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    Chapter 39

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    Chapter 39
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    Chapter 39
    Manufactures and Miscreants

    WHERE the river, in the Vicksburg region, used to be corkscrewed,
    it is now comparatively straight--made so by cut-off;
    a former distance of seventy miles is reduced to thirty-five. It
    is a change which threw Vicksburg's neighbor, Delta, Louisiana,
    out into the country and ended its career as a river town.
    Its whole river-frontage is now occupied by a vast sand-bar,
    thickly covered with young trees--a growth which will magnify
    itself into a dense forest by-and-bye, and completely hide
    the exiled town.

    In due time we passed Grand Gulf and Rodney, of war fame, and reached Natchez,
    the last of the beautiful hill-cities--for Baton Rouge, yet to come,
    is not on a hill, but only on high ground. Famous Natchez-under-the-hill
    has not changed notably in twenty years; in outward aspect--
    judging by the descriptions of the ancient procession of foreign tourists--
    it has not changed in sixty; for it is still small, straggling, and shabby.
    It had a desperate reputation, morally, in the old keel-boating and
    early steamboating times--plenty of drinking, carousing, fisticuffing,
    and killing there, among the riff-raff of the river, in those days.
    But Natchez-on-top-of-the-hill is attractive; has always been attractive.
    Even Mrs. Trollope (1827) had to confess its charms:

    'At one or two points the wearisome level line is relieved
    by bluffs, as they call the short intervals of high ground.
    The town of Natchez is beautifully situated on one of those high spots.
    The contrast that its bright green hill forms with the dismal line of black
    forest that stretches on every side, the abundant growth of the pawpaw,
    palmetto and orange, the copious variety of sweet-scented flowers
    that flourish there, all make it appear like an oasis in the desert.
    Natchez is the furthest point to the north at which oranges
    ripen in the open air, or endure the winter without shelter.
    With the exception of this sweet spot, I thought all the little towns
    and villages we passed wretched-looking in the extreme.'

    Natchez, like her near and far river neighbors, has railways now,
    and is adding to them--pushing them hither and thither into all
    rich outlying regions that are naturally tributary to her.
    And like Vicksburg and New Orleans, she has her ice-factory:
    she makes thirty tons of ice a day. In Vicksburg and Natchez,
    in my time, ice was jewelry; none but the rich could wear it.
    But anybody and everybody can have it now. I visited one of
    the ice-factories in New Orleans, to see what the polar regions
    might look like when lugged into the edge of the tropics.
    But there was nothing striking in the aspect of the place.
    It was merely a spacious house, with some innocent steam machinery
    in one end of it and some big porcelain pipes running here and there.
    No, not porcelain--they merely seemed to be; they were iron,
    but the ammonia which was being breathed through them had coated
    them to the thickness of your hand with solid milk-white ice.
    It ought to have melted; for one did not require winter clothing
    in that atmosphere: but it did not melt; the inside of the pipe
    was too cold.

    Sunk into the floor were numberless tin boxes, a foot square and two
    feet long, and open at the top end. These were full of clear water;
    and around each box, salt and other proper stuff was packed; also, the ammonia
    gases were applied to the water in some way which will always remain
    a secret to me, because I was not able to understand the process.
    While the water in the boxes gradually froze, men gave it a stir or
    two with a stick occasionally--to liberate the air-bubbles, I think.
    Other men were continually lifting out boxes whose contents had become
    hard frozen. They gave the box a single dip into a vat of boiling water,
    to melt the block of ice free from its tin coffin, then they shot
    the block out upon a platform car, and it was ready for market.
    These big blocks were hard, solid, and crystal-clear. In certain of them,
    big bouquets of fresh and brilliant tropical flowers had been frozen-in;
    in others, beautiful silken-clad French dolls, and other pretty objects.
    These blocks were to be set on end in a platter, in the center of
    dinner-tables, to cool the tropical air; and also to be ornamental,
    for the flowers and things imprisoned in them could be seen as through
    plate glass. I was told that this factory could retail its ice, by wagon,
    throughout New Orleans, in the humblest dwelling-house quantities,
    at six or seven dollars a ton, and make a sufficient profit.
    This being the case, there is business for ice-factories in the North;
    for we get ice on no such terms there, if one take less than three hundred
    and fifty pounds at a delivery.

    The Rosalie Yarn Mill, of Natchez, has a capacity of 6,000 spindles and
    160 looms, and employs 100 hands. The Natchez Cotton Mills Company began
    operations four years ago in a two-story building of 50 x 190 feet, with 4,000
    spindles and 128 looms; capital $105,000, all subscribed in the town.
    Two years later, the same stockholders increased their capital to $225,000;
    added a third story to the mill, increased its length to 317 feet;
    added machinery to increase the capacity to 10,300 spindles and 304 looms.
    The company now employ 250 operatives, many of whom are citizens of Natchez.
    'The mill works 5,000 bales of cotton annually and manufactures
    the best standard quality of brown shirtings and sheetings and drills,
    turning out 5,000,000 yards of these goods per year.'Orleans Times-Democrat, 26 Aug, 1882.]> A close corporation--stock held
    at $5,000 per share, but none in the market.

    The changes in the Mississippi River are great and strange,
    yet were to be expected; but I was not expecting to live to see
    Natchez and these other river towns become manufacturing
    strongholds and railway centers.

    Speaking of manufactures reminds me of a talk upon that topic
    which I heard--which I overheard--on board the Cincinnati boat.
    I awoke out of a fretted sleep, with a dull confusion of voices in my ears.
    I listened--two men were talking; subject, apparently, the great inundation.
    I looked out through the open transom. The two men were eating
    a late breakfast; sitting opposite each other; nobody else around.
    They closed up the inundation with a few words--having used it,
    evidently, as a mere ice-breaker and acquaintanceship-breeder--
    then they dropped into business. It soon transpired that they
    were drummers--one belonging in Cincinnati, the other in New Orleans.
    Brisk men, energetic of movement and speech; the dollar their god,
    how to get it their religion.

    'Now as to this article,' said Cincinnati, slashing into the ostensible
    butter and holding forward a slab of it on his knife-blade,
    'it's from our house; look at it--smell of it--taste it.
    Put any test on it you want to. Take your own time--no hurry--
    make it thorough. There now--what do you say? butter, ain't it.
    Not by a thundering sight--it's oleomargarine! Yes, sir, that's what
    it is--oleomargarine. You can't tell it from butter; by George,
    an EXPERT can't. It's from our house. We supply most of the boats
    in the West; there's hardly a pound of butter on one of them.
    We are crawling right along--JUMPING right along is the word.
    We are going to have that entire trade. Yes, and the hotel trade, too.
    You are going to see the day, pretty soon, when you can't find
    an ounce of butter to bless yourself with, in any hotel in
    the Mississippi and Ohio Valleys, outside of the biggest cities.
    Why, we are turning out oleomargarine NOW by the thousands of tons.
    And we can sell it so dirt-cheap that the whole country has
    GOT to take it--can't get around it you see. Butter don't
    stand any show--there ain't any chance for competition.
    Butter's had its DAY--and from this out, butter goes to the wall.
    There's more money in oleomargarine than--why, you can't
    imagine the business we do. I've stopped in every town from
    Cincinnati to Natchez; and I've sent home big orders from every
    one of them.'

    And so-forth and so-on, for ten minutes longer, in the same fervid strain.
    Then New Orleans piped up and said--

    Yes, it's a first-rate imitation, that's a certainty;
    but it ain't the only one around that's first-rate. For instance,
    they make olive-oil out of cotton-seed oil, nowadays, so that you
    can't tell them apart.'

    'Yes, that's so,' responded Cincinnati, 'and it was a tip-top
    business for a while. They sent it over and brought it back from
    France and Italy, with the United States custom-house mark on it
    to indorse it for genuine, and there was no end of cash in it;
    but France and Italy broke up the game--of course they naturally would.
    Cracked on such a rattling impost that cotton-seed olive-oil couldn't
    stand the raise; had to hang up and quit.'

    'Oh, it DID, did it? You wait here a minute.'

    Goes to his state-room, brings back a couple of long bottles,
    and takes out the corks--says:

    'There now, smell them, taste them, examine the bottles, inspect the labels.
    One of 'm's from Europe, the other's never been out of this country.
    One's European olive-oil, the other's American cotton-seed olive-oil.
    Tell 'm apart? 'Course you can't. Nobody can. People that want to,
    can go to the expense and trouble of shipping their oils to Europe and back--
    it's their privilege; but our firm knows a trick worth six of that.
    We turn out the whole thing--clean from the word go--in our factory
    in New Orleans: labels, bottles, oil, everything. Well, no, not labels:
    been buying them abroad--get them dirt-cheap there. You see,
    there's just one little wee speck, essence, or whatever it is,
    in a gallon of cotton-seed oil, that give it a smell, or a flavor,
    or something--get that out, and you're all right--perfectly easy then
    to turn the oil into any kind of oil you want to, and there ain't anybody
    that can detect the true from the false. Well, we know how to get
    that one little particle out--and we're the only firm that does.
    And we turn out an olive-oil that is just simply perfect--undetectable!
    We are doing a ripping trade, too--as I could easily show you by my
    order-book for this trip. Maybe you'll butter everybody's bread pretty soon,
    but we'll cotton-seed his salad for him from the Gulf to Canada, and that's
    a dead-certain thing.'

    Cincinnati glowed and flashed with admiration.
    The two scoundrels exchanged business-cards, and rose.
    As they left the table, Cincinnati said--

    'But you have to have custom-house marks, don't you?
    How do you manage that?'

    I did not catch the answer.

    We passed Port Hudson, scene of two of the most terrific episodes of the war--
    the night-battle there between Farragut's fleet and the Confederate
    land batteries, April 14th, 1863; and the memorable land battle,
    two months later, which lasted eight hours--eight hours of exceptionally
    fierce and stubborn fighting--and ended, finally, in the repulse
    of the Union forces with great slaughter.
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