Part 9

“They will not see,” he said, “that by this horror of _dead stock_ and constant issue of dear books, which means small profits and quick returns to them, they miss the bulk of the middle classes, who are the real readers—the upper classes and the very poor don’t read—and you make your new books so dear, that your middle class, who do, can’t buy. Look at America; you ought to bring literature to people’s doors. If I were a publisher, I would have a vast hawking-system, and send round my travelers with cheap books to every alley and suburban district within ten miles of London.”

This intense sympathy with the people, no doubt, had to do with those innate democratic and republican tendencies in Mr. Green which so alarmed the _Quarterly Review_, but they were immensely quickened by his many-sided experiences in the East-end of London.

In those Hoxton and Stepney districts, where he was my fellow curate, and my constant friend and companion for two years, he was learning to know the English people. He had read about them in books. In Stepney he rubbed elbows with them. He had a student’s acquaintance with popular movements; but the people are their own best interpreter; and if you want to understand their ways in the past, you can not do better than study our present poor-law guardian, navvy, artisan, East-end weaver, parish Bumble, clerk, publican, and city tradesmen, in the nineteenth-century flesh.

Mr. Green never worked more vigorously at his history than when he was busy reading its turbulent popular movements, and mixed social influences, secular and religious, in the light of mechanics’ institutes, poor-law difficulties, parochial squabbles, and dissenting jealousies. The postponement of his history until the harvest of this precious experience had been fully reaped, gave him that insight into the secret springs of popular enthusiasm, suffering, and achievement which makes his history alive with the heart-beats of our common humanity, instead of mouldy with the smell of moth-eaten MSS. and dead men’s bones.

That slight nervous figure, below the medium height; that tall forehead, with the head prematurely bald; the quick but small eyes, rather close together; the thin mouth, with lips seldom at rest, but often closed tightly as though the teeth were clenched with an odd kind of latent energy beneath them; the slight, almost feminine hands; the little stoop; the quick, alert step; the flashing exuberance of spirits; the sunny smile; the torrent of quick invective, scorn, or badinage, exchanged in a moment for a burst of sympathy or a delightful and prolonged flow of narrative—all this comes back to me, vividly! And what narrative, what anecdote, what glancing wit! What a talker! A man who shrank from society, and yet was so fitted to adorn and instruct every company he approached, from a parochial assembly to a statesman’s reception!

But how enchanting were my walks with him in the Victoria Park, that one outlet of Stepney and Bethnal Green! I never in my life so lost count of time with any one before or since.

Green would live through a period. Two hours on the Venetian Republic, with every conceivable branch of allied history, literature, and politics thrown in, yet willing to listen and gather up at any moment; infinite speculations at other times on theology, philosophy; schemes for the regeneration of mankind; minute plans for the management of our East-end districts; anecdotes of the poor; rarer veins of sentiment and personal criticism.

I have sometimes, after spending the evening with him at my lodgings, walked back to St. Philip’s Parsonage, Stepney, toward midnight, talking; then he has walked back with me in the summer night, talking; and when the dawn broke it has found us belated somewhere in the lonely Mile-end Road, still unexhausted, and still talking.

At such times we have neither of us undressed all night—that was so especially in the cholera times—but I would go back to St. Philip’s and sleep on a sofa till breakfast-time.

In those days we were both feeling our way, through similar experiences, to conclusions of a somewhat different nature; but the memory of many precious hours of soul-communion remains with me, as something sacred and beautiful beyond words. I think at such times we grow in mind and develop in character in days and nights, more than in months and years of slower vitality and lessened intensity.

In 1866 the cholera broke out in the East-end of London. Mr. Green was then Incumbent of St. Philip’s, Stepney, and I had just removed to a curacy at the West-end; but his position at this time was very lonely, and I was glad to go out to be with him whenever I could. I am sorry to say that in the general cholera panic a good many who ought to have remained at their posts forsook them, and this made the work very heavy for people of any means and influence who still felt bound to reside in the affected districts.

Although Mr. Green’s parish did not suffer as heavily as some, yet in some streets the mortality was very great. The dead could hardly be got away quickly enough. The neighbors often refused to touch them. I have known Mr. Green take an active part in sending off the cholera beds for burning, and getting the corpses out of the houses. The only people who seemed willing to help him were the lowest women of the town. These poor girls rallied round the active and public-spirited clergyman; and it was no uncommon thing to see Mr. Green going down the lowest back streets in Stepney, on his way to some infected house, between two women of the town, who had volunteered with him on such sad and perilous service to the dead and dying, as was daily to be done, and was daily being left undone, in those dismal times.—_The Contemporary Review._

A TROPICAL RIVER IN FLORIDA.

By S. J. M. EATON, D.D.

This State reaches down toward the tropics. The twenty-ninth parallel of latitude marks the frost line. Below this is the land of perennial flowers and ever ripening fruits. Even before you reach the favored line there are scenes and surroundings that remind you that the winter is past, that the time of the singing of birds is perpetual, and that nature is most prodigal of her gifts in lands nearest the pathway of the sun. In recalling the history of Ponce de Leon, one can not fail of sympathizing with him in his search for the fountain of perpetual youth. That search was not only characteristic of the age in which he lived, but in sympathy with the secret wants and wishes of all the lands and all the ages. Moreover in such a quest as this, Florida of all places seems fittest and best. It was rightly named at the first “The land of flowers.” They bloom in wondrous fragrance on the orange and lemon trees; they expand in gigantic proportions on the banana tree; they break forth in lavish magnificence on the magnolia. And along the rivers and other water courses strange trees and gorgeous shrubs greet the eye, and tell how prodigal nature is in the display of her resources, and with what wonderful magnificence she can clothe the face of the landscape in regions remote from wintry blasts. Even in central Florida, where frosts sometimes come, there is a wealth of trees and flowers and fruits that transforms the whole country into fairy land almost, as the summer sun with its genial heats kisses it into life, beauty, and fragrance.

The Ocklawaha River is one of the delightful features of central Florida. It is wild and weird and novel in all its aspects. One of its branches is the Silver Spring, that is really an anomaly in nature. This branch of the river has its origin in the celebrated fountain known as the “Silver Spring,” and that as a fountain might, from its beauty and purity and liquid clearness, well be mistaken for the fabled one that was the object of the quest of Ponce de Leon. Whether it was ever visited by this romantic knight or not, it is worthy to be the shrine of many a pilgrim in search of the beautiful and the romantic. This wonderful spring gushes forth from the bosom of the earth in volume sufficient to form at once a small river. The steamboats run up and float in the bosom of the spring, which is large enough to float four or five at once without jostling. The water is clear and sparkling, and although seventy-five feet in depth, yet as you gaze down into its recesses every pebble and shell can be seen as plainly as though in the bottom of a small vase. And as the boat rests upon its bosom noiselessly and quietly, you think of the simile of the swan, “floating double—swan and shadow.” This immense volume of water comes up noiselessly, causing scarcely a ripple upon the face of the spring, and floats away as silently amid the shadows, to join the main body of the Ocklawaha. Whence comes this immense reservoir of water? Where is the hidden source that furnishes its mighty volume? Were it not for its crystal purity and sweetness we might imagine it held mysterious communion with the ocean, and drew its vast supply from the bosom of the great deep. The outflow maintains its purity until it joins the main branch of the river, when its association with it causes it to partake of the same character, becoming somewhat muddy, and bearing the dark shadows of the overhanging trees, and thickly strewn with the leaves of aquatic plants that grow luxuriantly along its margin. From the Silver Spring down into the Ocklawaha, and on to its junction with the St. John’s, the channel is narrow and tortuous, running toward every point of the compass, spreading itself out to great widths in some places, in others confined within its narrow channel, but always surrounded with wild and strange scenery. Although in the general the banks are utterly indefinable, as the water runs back to an indefinite distance, yet there is no appearance of aught that would cause malaria. Every here and there a slight avenue opens through which a skiff or canoe might be pushed far out into the forest. The channel itself is so narrow and tortuous that the steamer threads its way with great difficulty. In many places the branches overreach the stream and seem to bar the further progress of the little craft, and render futile all efforts to proceed. In some of the narrow turns a stout boatman is stationed in the bow with a pole to assist in turning the boat when almost a right angle prevents the ordinary working of the machinery in its navigation.

All along this wonderful stream nature reveals her most luxuriant growth of vegetation. Here is the palm, with its strangely contorted trunk and corrugated bark. By its side is the palmetto with fantastic branches, and wide-spreading leaves. Many of the trees send up their gnarled roots in high arches underneath which the water runs at will. Great trailing masses of vines cling to the trees, and weigh down their branches almost to the water, often reaching from one tree to another, making a dense grove, and shutting out the sunlight from the water beneath. Lower down, and clinging to the banks on either side, are all manner of aquatic plants, beautiful in leaf and luxuriant in flower, gleaming often like bright jewels in the soft sunshine. Lilies of various varieties rest in the water, their bright green leaves surrounding their flowers of waxy white and yellow gold as they recline in their cool bath. By their side are plants with arrow-shaped leaves, with white blooms lined with pistils and stamens yellow as virgin gold, and others with flowers of blue, around which gorgeous little humming birds, reflecting the sunlight, and flashing like living jewels, buzz and coquet with the flowers as they extract their luscious sweets for a moment, and then dart off with a flash and disappear. Animated nature is busy adding variety to the scene, from beauty all the way to the beast. Golden beetles, blue-bottle flies, and gilded butterflies in velvet and spangles, float to and fro; water-bugs with varnished wings dart over the surface of the water. Birds of gorgeous plumage arise in the distance and sail up the stream. The oriole with its magnificent feathers of orange and black; the blue jay with its livery of blue and white, and its sharp cutting note, and the great red flamingo, with awkward, ungainly form, its long spindling legs and small snake-like neck, and plumage of red, like an Egyptian sunset, are seen; the former two darting quickly from tree to tree; the latter standing in the water in some sequestered spot, idly dreaming the time away, and apparently indifferent as to whether the earth turns upon its axis or not. Near the bank a water serpent might be seen urging his way with arrowy motion through the water, defiantly thrusting out his tongue with a malice born in Eden, perhaps, or lying in the warm sun on a fragment of bark, not considering it important to move, yet pushing out the same scornful challenge. At times a magnificent specimen of the alligator is seen in the distance sunning himself on a log, but rolling incontinently into the water at the approach of the boat, or the slightest alarm from any cause. The poor saurian who has arrived at years of discretion, has learned from bitter experience that the human sportsman carrying firearms is not to be trusted, in this age of Spencer rifles. He therefore retires in good order at their approach. But nearer at hand the infant alligator has less fear. He can be seen creeping up the bank, careening upon the waves that are thrown up by the motion of the boat, sporting in the shallow water with youthful indifference to danger, and with great stupid eyes and shockingly open countenance, gazing up at the passing visitors. And so the boat glides and twists and forces its way down the current, the branches on either side sweeping its sides and even its upper decks. The entire scene is one of kaleidoscopic beauty and variety, until the mighty St. John’s is reached, and the craft that has done you such good service is safely moored at the wharf at Palatka.

THE INFLUENCE OF WHOLESOME DRINK.

[Concluded.]

Coffee is the berry of an evergreen tree, which grows to a height of about twenty feet, and which is largely cultivated in Arabia, Ceylon, Jamaica, and the Brazils. The berry is plucked when sufficiently ripe, and carefully stored away. It is principally composed of a sort of hard paste or meal, similar to that of the almond or bean, which is destined by nature to form the earliest nourishment of the young germ contained in the seed. When this meal is exposed to strong heat, it is partly turned into the fragrant flavor, which is familiar to all drinkers of coffee. Hence coffee is always roasted before it is employed in the preparation of beverage. The process is best accomplished by placing the berries in a hollow cylinder of iron, kept turning rapidly round over a clear fire until they put on a light chestnut color, when they require to be cooled quickly by tossing them up into the air. Roasted coffee contains, besides its fragrance, the white nerve food already alluded to in speaking of tea, a remnant of the nutritious meal, unaltered by the roasting, and a slightly astringent matter. Its nature is, therefore, singularly like to that of tea, and its action on the living frame is precisely the same. When drunk in moderation, coffee supports and refreshes the body, and makes the food consumed with it go further than it otherwise would. Coffee is, upon the whole, less astringent than tea; it also contains only half the quantity that tea has, weight for weight, of the active nerve food. Hence it can be taken stronger than tea, and so has more of the other nourishing ingredients in any given bulk. A cup of strong coffee generally holds about the same quantity of the active nerve food as a weak cup of tea.

As with tea, so with coffee; it requires to be prepared differently, accordingly as the object is, to get from it the finest flavor or the greatest amount of nourishment. The most delicious coffee may be made by using a tin vessel, called a percolator, having a false bottom at mid-height, drilled full of fine holes, and a spout coming off from beneath the false bottom. Finely-ground coffee is to be pressed and beaten down firmly upon the false bottom, and then boiling water is to be poured over it through a kind of coarse cullender, so arranged as to break its descent into a boiling shower. The hot water thus gently rained down on the coffee then drains gradually through it, carrying all the finer parts and flavors with it into the vessel beneath, but leaving behind the coarser matters. For the convenience of consumers, coffee is now commonly removed from the roaster at once into a mill driven by steam, and is there ground while still hot. It is then pressed out from the mill directly into tin cases prepared to receive it, these being immediately closed very carefully. By these means the coffee is sent out, ready for use, with all its most excellent qualities clinging about it. Three drachms of ground coffee of this quality are abundantly sufficient to furnish two small cups of a most delicious beverage.

When quantity of nourishment, rather than fineness of flavor, is the thing desired, the ground coffee should be placed in a clean dry pot standing over the fire, and be kept there until thoroughly hot, being stirred constantly, so that it may not burn. About five grains of carbonate of soda should then be added for each ounce of coffee, and boiling water be poured on, the whole being closely covered up and allowed to stand near the fire, without simmering, for some time. When about to be used, it should either be gently poured off into cups, without shaking it, or it should be strained through a linen cloth into another pot. An ounce of coffee employed in this way is sufficient for the preparation of two pints of strong nutritious drink.

A small evergreen tree grows in the West Indies, Mexico, and Peru, which bears a large fruit something like a melon. In this fruit there are a great number of seeds resembling beans. When the fruit is ripe, it is plucked from the tree and split open, and the seeds are picked out and dried in the sun. After these beans have been roasted in an iron cylinder, in the same manner as coffee, they, too, become bitter and fragrant, and are turned into what is known as cocoa. To form cocoa nibs, the husk of the roasted bean is stripped off, and the rest is broken up into coarse fragments. In the preparation of chocolate, the cocoa nibs are ground up and turned into a sort of paste, by admixture with sugar and spices. The unhusked bean is also crushed between heavy rollers, and made into a coarser kind of paste, with starch and sugar, and is then sold in cakes.

Cocoa contains about the same quantity of the nerve-food ingredient as tea, and besides this it also contains a nutritious meal. More than half its weight is, however, made up of a rich oily substance, nearly resembling butter in nature. When cocoa is prepared by stirring the paste up in boiling water, all these several ingredients are present in the drink. It is then as nourishing as the very strongest kind of vegetable food, and scarcely inferior to milk itself. It indeed is richer than milk in one particular; it contains twice as much fuel substance, or butter, and if the nerve-food ingredient be taken into the reckoning, it is scarcely inferior in supporting power. On account of its richness it often disagrees with persons of weak digestion, unless it be prepared in a lighter way, that is, by simply boiling the cocoa nibs in water, and mixing the beverage produced with enough milk to reduce its great excess of oily principle. Cocoa serves at once as an agreeable and refreshing beverage, and as a highly nutritious food for healthy and hard-working people. It has in itself the excellence of milk and tea combined.

The beverages which are also prepared by soaking the seeds of vegetables in hot water, but which are not then drunk until a further change of the nature of partial decay has been produced in them, are of a very unlike character to those which have been hitherto under consideration. Although there are several different kinds of this class, they all stand together under the family name of beer. Now this much must at once be said for these beverages. There is in all of them both flesh-making substance and fuel-substance. The first gives to the liquor its body, and the second confers its sweetness. The barley-corn contains the same kinds of ingredients as the wheat-grain, and by the operation of malting the starch is chiefly turned into sugar. If a gallon of strong ale be boiled over a fire, until all the more watery parts are steamed away, there will be found at the bottom of the vessel rather more than a quarter of a pound of dry remainder. This is flesh-making substance, and sugar, which were originally taken out of the malt. If a gallon of milk were treated in the same way, there would be found nearly a pound of similar dry substance. Strong beer therefore contains about one-third part as much nourishment as an equal quantity of milk. When beer is drunk, its watery parts are at once sucked from the digesting-bag into the supply-pipes, to be poured through the body with the blood; this is how beer quenches the thirst. The thicker portions are pushed on through the sluice-gate of the stomach in a digesting state, and are, in fact, treated in every respect as ordinary food.

Mixed with the thinner parts of beer, which are thus sucked into the supply-pipes, there is, however, an ingredient which is not as unquestionably nourishing as the thicker principles, and which certainly is not as good a thirst-quencher and dissolver as water. Flesh-making substance and fuel-substance, either in the state of starch or sugar, may be kept unchanged any long period of time if thoroughly dry, and shut up from the air. When they are moist and exposed to the air, they directly begin to spoil and decay. In beer, these substances are mixed with a large quantity of water, and are exposed to the air, at least during the brewing. Hence, in beer, both are found in a spoiled and decaying state. In this case, the process of decay is called fermentation, or “puffing up,” because the vapors produced by the decay, froth the sticky liquid in which they are set free. The yeast which rises to the surface of fermenting beer, is decaying and spoiling flesh-making substance. The spoiled fuel-substance (sugar) froths and bubbles away into the air as vapor.

But the fuel-substance (sugar) does not, as it decays, bubble away into vapor all at one leap. It makes a halt for a little while in a half decayed state, and in this half decayed state it has a very spiteful and fiery nature. In that fiery and half-decayed condition it forms what is known as ardent, or burning spirit. Beer always has some, as yet, undecayed and unchanged sugar remaining in it, when it is drunk, but it also always has some half decayed sugar or spirit, and bubbling vapors formed by the progress of decay. It is these ingredients of the beer which give it the fresh and warm qualities for which, as a beverage, it is chiefly esteemed.

The spirituous ingredient of fermented liquors is directly sucked with the water out of the stomach into the supply-pipes of the body, and poured everywhere through them. There is no doubt concerning that fact. Animals have been killed and examined a few minutes after fermented liquor had been placed in their digesting bags, and the ardent spirit has been found in great quantity in their supply-pipes, their hearts, and their nerve-marrows and brains.