pOcfedlv clear ur tho Cipher! to the fiutepr, oh(J. it the wine botllc, and Mo?, sediment it «U it* ttie .»H:ek* tho
runs into a reserroir, fivn* wlifelh U fs pumped ; ojieratiori. of df^irgm^ rumwenws. This ik by hand into the next tank^ -whicji h«,4 been ; t?xrremd\v‘di0ie'ttU. 'Hjrjd .r&ftriri.* an ayperjdneed roadc reculv for it by el earing and Bulphnring. \ person. The ; " di&gorf5ei*M takes tlto IjOrtle in i n * i.inpH'*'! tank is now cleared and >*njph»ired hauv! cariefnUy so as liot to. dinturf* the 6<.'dfmeut.
"*fCl fh^T Tv >ht* be^jriiiilK^
Jv eklti^ ipvl .F^rfihrr, wfien the white Witte ks first itrUTP ft
veis jt) tin? ha?»t*-mptU. | from rh*->- rav,/Vi n is cleared wHb ismflasi or ■ Hfuiie: Viodhyr ^obslajK’e ; tanui is Mdod. A ht»146ig &)6<> inxt h then jdft«erl in tip? :fe*^»rTi wx i T f he Prt^s-HouKe Tlti^: tank
iltfeU temi the \yhice yi Hte iiueVidnd foi: Clb^ra* ymgpe. Then tfe> jcH|uiWvt quuniiiy' of rc ek- candy i« di^lved, Hirown *nr and are) I stirred, Cfuc niUii drftwij iV in kr ikwUeH which ato eorlouri by lUioUier, t'ireil by a third, who has o mu- .■•idne tef help figktfeh tl*c v/iiv > fViiil then m •fiicji tbe WVeirth man hoists the hotil s •«» ihe l*»m floor, they arte piled up in racks. The pile* Sfn oa>V ym fe(;r high, ami h>n^ J: The
MrottUt iire laid in tiers on r.umii There
of theso tou)^ ^ between the pib v which rt-
Go gle
i pinal from
rv nr mi
28
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
He twists off the wire, the cork flies out, and with it all the sediment which had collected. As soon as all this has been popped out, the operator places his thumb on the mouth of the bottle to prevent more wine or gas escaping, and hands the bottle to a man who stands ready to fill up the bottle with the required liquid, which is dissolved candy, fine old brandy, sherry, or Madeira, according to the taste of the customers at the place where the Champagne is to be sent. If it is to be sent to England it is not made so sweet, but “stronger.” When filled, the bottle is recorked by a machine, only the finest corks being used. One man ties on the twine while the other fastens the wire. This done, it is given to the person who affixes the labels. Then it passes to the hands of others who wrap it up as carefully as though it were a new-born infant, and pack it in baskets for transportation.
Attached to the Press-House is a machine- shop, where the different apparatus are placed, viz., a steam-engine with double cylinders, a large steam-boiler, which has pipes leading to the distillery about 300 feet distant. A cast-iron pipe is also connected with the boiler, and the large steam-chest where the staves for the tanks are cured, also lumber for building purposes. This chest is 30 feet long, 4 feet wide, 3£ feet high. The green redwood staves are placed in it in such a manner that the steam may pene- trate between the staves ; when the chest is filled steam is let in continually for from sixteen to twenty hours. At first the water running out of the chest will be as black as ink, then gradu- ally it becomes clearer, and clearer, till it is white, when the staves are done. When taken out, they are dry, and have lost nearly one-half of their former weight. Not a particle of sap remains in them. They are now much easier for the coopers to vtork than unseasoned wood. All lumber used for doors, window sashes, etc., must be seasoned ; without this steam-chest the Company would be at a loss to supply them- selves with tanks for the annually increasing produce. It may be here mentioned that the vine-growers felt considerable uneasiness as to how, and from where, they should get oak-wood for making the required barrels, tanks, etc. They appointed committees to report whence and how to import staves. Dalmatia, through Venice, and Canada were recommended. But it was all too expensive, and would have made the cost for a gallon from twelve to thirteen cents. Cali- fornia oak is too porous, and will not do. These facts were a damper to the vine-growing interest till Mr. Haraszthy demonstrated the utility of redwood for tanks, etc. Having foreseen the difficulty about staves, in 1859 he had some small barrels made, applied steam to them by means of an India-rubber hose from a brandy distillery, for at that time there was on the es- tate no steam-boiler. He steamed a barrel for an hour, then had it washed with clear spring water, and filled with old wine, as new wine will acquire taste much readier than the old. An oak barrel was filled with the same wine at
the same time, so as to ascertain whether the wine in the redwood barrel acquired any foreign taste. The wine was left in for years, but it gave not the slightest taste. Not satisfied with this one test, he increased the number of his tanks, etc., and conclusively proved that the ex- periment was perfect. This is a great saving, for the redwood abounds, is easily worked, and durable. There are posts planted in the ground that have been there for a hundred years, having been placed there by the old priests, and they are still perfectly sound. The cost per gallon of casks made of this wood is three cents.
Next to the steam-chest is placed a grain- mill, which grinds the barley or wheat for the horses of the estate. Much wheat is used for horse feed. This mill is also driven by steam. There are also several circular saws driven by steam : these are used by the carpenters for saw- ing lumber for building purposes, making boxes in which to ship the wine or grapes to market. In this building are placed different pumps ; some from the reservoir to the tank on the side-hill, others to pump water to the different reservoirs, all worked by the steam-engine.
In the Distillery are three tanks made of red- wood three-inch staves, each holding 2300 gal- lons of wine. Tank No. 1 is on the lowest floor ; in it a copper steam-pipe is placed. This tank is filled from tank No. 2 by a valve, No. 2 is filled from No. 3, and No. 3 by a cast-iron pipe from the reservoir on the side-hill. When all three tanks are full steam is let into No. 1. In one hour it commences to boil. When boiling the alcoholic vapor rises, and passes into No. 2, in which is a copper warmer. The wine in No. 2, surrounding this warmer, is not only warm- ed by this but also*precipitates the watery parts rising up from No. 2. The alcoholic vapor rises through No. 3, which has a similar wanner, which again warms the wine, and precipitates the watery vapor that rising from the first, passed through the second, and entered the third tank. Then the spirit rises and enters a globe which is surrounded with running water. From the globe the spirit descends into pan No. 1, and on these pans cold water is also running. All these pans and the globe are made of copper, and will sep- arate such watery vapor as may have penetrated through the tanks Nos. 2 and 3, or through the globe, so that the pure wine spirit will run into the “worm,” where it cools. This worm is 220 feet long, made of copper, an<^>laced in a large tank filled with water. The dprit runs through this worm.
At the other end of the worm is a tube into which the spirit runs : this tube is furnished with an “ Alcohometer,” which gives the exact strength of the brandy. The brandy comes out of this tube at a temperature of from 9£° to 70°. When at 70° the wine in No. 1 is let out, filled from No. 2, which of course is now boiling hot, and begins to make the brandy run in ten minutes ; No. 2 is filled from No. 3, which is lukewarm. By this much fuel is saved, also time, for this apparatus can make 1000 gallons of brandy in
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
mm-MAKlXG CALIFORNIA
tte solid rock; Their dimensions are 12 feel man is ornplnred ro taspea and the corks high) if* foet wide. The tanks stand In. the n>ir!U to be used. From the corker ihe bottle is haud- dley Are £ foot high, and feet in diameter, ; pi' to the man who maps on ihe lead, then to The length, of some of the cellars is* HD tent, the l&beW, then to th* person potting on the and they are annually lengthened as ihg increas- paper wrapper, and findir to ihe packer, who Ing cTT/p ^airws. Their temperature? is 00 V^td place* ttmhu Iwrttlcft in ettew in a box; then eeidoci vaiie^ more than on a of two degree# dur- ’ twelre boxes ace place dm wne largo box, which, ing the year. Tbfcf are kept very clean, noth ing hning bound with iron bi»ps, b reatlr to be being allowed la i form which will deegy ; (Dr 1 $hipj*d,
wine, liktfimlk- will quwdily assume any foreign ; In the Vinegar Factory arc *i& tanks, bolding bdOT. Whence a torvi is emptied* it is m- j 1000. gallons eatdi. The inside of am rank h. nusdimiy taken to ihe xnadime^hop, tborougb- filled with vmo*cu cling* loopuly placed. The It -stetfiried, washed, *ufpbifml, and tepiaccd in j wine destined for v in^ar ii lei info lank No. f, im fvriitet . position. Tim dfitui} mess of ihe ceb J whtfre it stands twenty-fonp houre, It is then hm wii thuir iiteimte ikt?>hsIdHrbl so iidportdnf ! . drawn into No. 2; end so oa ^ncccssively iuU.n that oil i*mpa ace i»<# ';d^VTor:''fcwir that the { the whole, six, always remainhig twexity -four may affect the. wVnh. 'nietelord sperm . hour® in each tank. Generally in due mouthy eaibl!^ atl ihe ) fchuo the vmegar is excellent. The tempCnacure
When thc wine is considered il ripe’" enough of the place is kept hi eighty degree? by meant tor bottling, which varies from., three ro life ’ of h store.
years, according to the quality — light wino j Making Taisins is done in a very ^imjd^irmn- bolng sootfoc 'ripa— a preparation of UingJ%s*s \> pep, The, grape* for nn>his are picked m the made. Tlic wy best isitiyjjvs is put otBfttfghf /heat of ihe day, when they are free from the tote* a dish offxurtjWim to soak : ; deylt inohning iwprifitogdew, p//d carried to « drying ceUiblish- it. (a worked up Pi paste wilh thfy hnfol | %W$. is .men* oh the sidc-hiJl; The dryitig^n is forty added tt> form the ..tiimkd.^- ‘ • ®|d* ; .brcdTu feet vrulo, two feet deep, and
don'tyk is take a Mo the harm which fr K? bo « k nbido'^B- follows: The bill h very steep, abo^l cleared , a tub b jilftced before rj/e barrel ; a ah angle of forty degree^ if b solid rock. The siphon fee placed m tki bung i from six to rock was excavated the above length and width ten gallons, of wtnn are taken from the barrel ; to the ilepth of four am! n half %ctv In this and pat into the tub : the ism glow is poured into excayniiou are four doors bulk ertm, running the whole rut* a*. beaten font foam with rucks car from the lower part of the hill upward the wh<do a clean chain. This fotuny :Md>»t-*ct?cr- is grad- length; TTiese llovaw are 'covered; with Rhet t- uellv poured ..hick Info th« barrel ?\vho«e eou- iren. Ou the surface of this iron red gravelly tent,# are thorpngltly stirred up, so a* 'fo, ;ho ■ ilScl^iiL. The grape-
mixed with ih The bung-hole is then closed, :} hunches are placed op the pan. l>oring ih.v Jufr md icmiains to for twenty or thirty days, whim when the gnn is shining, r/tx lire i$ nw?d; but to^ the nriue is drawn off into a clean barred, yiad ; war d evening a ?w made l>ene>uhp and by the same process h^tjwcdt . • Sotbtt wine jeqmrxs this. . means the join « wanned. There being to Ik* cleared three times. Red wine is cleared | four inches of clay on thtrsheer-mm plates, the in a similar manner, only that wxstead of ism- \ heat U gradual, «nd keeps the &>'i) warr<x during
30
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
the night. Every evening the pan is covered with boards, to prevent the dew falling on the grapes. It requires from twelve to fourteen days before the raisins are ready to be packed. Three pounds of grapes will give two pounds of raisins. The grave-vines for raisins were import- ed from Malaga and Smyrna, As yet there are but few raisins made, as the vines are just be- ginning to bear. In a couple more years there will be from forty to fifty tons produced.
THREE LIVES.
' M We meet at one gate
When all’s over. The ways they are many and wide, And seldom are two ways the same. Side by Bide May we st:md at the same little door, when all’s done! The ways they are many, the end it is one.”
44 TN our course through life we shall meet the
JL people who are coining to meet us, from many strange places, and by many strange roads ; and what it is set to them to do to us, and what it is set to us to do to them, will all be done.”
When I came upon this passage in the book I was reading I shut it up and fell to thinking. Somehow the words carried me back along the way of my own life — a rugged, commonplace highway enough, and yet not without some strange, sudden turnings in it, which made me understand what the old Greeks meant by Fate. Mine has not been a stirring career I have not guided boats through mad seas, tossing white crests of defiance to a threatening sky ; I have not ministered in prisons, or nursed in hospitals. Yet is my quiet life not without its own lesson ; not without its temptations, its struggles, its hours of terrible anguish; and I have thought it might be a good employment for the long, solitary days of summer, to set it all down ; that, perchance, sometime when the mould grows over my pulseless heart, and my faded eyes are closed forever, some other, tried and tempted as I was, may read and learn that the right has its sure rewards. If they are not always of the earth ; if the crown is eternal, and the flowers are such as never fade, are they therefore the les9 worth the winning?
How far off my youth seems, and yet I am but thirty-five! and it is only because my life must be measured, not by years, but by the inci- dents which have followed each other so fast, that I seem now like an old woman, for whom it remains only to sit among the shadows and wait for the morning.
Back across the years I look to the morning- land of youth. I see a bright, happy home, kind parents, brothers and sisters, so many and so merry. Our life, in the pleasant countiy town where our home was, was not wanting in variety. We had society enough as we grew up, and the great hospitable house used to ring with gay laughter and cheery talk. In winter Yule fires burned in the wide-mouthed chimneys, for we were come of English stock, and liked to *sep up good old customs ; the long tables bent
under the weight of bounteous Christmas cheer, and of all the glad young faces on which the fire-light flashed none was more glad than mine. I did not know what trouble meant in those days. There was a strange fascination for me in reading in books about misery and heart- ache— a pleasant luxury, in the soft tears I wept, for sorrows so far removed from my own life.
They spoiled me a little because I was the beauty of the family, and they were all proud of me. No one would guess it now, but in my youth, when these eyes, which so many tears have dimmed, were black and full of sparkling light, when roses flamed on these now pale checks, when my lips were coral red, and my long dark hair defied comb and band to curb its luxuriant growth, I was the belle of the coun- try town — the centre of attraction at every fete and festival. The discipline of my life has cured me of vanity. It thrills my pulses now with no throb of the old pride to remember how I queened it once ; to recall the perilous pleasure of being followed, and praised, and sought for ; the one without whom every company was in- complete. It is fashionable nowadays to make book heroines who are pale and reticent; not handsome till some inspiration kindles their eyes and colors their cheeks, and then, all at once, radiant. My beauty was not of that kind. It was bright and positive.
Of course I had many suitors ; but I was not easy to win. I was reluctant to resign my proud dominion over the many to sit quietly down at one man’s fireside. Yet I was no co- quette; I gave no encouragement, and if any were disappointed I did not hold myself to blame. I was nineteen, and had been for three years the centre of attraction in all the society the neigh- borhood of Kempton afforded, before I had ever allowed any one to approach mo near enough to be my lover.
I hardly know now what it was which moved me when Fred Hartright came. He was my second cousin, but he was an orphan, and had passed most of his life away from Kempton — in school, or traveling, or at the house of his guard- ian in New York. When I was nineteen he came to Kempton for the summer; and, of course, with the tie of relationship between us. he was brought into constant association with our family.
He was very handsome. I think it ran in the Hartright blood; my mother was a Hart- right, and I took my beauty from her. The Hamiltons are all like iny father — sturdy, and brave, and true, strong to work for God and man, but wanting a little the Hartright charm.
I had never seen any one like Fred ; never, certainly, any one so graceful, so accomplished, so gifted* with that rare fascination of manner which makes every thing its possessor does and says seem at once thoroughly sincere, and the most subtle of compliments. Perhaps it was no wonder that we attracted each other, thrown to- gether as we were in all the pleasant, dangerous
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THREE LIVES.
Si
intimacy of country life — riding, driving, boat- ing, singing, and dreaming.
When he asked me to marry him, however, I hardly knew what to say, for I had not been thinking of him in that light. Pleasant friend, gay companion he had been — nothing more. But when I listened to his passionate persua- sions; when I met his dark eyes so full of plead- ing ; above all, when I knew I must be all to him or nothing — that, if I said no to his suit, my gallant, tender friend would go away from Kempton forever, I began to think how sorely I should miss him, and to long to keep him by my side. There was something very fascinating, moreover, in his intense, earnest way of making love. No one had ever talked so to me before. I did not believe I had ever been half so dear to any one else, and I thought I should never be so beloved again.
Before I fairly knew it we were engaged, and while I passed my days in a sort of charming, cooing bewilderment at Fred’s side, my mother and sisters were busily at work upon my wed- ding outfit.
It was September when our bridal vows were plighted, and we were to be married at the Christmas tide, on my twentieth birthday. The three months intervening were long enough to show me Fred in other phases than the gay companion or chivalrous wooer. I began to recognize in him a passionate temper, an un- disciplined will, a jealousy cruel as the grave. Oh, if I had been warned in time. But no one seemed to mind ; only my grandmother Ham- ilton said to me one day — it was after we had. quarreled and made up, when she was there on a visit —
“Remember, child, stormy wooing never ends in quiet wedding.”
I answered her cheerfully :
“Oh, there’ll be no trouble after we are mar- ried, grandma. It is only that Fred loves me so well now he can’t bear any one else to look at me. After we have settled down into the quiet of wedded life, and our mutual trust is strengthened by time, it will all be different. We shall jog along just as other people do.”
Grandmother shook her head.
4<If you could build a great stone pyramid on the top of a volcano it might keep it under, per- haps— the thing would be to keep the volcano still till you got it builded.”
I knew what she meant. She thought there would never be peace enough between us to give time for building up the quiet trust of which I had spoken. With my nineteen-ycars-old wis- dom I smiled at her fears, and thought she knew neither Fred nor me, or our love for each other.
And indeed there was something fascinating abont those very outbursts of temper. I am not sure that they did not make his hold on me stronger than a calmer lover’s would have been. Not that I liked his anger or his injustice ; but the tender sweetness of making up seemed to atone for all. When I saw him at my feet, so humbled, so sorry, so fearful I would never for-
| give him, and so certain that all he needed to ; cure him forever was to have me all his own, and be sure that no one else would dare to think of me, is it strange that I was ready to pardon all?
I have wondered since that my mother was not alarmed for my future happiness ; but she took kindly even to the Hartright foibles, and thought all Fred’s passionate injustice sprang ; from the fervor of his love.
So I went on.
I remember the frosty pomp of my bridal morning. An early snow glittered on the tree- boughs and whitened the road-side, and the I bright December sun struck it all to diamond sparkles. Fred was ecstatic. Never had bride been so lovely, or groom so blest. No doubt or misgiving troubled him — there was no little cloud in all the blue sky that arched smiling over his future.
Did his rhapsodies chill me, or why was my heart so heavy? At the very lost a vague pre- sentiment of evil oppressed me. Still I felt no inclination to draw back. I thought what I ex- perienced was but the natural, girlish tremor which overflows in some in bridal tears, but which turned me, instead, cold and still. I spoke my vows willingly, and with unfaltering lips — pledged myself of my own free-will, and surely the contract was binding. I could have no right to complain if Fate or Providence ex- acted its fulfillment to the uttermost farthing.
When the ceremony was over the chill and gloom were uplifted from my mood. I was happy, as brothers and sisters and friends crowd- ed round me with congratulations, and I turned proud eyes on my handsome, graceful husband. Many a time afterward the bitterness of thoughts which would have been harsh was softened by the memory of that hour — of the triumph in his eyes, the love-words on his lips, the tremulous joy of which my own heart was full.
There was need enough, as time passed on, of tender and softening memories. My grand- mother had been right. Stormy wooing does not end in quiet wedding.
We lived together, in outward peace, more than three years. On the incidents of those miserable years I will not dwell. They are my secret — let the world speculate on them as it may. Both of us were wrong ; both suffered. He was unkind, exacting, causelessly jealous, needlessly cruel. I was defiant, unyielding, not ready enough to forgive. And so the breach between us grew wider. If any child’s hand had been stretched out to draw* us together, any baby lips had smiled for us, it might have saved us ; but God knew best, and He sent no snch blessing.
There are men and women, perhaps, who could go through a long lifetime together in outward harmony, when between their hearts was yawn- ing a fathomless, bridgeless gulf of disunion and discordance. Such must have cooler, more con- trolled, more long-suffering temperaments than ours.
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
32
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
There came a time at last, after months of alienation — months during which not one word had been spoken between us that the necessities of life or of society did not exact — when Pred enter- ed one afternoon the room where I was sitting.
It was a June day. There was a scent of heliotropes in the air. I remember the way every article of furniture was placed — what mu- sic was open on the piano, what book I held in my hand, even a white shred on the carpet which tormented my eyes while he spoke.
44 1 have something to say to you, Margery.”
His tone was quiet, yet with a certain note of resolve which made it forceful. He had always called me Margery, even when we were most at variance ; but it seemed to me his voice linger- ed a little on the name now, with an inflection that made me think of old, happier times. I looked up expectantly, yet with a cold certainty at my heart that reunion was impossible ; a se- cret, bitter determination never again to forgive him, say what he would. But he had not come for prayers or entreaties. Looking at me search- ingly, he said,
44 Do you remember the address Charles For- syth gave us in his last letter?”
Charles was our cousin — his as well as mine — and had been among the first to follow the gold rumors to California. I began to guess at Fred's intentions ; but I rose quietly, took the letter from a desk, and handed it to him.
44 1 have made all my arrangements,” he went on, just glancing at it, 44 to go out to California by the next steamer. I shall join Forsyth. I have no doubt he can put me in the way of estab- lishing myself. I shall go in a week, unless” — here he came close to me, and looked steadily down into my eyes — 44 unless you ask me to stay, Margery.”
What was my duty ? I could not tell. God forgive me if I judged wrongly. He had worn my love out, if indeed it had ever been worth calling love. It was dead utterly. It would be a relief to have him go — a blessed relief— if I could only creep away into some solitude, where the world would forget me, and find rest. Yet I was not without a conscience. If I had thought any reconciliation could be permanent, remem- bering my marriage-vows I would have said, stay. But I was so weary of such trials ! They had been made so often and so vainly ! What was the use, I thought, of going through a new mock- ery of forgiveness and promises, and those mis- erable scenes after all ? So I just said — and I know my voice was cold, for I felt as if I was turning to stone —
44 1 shall neither say go nor stay. To talk of any influence of mine over yon is an absurdity. Do as you choose.”
He put his hand on my shoulder, and, bend- ing down a little, looked into my eyes with a carious expression ; hardly tender, yet certainly not harsh ; expectant, perhaps. I wondered if he thought there was still any magnetism for me in his touch, any spell in his eyes. I did not speak.
44 1 wait, Margery, for your bidding. Re- member you are deciding the whole future for us both.”
44 Did you not understand me? I will take no such responsibility. If you go, you go. If you stay, you stay. I will have nothing to do with the matter.”
He looked at me for a moment without speak- ing. He seemed studying my face. I think he read there a resolve sterner than his own. He drew a long breath at last, and announced his determination.
44 1 go, Margery. I shall trouble you no more. See to it that you can quiet your con- science as easily in the days when our vows and the way we have kept them are brought up be- fore us in judgment as you can quiet my voice now.”
I was silent. I might? have upbraided him with his own offenses against our mutual com- pact ; but I said nothing, and I thought my si- lence magnanimous. And yet a few words, even of reproach, would have kept him ; for a softened heart looked out of his lingering eyes. A few words then might have saved us perhaps from so much that came after, and I did not speak them. Was it fate ?
When he had gone out of the room, and I knew the matter was all settled, I felt no regret. I think I had suffered so much that it made me torpid. I felt like a frozen creature, with only one emotion — a blind, vague sense of relief that I should be put upon the rack no more, should hear no more bitter words, be subjected to no more upbraidings. I could go away — it was all I craved — and rest.
During the week that yet remained before he left I think a few words from me would at any time have changed all his plans. I think, now that he was about to leave me, his heart yearn- ed over me with a sorrowful, longing tenderness. He was more passionate than I — in a certain sense more cruel — but he was at the same time more forgiving. Besides, his nature was not so hard— did not retain impressions as mine did. Our three years and over of perpetual, miserable bickering had not so worn into his soul as they had into mine. It would have been possible for him to forget — to me the very tenacity of my memory was a curse.
I did not then realize, however, that he was longing to stay, waiting and hoping for some small sign of concession from me. If I had, I think I should have yielded, out of duty, not love. But it was not till afterward that the truth came home to me — when I remembered the long looks that sought my face with a speech- less entreaty, the slight errands into the room where I was sitting, the little cares for my com- fort. All in vain. I responded to none of them. Silent and still, cold and impassive, as if frozen to stone, I sat through the long June days, with a bit of work in my fingers for a pretense, or some book which I never read.
At last — it was the day before he was to go— he spoke to me directly.
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THREE LIVES.
33
44 I hare spared you all the trouble I could, Margery ; done as far as I could without con- sulting you ; hut it is necessary that you should tell me your wishes about some things. Will you stay here after I am gone ? or would you prefer to go to your father's ? I have invested money enough in your name to make you inde- pendent ; so you can choose your own course.”
It seemed to me then that I would have died before I would have remained after he went away in his house. I thought food bought with his money would choke me if I should be starving. I waited a moment till I could speak quietly.
44 Thank you,” I said, as I would have an- swered a stranger. 44 I shall not care to stay here. My plans for the future are all made. I should wish to get away from-Kempton, and I shall go to my grandmother Hamilton. She will be glad of my company. I should prefer that you would withdraw the investments you mention. I shall never ulfe them. The money my father settled on me at my marriage will suf- fice for all my necessities. I think it might be well to leave your attorney the care of letting this house, furnished. It would be an easy man- ner of disposing of it. I shall remove all my personal effects as soon as you are gone. While you staid I thought it but right to continue my superintendence of the housekeeping, that you might not be uncomfortable.”
I looked hack to my hook for a sign that the conversation was ended, but still he stood there and looked at me.
“Who are you?” he cried, after a moment, in a raised, passionate tone. “You are not Margery Hamilton, the impulsive, thoughtless, gay Margery I loved and won — the Margery that used to love me!”
“No, I am not Margery Hamilton. There is a difference between her and Mrs. Hartright. You should know me, for I am what you have made me.”
He went out, muttering between his teeth something which I did not hear. •
The next day he went away. I think, at the very last, it took all his pride to sustain him, and make him go. After all, he was better than I — his heart was warmer and tenderer. I know my hand was cold when he touched it. My eyes looked stonily into his. I manifested no trace of emotion, because I felt none. The very fountains of my being seemed frozen up. Else, surely, the despairing tenderness that looked so wistfully out of his eyes would have moved me to some throb of pity. I think until the very last the hope had not quite failed him that I would relent, and ask him to stay. When he saw no softening in the cold resolve of my face he spoke his farewell.
44 Good-by, Margery, wife. We shall never meet again, perhaps. May God forgive us both!”
“Amen !” I said, solemnly, for in that prayer at least my whole heart joined.
Then he went. The long, sad experiment was over. I was a wife, and yet no wife.
Vol. XXIX.— No. 169.— C
That was morning. Before noon every thing which I wished to remove was packed and sent to the railroad station. I did not go home. I did not know whether my family knew any thing of Fred’s departure. They surely had heard nothing from me ; and I could not have borne to see them just then. I thought it would be time enough after I was settled with my Grandmother Hamilton at Woodstock. I discharged my two servants, locked my house, and sent the key to my husband’s man of business. Then I turned my back on Kempton.
It was sunset when I stood before my grand- ^ mother’s door. I had not shed a single tear when I parted with the man whom I had vowed to love and cherish till death came between us — not one when I went out from that home to which I bad gone, with such bright hopes, a bride ; but when the door opened, and I saw my grandmother’s kind face, with the look of sur- prise blending with her welcome, I remembered how helpless and lonely I was, and I burst into tears.
“Will you take me in?” I asked, amidst my sobs. 44 1 have no other refuge.”
She did not say a word. She just led me in silently and up stairs to a pleasant room. She untied my bonnet, took off my shawl, brushed my hair away from my face, and bathed ray eyes very gently. Then, in the twilight, she sat down by me with her 44 Now, child!” and I knew she was ready for my story.
I kept back nothing. To her, at least, if she was to give me comfort and shelter, the whole truth was due. I told her the whole sad his- tory. She held my hand in hers all the time, and when I was through she did not reproach me. She only said,
44 Poor Margery ! Poor Fred ! How I pity you both! Perhaps your coldness was as much to blame as his passion. I think the most love was on his side. He could have gone on for- ever getting angry and making up ; and never, perhaps, have loved you a whit the less. But you could not go on forgiving, and so the breach widened. Two natures that to all human judg- ment never ought to have come together. How often we see such things in this world ! And yet, God knows. Some day we may see how it was all for the best.”
44 Do you think I ought to have said ‘stay,’ grandma?”
I asked this question longing yet fearing to know her verdict. She thought a while before she answered me.
44 1 can’t say, child. As we grow older we form our opinions more cautiously ; and there are some cases where it is hard to lay down the rule of right and wrong for another soul. I think he wanted you to ask him to stay ; and that he would have staid if you had. But whether it would have been any better, whether there would have been any thing but the old, miserable scenes over again, a good deal more suffering, and then separation after all, I don’t know. From the first I fear there was want of
Digitized by
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
34
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
forbearance on your side, and want of love. It is too late to change any thing now, unless he should come back and ask you to live with him. If he should I should have no two minds about your duty. If we vow a vow unto the Lord we must keep it, even though it be to our hurt.”
I shivered inwardly. I thought I had escaped from the fetters of my rash vow. I could not bear to feel that they had yet a possible hold on me. Perhaps grandmother read my thoughts.
I did not express them. I only drew closer to her, and whispered, through the gathering night gloom,
44 Will you keep me ? May I stay with you ?”
44 Did you think I would ever send you away?” And then, when her soft, kind arms took me into their shelter, I cried again for joy that my rest was won.
The next day I wrote to my father and mo- ther, telling them only that Fred was gone to California, and begging them to come over to Woodstock for all farther explanations.
When they came grandmother saw them first. She yielded to my entreaties, and spared me the pain of telling my own stoiy by telling it all in my stead.
When they saw me they were most kind. I had always been their darling, and I know their hearts yearned over me in my desolation. They urged me not a little to come home ; but at last I made them understand how trying it would be for me in Kempton, among all the old scenes and the old faces, with my changed prospects and blighted life. I think my mother, with a woman’s sensitiveness to public opinion, sym- pathized fully with my feelings. If my father did not, he at least ceased to oppose my de- termination. So my life with my grandmother | began.
What a quiet life it was ! For a year I never even went home. The only changes that came to me were the occasional visits of father, mo- ther, brothers, and sisters ; and they always came into my presence with hushed tread and carefully-modulated voices, as one approaches a person on whom a great sorrow has fallen.
I had received a letter soon after I came to Woodstock from my husband’s attorney, telling me that, by Mr. Hartright’s directions, the house I had vacated would not be let, but remain al- ways ready for my occupancy. Also he inform- ed me that he held property in trust for me to an amount which I knew covered more than half poor Fred’B fortune.
This letter touched me profoundly. Fred had been so generous to me in spite of my cold- ness. Of course I should never occupy the house nor use the money, but it moved me to the heart to see what his care had been for me to the last.
After a year had passed my mother was taken suddenly ill. Then, for a few weeks, I went home, and came back again in mourning clothes, with a new sorrow, an added sense of desolation.
Through every thing no words can tell how tender and pitiful my grandmother was. I found rest and strength leaning on her great
strong heart. For her sake I struggled for cheer- fulness, and learned still to find some interest in life.
When Fred had been gone two years a letter came from Charley Forsyth, the cousin he had joined in California, to tell me of his death. They had been up into the Indian region, Char- ley, and Fred, and two others, on a business expedition. They had been attacked by a party of hostile Indians of more than twice their own number. For a while they tried to resist and defend their property; but being overpowered at length, Foreyth and one of his companions had escaped, leaving dead upon the field Fred and the other.
By the tone of the letter, the pity, the tender sympathy it breathed for me, I knew that Fred had kept our secrets, and that Charley never dreamed that his going to California had been brought about by any alienation from me.
He had been generous to the last, my poor Fred! He had loved me, and he was gone. Now, indeed, my heart smote me. Now I would have given worlds to have recalled the obstinacy of that last miserable week. Now if I could but have gone to his side and whispered, 44 Stay.” But he would never wait again for word of mine. Those thirsty, far-off sands had drank his blood. Savage eyes had glared into his dying face; no friend, not one, had whispered a prayer on which his parting soul could rise toward heaven. It was not love I felt for him even then, not the surging, passionate overflow of a woman’s heart that I could have given him ; but I was melted with a sorrow so intense, a pity so profound, that I would have laid down all the rest of my life only to have Bpoken one tender word which he could hear. Day apd night, without sleep or rest, I mourned for him, sorrowed over the pitiable, irremediable past. Again I believed, as I had done once, that he loved me as no one would ever love me again; and I blamed the poor requital I had made him for all the pain there had been in our lives.
In this passion of self-reproachful sorrow my grandmother strove after a while to comfort me. She let me grieve unreproved at first, for she knew that wild rush of misery must have its way. Then she tried to persuade me to see God’s hand in all, to believe that He knew how it would be from the foundation of the world ; that it was His will, and in some way, in the midst of sorrow and darkness, His work was going on, making our souls ready for the eter- nal morning. Perhaps Fred had drawn nearer to Him in loneliness and sorrow than he would ever have done in joy ; and if human love and human help were far from him in his hour of peril the Divine arm had held him up.
How was it that, wise and tender as her words were, they sounded so hollow to my need, so empty to my longing? They seemed not to touch me. I listened in my dumb sorrow as one who heard not.
Of course my bereavement was generally known. The estrangement between me and
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THREE LIVES.
35
my husband had never been made public. Peo- ple had wondered at his going to California, young and prosperous as he was. - They may have guessed, with Yankee shrewdness, that he was unhappy ; but all certain knowledge of our affairs was con lined to my own family. Every one sympathized with me, therefore, when the tidings of his death became known. Little thinking that I had never expected to see him again in this world, they pitied me for my great loss, and eyes and voices grew softer when I came among them.
I had been withdrawn from society before, and, except going regularly to church, I con- tinued to seclude myself. My sorrow brought me but one new friend.
Six months before, Parson Wells, the good, kindly old man who had broken bread for forty years in the church at Woodstock, who had mar- ried the elders, baptized the children, and buried the dead, had suddenly, after many years of poor health and constant suffering, lost his voice, and his people had been reluctantly obliged to choose his successor. It was with their old minister’s entire approbation that their choice fell on the Reverend Hugh Walden.
I went to hear him, for the first time, a little reluctantly. He was young I knew. Wood- stock was his first parish. It seemed to me that after the teachings of Parson Wells, enriched by a lifetime of experience, this young man — who had never suffered, who only knew life by tradi- tions gathered from books, not at all from grap- pling with its verities, standing face to face with the naked souls of men, in moments when the sense of eternity closing round them rent like a flimsy veil the disguises of mortality — could give us nothing to feeL Something to admire, per- haps ; pretty sentiment, graceful imagery, a rose or two to gather, the whipped syllabub of the banquet, no more.
I was disappointed.
I can see him now as he rose that day in his pulpit — grand yet simple. His great fbrehead, with the thin brown hair scantly shading it ; his eyes earnest with the depth of the soul looking through them ; his mouth gentle and sweet as a child's. There was something in the cadence of his voice as he spoke which thrilled me as no oratory had ever done. He made no attempt at display, either in matter or manner ; but there was an unconscious eloquence which carried his words home. I knew that I was in the presence of genius ; that strange, subtle power which can dispense sometimes with experience, and reveal to its possessor depths of the heart which no com- monplace knowledge of a lifetime could fathom. By virtue of his own capacity to feel — to enjoy and to suffer beyond the measure of most men — you knew instinctively that he could enter with- out profanation into the holiest of your sorrows.
And yet, feeling from the first his power to understand and to sympathize, I felt so keenly also my own anomalous situation, that I had heft myself aloof from him, even as from others. When he had called I had never seen him. It
was not until after the news of my husband’s death that he made a visit expressly to me ; and, my grandmother being out, I was obliged to re- ceive him alone.
I descended to the parlor with no idea of con- fiding in him. I meant only to listen to his con- dolences, and endure them as best I could. I hardly know how it was that my self-command failed me. I believe I was drawn on partly by my sense of justice, partly by my need of pity. When he looked at me with such compassionate eyes, and seemed to feel so much for me because I could not have been with my husband at the last, as if that were almost the bitterest drop in my cup of woe, I felt that he was thinking bet- ter of me than I deserved ; and I longed to have him know me as I was, and speak, not to the general requirements of a wife’s sorrow, but to the particular needs of my own soul. So some- how, I hardly know how, I began at the very be- ginning, and told him all.
I did Fred justice. I told all that was noble and generous in his nature ; all his tender care for me when he went away; but I kept back none of the misery of our life together. I poured out my whole soul, as the angels of resurrection may read it at the last — the wrong, the suffer- ing, the remorse. Words can not tell the re- lief it was thus to anticipate the terror of Heav- en’s final sentence by submitting myself thus, with all my weary burden, to the judgment of a good man on earth.
“I can make no atonement,” I said, fearful- ly, when all was told. “ Dead is dead, and I can not undo the past * Is there any hope of pardon ?”
How his voice fell on my ear— calm, firm, yet tender, and inexpressibly sweet.
“ If our hopes depended on the atonement we ourselves could make, where should we all be ? Thank Heaven that another has borne the bur- den of our transgressions. There is forgiveness for every soul which claims it, even the worst. You have been wrong indeed. A hasty, ill- advised marriage is a terrible misfortune ; and yet marriage is marriage, all the same. The vow voluntarily assumed is binding. You should have been more patient, more gentle, more long- suffering ; and surely, at the last, when he waited for your bidding, you should have told him to stay. But the error is past — the forgiveness is present We shall learn in time to thank God even for sorrow and remorse when they make us feel our need of Him.”
Hitherto all my grandmother’s tender conso- lations had been powerless. They had fallen unheeded in the throbs of my dull heartache. But in Mr. Walden’s words was an authority which carried them home. He talked to me for an hour, probing the innermost depths of my secret woe. And before be went I was able to pray with faith for forgiveness.
That interview had drawn ns near to each other as months of common acquaintance could not have done. When soul had spoken to soul heart and mind could not be strangers.
Digitized by
Gck igle
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
36
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
There was a year and a half after that of calm, placid friendship between ns. I was scarcely conscious how necessary he was grow- ing to me. I never thought of the possibility of marrying again. My first marriage had been so hopeless, so miserable, had ended in such un- told bitterness and desolation, that I forgot I was free, and only twenty-seven.
It almost frightened me when Mr. Walden asked me to be his wife. It was a day in early spring. Violets were opening their blue eyes in the clefts — birds were singing in the boughs — the tender green of bursting leaf and spring- ing grass was every where. We went out to ramble a little while among the spring sights and sounds, and, walking by my side, he told me how unconsciously he had learned to love me. He had looked upon me at first as one consecrated and set apart from human ties by sorrow ; but with his more intimate knowledge of me I had grown into his heart until he knew now that I held in my hands every hope of his life on earth. Could I love him ? Could I stand beside him before God and give him my life ?
Then, in that mdment, my own soul’s secret flashed suddenly into the light. This was love —this that I felt for him — this that I had never felt before. For me, even for me, the sun of life had not set. It was spring for me as well as for the year. After my long winter again would come song of birds, and blooming of flowers. I turned toward him and Stretched out my hands. His grasp closed on them firm and fast. 4 4 God has given me my heart’s de- sire,” I heard him murmur — then, tome, with a half-jealous eagerness,
4 4 Are you sure , Margery ? Is there no doubt, no misgiving? You know what love is not — are you certain you know what it is?”
Yes, I was sure. I told him so. At last I had learned the sweet secret — the passionate bliss, for which every human heart waits, and, if it comes not in this world, laments as for a lost birth-right.
How happy I was ! What a day it was that day! Sitting here, thirty-five years old, and all alone, again its glory bathes earth and sky — its music, subtly sweet, throbs through the silence — its bliss makes my heart beat with the old, passionate pulses. I was too happy, per- haps. I wonder, sometimes, if to every life is apportioned only a certain measure of joy — a cup just so full — and, if we drain it all in a day or a year, we must thirst in vain forever after for the magic wine ?
When the sun set Hugh went home with me. In the soft spring twilight he led me in front of the chair where my grandmother sat, with placid hands folded upon her lap, and the silver hair shining softly above her quiet brow.
“I have asked Margery to be mine, and she has promised. Have we done well ?”
“Truly, my children, I believe Heaven made you for each other. May the God you both serve bless you and your love, and make smooth before you the paths of your life !”
I We both bent before her as she rose and laid I her dear, trembling hands on our heads ; and her blessing made us feel as if our love was holy.
What a summer followed that night 1 We were not to be married till the autumn ; for I insisted— I hardly knew why myself, though afterward I felt it was God’s guidance — on waiting till Fred had been dead two years. Besides, my bliss, just as it was, satisfied me fully. I feared any change might mar its per- fectness. Our betrothal was kept secret. I wanted to escape the curious comments of Hugh’s parishioners. It seemed to me a bliss with which no stranger had any right to inter- meddle. I dc not know whether any one com- mented on our being so much together. No one, surely, had any right to complain, for he neglected no other duties for my sake. It was only when his day’s work was over that he came to me, and we tasted the delights of full confi- dence, love unquestioned and unquestioning. I found again the youth that had left me at twenty. I was joyous enough to sing with the summer birds. I saw blner skies, brighter stars, a fairer earth.
So the summer went by us with flying feet, and the autumn came.
One autumn night my l#ver, soon to be my husband, bade me good-by. He held me in his arms a moment and left some long, fond kisses on my lips which fearlessly kissed him back again, for our wedding-day was nigh.
We had been sitting at the door together, and after he was gone I sat there still, watching moon and stars, and thinking how happy I was. The door behind me was open into the sitting- room, where my grandmother was alone through the twilight. All had been still so long that I started when I heard the sound of her aged, tremulous voice,
44 In the midst of life we are in death.”
I knew she said the words to herself, musing among the shadows on the night to which she was drawing nigh, and without any thought of me. Still they struck me with a sudden chill — a sort of presentiment of coming doom. For the first time I remembered that I held my hap- piness by a frail thread after all. An accident, a step off the river’s brink in the darkness, a stroke of summer lightning, a few days of fever — how easily could my world be made a blank ! Gone was the glory of the night. A cold wind seemed to rise from the grave-yard, whose white stones I could see gleaming in the moonlight a quarter of a mile away and blow toward me mockingly — menace and defiance in its breath. I rose with a shudder and went in, closing the door behind me.
Soon I went to bed, and still I seemed to hear that long, defiant blast, blowing up from the rest of the dead, keening outside. It lulled me into a strange, unquiet slumber, visited by troublous dreams, but from which I did not awake till morning. *
All that forenoon I moved about as one tm-
Difitized
bv Google
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THREE LIVES.
87
der a baleful spell. I scented trouble in the air. I knew some sharp, sudden stroke was coming. But all the forenoon the house was still. Not even a neighbor broke our solitude. When dinner was over my grandmother went to her own room, as was her custom, for a little rest. She did not hear, therefore, when a visit- or came to the door and asked for me.
I went trembling into the parlor, where he had been shown, and found there Charley Forsyth. I knew him at once, though I had not seen him since I was fifteen, and despite the bronzed face and heavy, slightly grizzled beard. I went up to him and called him by his name.
44 So you know me, ” he said, as if surprised and pleased at my recognition. “I thought I should have to tell you who I was. I have come to bring you strange tidings. Can you bear them — listen to them calmly?”
I knew then what he had come to say as well as I knew when all his story had been told. I shivered with sudden cold. I shook in every limb ; but I shut my hands tightly on the arms of the chair in which I was sitting. I would keep still ; I would hear all calmly. I would not weep or cry out. I could not speak, but I mo- tioned to him to go on.
44 1 have misled you most cruelly,” he began, 44but most unintentionally. When I escaped from the Indians I believed that I left Frederick Hartright dead upon the field. It was to save my own life that I fled without burying him ; but I thought he was past all human help. I believed this until three months ago. In a jour- ney over the mountains I came upon him face to face. I had heard him speaking, and knew his voice before I saw him. But for that I might not have recognized him perhaps, he was so ter- ribly changed. There was scarcely a vestige of his old self about him. I spoke to him, and he could not deny his identity. He had escaped in ■some mysterious way from the jaws of death ; he said it was by no wish or effort of his own. Since then, knowing that I thought him dead, he had lived in solitary places, and tried to avoid every chance of our meeting. When I asked why he had chosen to be dead to all the world I could win no reply from him except that so far he had always been a curse to every one he loved, and he thought the kindest thing be could do would be to keep out of the way, and darken no one's sunshine. This is the sole confidence he ever bestowed on me. I do not know whether you and he are alienated : I could only guess it from his resolution to pass for dead and keep himself out of sight. I had meant to come home before — I wanted to see father and mother once more before they died — but this matter hurried me. I made my preparations as rapidly as I could, and here I am, to set all right, so far as I can, and atone, if possible, for misleading you so un- wittingly two years ago. Cousin Margery, can you forgive me?**
44 1 do not see that you are to blame,” I forced myself, out of justice, to say ; but it came hard. What an awful calamity his unintentional mis-
statement had been to me ! My tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of my mouth, and it was only by a painful effort I could articulate. I got up and took a glass of water from the table, and drank a swallow. Then I could speak bet- ter.
44 You have been kind, Cousin Charles," I said : 44 will you be yet kinder? Docs any one know you have been here ?"
44 No one. Fred told me yon were in Wood- stock, and I came here without going to Kemp- ton. You are the first person who has recog- nized me since I set foot in Connecticut. I must be off for Vermont as soon as I can, and see if they'll know me there. My heart is hun- gry for a sight of the old homestead, and the old faces.”
44 Will you go, then, without seeing any one here, even my father ? When you have made your visit at home come back and see us all. I can bear better by-and-by to have all this talked over. Just now I want a little time to realize it myself, and know where I stand."
So he went, and all the dreary afternoon I sat and waited. I did not make any plans, or think at all what I was going to do. My powers seem- ed all paralyzed by the suddenness of the blow. I only sat silent, and thought over and over again one terrible thought : it would be a sin to love Hugh any more ; my dream was over. A few times my grandmother, who had come down soon after Cousin Charles went away, spoke to me ; but finding me disinclined to talk, as her way was, she let me alone.
Just at night, when I knew it was time for Hugh to come, I went out and walked a little way along the path to meet him. Soon I heard his quick, glad footstep; saw his face wearing the eager, loving brightness of meeting. Slowly I went forward. He took my hands and bent to kiss me. I turned my face away, and said — J suppose my tones sounded husky and strnnge —
44 You must never do that again, Hugh ; nev- er in all the world!”
44 Never kiss you again, Margery ! and you, in three weeks more, to be my wife ! Are you mad, my darling?”
44 No, I am not mad,” I said, drearily; 44 1 wish I were."
Then I told him all the truth.
When I was done he looked into my eyes.
44 Margery,” he said, 44 1 believe Heaven meant us for each other. Your grandmother said so once, and she is a good woman. Do you think I can give you up ? That roan does not seek or claim you. He has been away from you four years and over. You can get a divorce easily enough ; and we will outride this storm, and be happy yet."
How his face glowed — how his eyes claimed me with loving looks which thrilled down to the core of my poor, quivering heart ! Had I got to do all? Must all the courage, the renunciation, the resolve, be on my side — and I so crushed, so weak ?
44 Have I not heard you say,” I asked, 44 that
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
38
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
divorces were wicked? Wore they wrong for others, and right for yon and me ?”
His face grew pale. He looked at me help- lessly— almost hopelessly.
“I don’t know, Margeiy. I have said di- vorces, save for the one cause God’s law men- tions, were a sin. But I may have judged wrongly. It seems to me now that I did. I can not think any other wrong so great as for a man and a woman voluntarily to give up the pure joy which is every soul’s birth-right — blight their lives — their power of being good or happy. God help me, Margery! I don’t know where I am.”
“Go home,” I said; “go now, and ask Heaven for counsel. Come to me in the morn- ing, and tell me what to do. Remember, if you are my lover, you are also my minister — God’s messenger ; and that you will have to answer before Him for the way you guide any soul which lays its life in your hands.”
Without another word he turned away. I listened to his footsteps going slowly and sadly back over the path along which they had come with such eager joy. Then I went in, and kneeling by my grandmother's side I told her my story. When I had told all, I said,
“ Grandmother, must I give up Hugh ? What is right ?”
“ ‘For the woman which hath an husband is bound by the law to her husband so long as he liveth.* ”
Solemnly through the twilight shadows fell her voice, saying slowly those words from the book which to her was sole authority in all vexed questions, all doubtful issues. I was answered. I only sobbed, half unconsciously, from the depths of my