The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 2, February, 1862: Devoted To Literature And National PolicyVarious
History
The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 2, February, 1862: Devoted To Literature And National Policy
Various
Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; United States -- Politics and government -- 19th century -- Periodicals
Here then you saw a sunny hill, and troops of vintagers dispersed along
its sides, whose outlines wavered in the afternoon heats. But you
rapidly outlived this scene, and now the broad plains of Hungary lay
before your gaze. Speeding over the contracted domains of the Tokay, you
entered upon the Sarmatian wastes, where the wild vines fought for life
with the icy soil and the chill winds of the desert. Uncouth proprietors
urged on the unwilling peasants to the acrid press, and rolled out
barrels of the 'Rackcheekzi' and the 'Quiteenough-thankzi' vintage,
curiously labeled to a New York destination. Soon you beheld Water
Street, and long low cellars, where groups of boys cleansed now the
clouded flask, and now the imperfectly preserved cork. Now bubbles of
the rarest carbonic acid gas flow, in obedience to the powerful machine,
in all directions through the glassy prison; and rows of gleaming
bottles indicate the activity of the enterprise. Then you saw the dining
rooms of the Saint Sycophant and the Cosmopolitan Hotels. Here flew the
resounding cork, to be instantly snatched up by the attendant Ethiopian,
and scarcely were the champagne flasks emptied before they were reft
from the tables with unimpaired labels. At the rear doors, there seemed
to wait handcarts, and soon in these the corks, the bottles, and the
baskets were carefully bestowed for their down-town journey, and money
appeared to pass from hand to hand. Then you saw a sleighing party in
the country, and soon a hostel of goodly size. The travelers entered and
demanded banquet; and while they masticated the underdone and tendonous
Chanticleer, quaffed deeply of the amber vintage of the previous
visions. Again you saw morning couches, where lovely woman tore her
Valenciennes night-cap in agonies of headache, and where her ruder
partner filled the air with cries for 'soda-water!'
Engaged with these enchanting dreams, the butler made a false step, and
the precious package, falling to the floor, was instantly shattered. The
fluid trickled away in rivulets, but the ascending odors made amends for
the untimely loss, and you felt that it might all be for the best, and
haply a bill for medical attendance avoided. But the butler brooded over
the scene of the calamity in hopeless despair; and you perceived that it
would be necessary for him deeply to infringe upon his master's stores
of cordial before his former serenity might be regained.
It was now after eleven, and Roseton's carriage waited. He entered,
simply saying to the footman who lifted him in, 'To Mundus;' and shortly
the vehicle stopped before the most palatial mansion in the entire
extent of the Fifth Avenue.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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