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AS WE WERE SAYING
ROSE AND CHRYSANTHEMUM
THE RED BONNET
THE LOSS IN CIVILIZATION
SOCIAL SCREAMING
DOES REFINEMENT KILL INDIVIDUALITY?
THE DIRECTOIRE GOWN
THE MYSTERY OF THE SEX
THE CLOTHES OF FICTION
THE BROAD A
CHEWING GUM
WOMEN IN CONGRESS
SHALL WOMEN PROPOSE?
FROCKS AND THE STAGE
ALTRUISM
SOCIAL CLEARING-HOUSE
DINNER-TABLE TALK
NATURALIZATION
ART OF GOVERNING
LOVE OF DISPLAY
VALUE OF THE COMMONPLACE
THE BURDEN OF CHRISTMAS
THE RESPONSIBILITY OF WRITERS
THE CAP AND GOWN
A TENDENCY OF THE AGE
A LOCOED NOVELIST
AS WE GO
OUR PRESIDENT
THE NEWSPAPER-MADE MAN
INTERESTING GIRLS
GIVE THE MEN A CHANCE
THE ADVENT OF CANDOR
THE AMERICAN MAN
THE ELECTRIC WAY
CAN A HUSBAND OPEN HIS WIFE'S LETTERS?
A LEISURE CLASS
WEATHER AND CHARACTER
BORN WITH AN "EGO"
JUVENTUS MUNDI
A BEAUTIFUL OLD AGE
THE ATTRACTION OF THE REPULSIVE
GIVING AS A LUXURY
CLIMATE AND HAPPINESS
THE NEW FEMININE RESERVE
REPOSE IN ACTIVITY
WOMEN—IDEAL AND REAL
THE ART OF IDLENESS
IS THERE ANY CONVERSATION
THE TALL GIRL
THE DEADLY DIARY
THE WHISTLING GIRL
BORN OLD AND RICH
THE "OLD SOLDIER"
THE ISLAND OF BIMINI
JUNE
NINE SHORT ESSAYS
A NIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES
TRUTHFULNESS
THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS
LITERATURE AND THE STAGE
THE LIFE-SAVING AND LIFE PROLONGING ART
"H.H." IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
SIMPLICITY
THE ENGLISH VOLUNTEERS DURING THE LATE INVASION
NATHAN HALE—1887
FASHIONS IN LITERATURE
INTRODUCTION
THE AMERICAN NEWSPAPER
CERTAIN DIVERSITIES OF AMERICAN LIFE
THE PILGRIM, AND THE AMERICAN OF TODAY—1892
SOME CAUSES OF THE PREVAILING DISCONTENT
THE EDUCATION OF THE NEGRO
THE INDETERMINATE SENTENCE
LITERARY COPYRIGHT
THE RELATION OF LITERATURE TO LIFE
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
THE RELATION OF LITERATURE TO LIFE
"EQUALITY"
WHAT IS YOUR CULTURE TO ME?
MODERN FICTION
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY MR. FROUDE'S "PROGRESS"
ENGLAND
THE NOVEL AND THE COMMON SCHOOL
THE PEOPLE FOR WHOM SHAKESPEARE WROTE
CHAP.PAGEI. HOW OUR ITALY IS MADE1II. OUR CLIMATIC AND COMMERCIAL MEDITERRANEAN10III. EARLY VICISSITUDES.—PRODUCTIONS.—SANITARY CLIMATE24IV. THE WINTER OF OUR CONTENT42V. HEALTH AND LONGEVITY52VI. IS RESIDENCE HERE AGREEABLE?65VII. THE WINTER ON THE COAST72VIII. THE GENERAL OUTLOOK.—LAND AND PRICES90IX. THE ADVANTAGES OF IRRIGATION99X. THE CHANCE FOR LABORERS AND SMALL FARMERS107XI. SOME DETAILS OF THE WONDERFUL DEVELOPMENT114XII. HOW THE FRUIT PERILS WERE MET.—FURTHER DETAILS OF LOCALITIES128XIII. THE ADVANCE OF CULTIVATION SOUTHWARD140XIV. A LAND OF AGREEABLE HOMES146XV. SOME WONDERS BY THE WAY.—YOSEMITE.—MARIPOSA TREES.—MONTEREY148XVI. FASCINATIONS OF THE DESERT.—THE LAGUNA PUEBLO163XVII. THE HEART OF THE DESERT177XVIII. ON THE BRINK OF THE GRAND CAÑON.—THE UNIQUE MARVEL OF NATURE189APPENDIX201INDEX219
SANTA BARBARAFrontispiecePAGEMOJAVE DESERT3MOJAVE INDIAN4MOJAVE INDIAN5BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF RIVERSIDE7SCENE IN SAN BERNARDINO11SCENES IN MONTECITO AND LOS ANGELES13FAN-PALM, LOS ANGELES16YUCCA-PALM, SANTA BARBARA17MAGNOLIA AVENUE, RIVERSIDE21AVENUE LOS ANGELES27IN THE GARDEN AT SANTA BARBARA MISSION31SCENE AT PASADENA35LIVE-OAK NEAR LOS ANGELES39MIDWINTER, PASADENA53A TYPICAL GARDEN, NEAR SANTA ANA57OLD ADOBE HOUSE, POMONA61FAN-PALM, FERNANDO ST. LOS ANGELES63SCARLET PASSION-VINE68ROSE-BUSH, SANTA BARBARA73AT AVALON, SANTA CATALINA ISLAND77HOTEL DEL CORONADO83OSTRICH YARD, CORONADO BEACH86YUCCA-PALM92DATE-PALM93RAISIN-CURING101IRRIGATION BY ARTESIAN-WELL SYSTEM104IRRIGATION BY PIPE SYSTEM105GARDEN SCENE, SANTA ANA110A GRAPE-VINE, MONTECITO VALLEY, SANTA BARBARA116IRRIGATING AN ORCHARD120ORANGE CULTURE121IN A FIELD OF GOLDEN PUMPKINS126PACKING CHERRIES, POMONA131OLIVE-TREES SIX YEARS OLD136SEXTON NURSERIES, NEAR SANTA BARBARA141SWEETWATER DAM144THE YOSEMITE DOME151COAST OF MONTEREY155CYPRESS POINT156NEAR SEAL ROCK157LAGUNA—FROM THE SOUTH-EAST159CHURCH AT LAGUNA164TERRACED HOUSES, PUEBLO OF LAGUNA167GRAND CAÑON ON THE COLORADO—VIEW FROM POINT SUBLIME171INTERIOR OF THE CHURCH AT LAGUNA174GRAND CAÑON OF THE COLORADO—VIEW OPPOSITE POINT SUBLIME179TOURISTS IN THE COLORADO CAÑON183GRAND CAÑON OF THE COLORADO—VIEW FROM THE HANSE TRAIL191
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CONTENTSINTRODUCTORY LETTERBY WAY OF DEDICATIONPRELIMINARYFIRST WEEKSECOND WEEKTHIRD WEEKFOURTH WEEKFIFTH WEEKSIXTH WEEKSEVENTH WEEKEIGHTH WEEKNINTH WEEKTENTH WEEKELEVENTH WEEKTWELFTH WEEKTHIRTEENTH WEEKFOURTEENTH WEEKFIFTEENTH WEEKSIXTEENTH WEEKSEVENTEENTH WEEKEIGHTEENTH WEEKNINETEENTH WEEKCALVIN
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY LETTER
BY WAY OF DEDICATION
PRELIMINARY
FIRST WEEK
SECOND WEEK
THIRD WEEK
FOURTH WEEK
FIFTH WEEK
SIXTH WEEK
SEVENTH WEEK
EIGHTH WEEK
NINTH WEEK
TENTH WEEK
ELEVENTH WEEK
TWELFTH WEEK
THIRTEENTH WEEK
FOURTEENTH WEEK
FIFTEENTH WEEK
SIXTEENTH WEEK
SEVENTEENTH WEEK
EIGHTEENTH WEEK
NINETEENTH WEEK
CALVIN
MY DEAR MR. FIELDS,—I did promise to write an Introduction to these charming papers but an Introduction,—what is it?—a sort of pilaster, put upon the face of a building for looks' sake, and usually flat,—very flat. Sometimes it may be called a caryatid, which is, as I understand it, a cruel device of architecture, representing a man or a woman, obliged to hold up upon his or her head or shoulders a structure which they did not build, and which could stand just as well without as with them. But an Introduction is more apt to be a pillar, such as one may see in Baalbec, standing up in the air all alone, with nothing on it, and with nothing for it to do.
But an Introductory Letter is different. There is in that no formality, no assumption of function, no awkward propriety or dignity to be sustained. A letter at the opening of a book may be only a footpath, leading the curious to a favorable point of observation, and then leaving them to wander as they will.
Sluggards have been sent to the ant for wisdom; but writers might better be sent to the spider, not because he works all night, and watches all day, but because he works unconsciously. He dare not even bring his work before his own eyes, but keeps it behind him, as if too much knowledge of what one is doing would spoil the delicacy and modesty of one's work.
Almost all graceful and fanciful work is born like a dream, that comes noiselessly, and tarries silently, and goes as a bubble bursts. And yet somewhere work must come in,—real, well-considered work.
Inness (the best American painter of Nature in her moods of real human feeling) once said, “No man can do anything in art, unless he has intuitions; but, between whiles, one must work hard in collecting the materials out of which intuitions are made.” The truth could not be hit off better. Knowledge is the soil, and intuitions are the flowers which grow up out of it. The soil must be well enriched and worked.
It is very plain, or will be to those who read these papers, now gathered up into this book, as into a chariot for a race, that the author has long employed his eyes, his ears, and his understanding, in observing and considering the facts of Nature, and in weaving curious analogies. Being an editor of one of the oldest daily news-papers in New England, and obliged to fill its columns day after day (as the village mill is obliged to render every day so many sacks of flour or of meal to its hungry customers), it naturally occurred to him, “Why not write something which I myself, as well as my readers, shall enjoy? The market gives them facts enough; politics, lies enough; art, affectations enough; criminal news, horrors enough; fashion, more than enough of vanity upon vanity, and vexation of purse. Why should they not have some of those wandering and joyous fancies which solace my hours?”
The suggestion ripened into execution. Men and women read, and wanted more. These garden letters began to blossom every week; and many hands were glad to gather pleasure from them. A sign it was of wisdom. In our feverish days it is a sign of health or of convalescence that men love gentle pleasure, and enjoyments that do not rush or roar, but distill as the dew.
The love of rural life, the habit of finding enjoyment in familiar things, that susceptibility to Nature which keeps the nerve gently thrilled in her homliest nooks and by her commonest sounds, is worth a thousand fortunes of money, or its equivalents.
Every book which interprets the secret lore of fields and gardens, every essay that brings men nearer to the understanding of the mysteries which every tree whispers, every brook murmurs, every weed, even, hints, is a contribution to the wealth and the happiness of our kind. And if the lines of the writer shall be traced in quaint characters, and be filled with a grave humor, or break out at times into merriment, all this will be no presumption against their wisdom or his goodness. Is the oak less strong and tough because the mosses and weather-stains stick in all manner of grotesque sketches along its bark? Now, truly, one may not learn from this little book either divinity or horticulture; but if he gets a pure happiness, and a tendency to repeat the happiness from the simple stores of Nature, he will gain from our friend's garden what Adam lost in his, and what neither philosophy nor divinity has always been able to restore.
Wherefore, thanking you for listening to a former letter, which begged you to consider whether these curious and ingenious papers, that go winding about like a half-trodden path between the garden and the field, might not be given in book-form to your million readers, I remain, yours to command in everything but the writing of an Introduction,
HENRY WARD BEECHER.
MY DEAR POLLY,—When a few of these papers had appeared in “The Courant,” I was encouraged to continue them by hearing that they had at least one reader who read them with the serious mind from which alone profit is to be expected. It was a maiden lady, who, I am sure, was no more to blame for her singleness than for her age; and she looked to these honest sketches of experience for that aid which the professional agricultural papers could not give in the management of the little bit of garden which she called her own. She may have been my only disciple; and I confess that the thought of her yielding a simple faith to what a gainsaying world may have regarded with levity has contributed much to give an increased practical turn to my reports of what I know about gardening. The thought that I had misled a lady, whose age is not her only singularity, who looked to me for advice which should be not at all the fanciful product of the Garden of Gull, would give me great pain. I trust that her autumn is a peaceful one, and undisturbed by either the humorous or the satirical side of Nature.
You know that this attempt to tell the truth about one of the most fascinating occupations in the world has not been without its dangers. I have received anonymous letters. Some of them were murderously spelled; others were missives in such elegant phrase and dress, that danger was only to be apprehended in them by one skilled in the mysteries of medieval poisoning, when death flew on the wings of a perfume. One lady, whose entreaty that I should pause had something of command in it, wrote that my strictures on “pusley” had so inflamed her husband's zeal, that, in her absence in the country, he had rooted up all her beds of portulaca (a sort of cousin of the fat weed), and utterly cast it out. It is, however, to be expected, that retributive justice would visit the innocent as well as the guilty of an offending family. This is only another proof of the wide sweep of moral forces. I suppose that it is as necessary in the vegetable world as it is elsewhere to avoid the appearance of evil.
In offering you the fruit of my garden, which has been gathered from week to week, without much reference to the progress of the crops or the drought, I desire to acknowledge an influence which has lent half the charm to my labor. If I were in a court of justice, or injustice, under oath, I should not like to say, that, either in the wooing days of spring, or under the suns of the summer solstice, you had been, either with hoe, rake, or miniature spade, of the least use in the garden; but your suggestions have been invaluable, and, whenever used, have been paid for. Your horticultural inquiries have been of a nature to astonish the vegetable world, if it listened, and were a constant inspiration to research. There was almost nothing that you did not wish to know; and this, added to what I wished to know, made a boundless field for discovery. What might have become of the garden, if your advice had been followed, a good Providence only knows; but I never worked there without a consciousness that you might at any moment come down the walk, under the grape-arbor, bestowing glances of approval, that were none the worse for not being critical; exercising a sort of superintendence that elevated gardening into a fine art; expressing a wonder that was as complimentary to me as it was to Nature; bringing an atmosphere which made the garden a region of romance, the soil of which was set apart for fruits native to climes unseen. It was this bright presence that filled the garden, as it did the summer, with light, and now leaves upon it that tender play of color and bloom which is called among the Alps the after-glow.
NOOK FARM, HARTFORD, October, 1870
C. D. W.