Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.15 #86 (Jul 1857).
My name is not much known to the public journals; but I am not ashamed of it, and never was. It is Quigley, Joseph Quigley—named for my uncle on the maternal side, whose name was Joseph Growzer. I have dropped the Growzer, in obedience to my wife's wishes, she not fancying Growzer; though the Growzers were very worthy people, and comfortably off.
I am looking out just now for a place in the country. I believe every body looks out, some day or other, for a place in the country. I don't know why—I never did; but they do.
Mr. Blossom has a place where he goes in the summer—leastwise, every Sunday—and enjoys himself. His vegetables cost him middling dear; dearer, I should say, than town vegetables, by the accounts he gives me of gardeners' pay, poudrette, clearing up of stones, and so on.
"But then," says Mrs. Blossom, "consider, Mr. Quigley, the great satisfaction of raising your own; of being relieved from dependence upon those abominable cheating market-people; of living, as it were, under your own fig-tree, Mr. Quigley!"
"Oh, it's charming!" said Miss Blossom, turning to Miss Quigley (my daughter Mary Jane); "it's quite a little Paradise we have, Miss Quigley."
"But the fig-leaves are rather expensive," said Blossom. Blossom has some smartness.
"Oh, there it is!" said Mrs. Blossom. "Those odious dollars and cents—dollars and cents;" and Mrs. Blossom adjusted her hoop, which I suspect was cramping her.
Miss Blossom talked earnestly to Miss Quigley about chrysanthemums and jonquils, while Mr. Blossom drew his chair nearer to me, and said, "I will tell you how it is, Quigley. You will buy a place some thirty miles out of town, for, say, two hundred dollars an acre; perhaps you'll buy twenty acres—"
"Hardly enough," said I.
"Egad," said Blossom, "you'll see! Well, that's four thousand dollars. There's a cottage on the place; but do you think, Mr. Quigley, that your wife is going to live in that cottage?"
"Mary Jane," said I, interrupting the conversation of the young ladies, "don't you think your mother would live in a cottage?"
"Oh, charming!" said Mary Jane; "the very thing!"
I turned to Blossom with an air of triumph, as much as to say, You see my daughter's tastes, Mr. Blossom.
"Egad," said Blossom, "you'll see. You'll have a wing to put on, and an ell, and then a boadwor, and two or three gables, and not being there to see how the work goes on, and your wife putting in the extras, you'll find a matter of eight or ten thousand dollars to foot up. That makes fourteen."
"Fourteen," said I, with good courage thus far.
"Then your wife has seen hedges, and that sort of thing."
"Of course," said I. "Mary Jane, your mother has seen hedges?"
"Pshaw, papa, of course she has; we mean to have hedges."
"Oh, of course!" said Mr. Blossom; "and then the old walls must come down, and be carted away somewhere, and the ground dug, and a paling put up; in fact, Quigley, I should put you down, on the score of digging, and trenching, and fence-making, to the tune of about six thousand more."
"That makes twenty," said I.
"Twenty," said he. "Then you must have your English or Scotch gardener, with his four or five hundred a year, and a cottage, and a cow, and his impudence if you undertake to give any directions; and your coachman, who, you know, are getting to be confoundedly dangerous fellows."
I glanced at Mary Jane, as much as to say, Mr. Blossom, my daughter knows her duty.
"In short," said Blossom, "it's a doosed expensive luxury. I kept an account, Quigley, and I think my tomatoes stood me in one shilling each. I could have bought them cheaper."
"I think you could," said I. "It does seem to me that my tomatoes will not cost me so dearly. However, my wife" (there is a Mrs. Quigley) "is opinionated to a degree that there is no resisting. I have heard of men who have held out against their wives in a matter of this kind. I must confess I do not see how they do it. I only wish they had Mrs. Quigley to deal with."
"One consults his friends about such an affair as going into the country; and I consult mine. Mrs. Quigley consults hers, Miss Quigley consults hers, my son (there is a Master Quigley) consults his. I think we are in a fair way of learning something about country places.
Ripes, my old partner in the jobbing business, said, "Quigley, I hear you're going into the country."
"Yes," said I, "Ripes, I am."
"Well, for God's sake, Quigley," said he, "don't get the shakes."
If I like Ripes, if I ever did like him, it is in spite of his profanity.
"Shakes?" said I.
"Ay," said he, "fever-nager, the d—t thing a man ever had. Mind now, Quigley, do you never buy till you find there's no fever-nager in the district. Give it ten miles margin."
"I will," said I.
Bleetzer, who lives over opposite to me, and who sometimes happens in to tea, and is in business still (fur-trade in Maiden Lane), said, "Quigley, I hear you're going into the country."
"Yes, Bleetzer," says I, "I am."
"Made any purchase yet?" said he.
"Not yet," said I.
"I know of the very thing for you," said Bleetzer, "a charming little place" (Miss Quigley pricked up her ears) "belonging to Mrs. Bleetzer's sister, only two hours from town—don't, for Heaven's sake, get more than two hours from town—provided she would sell. My impression is that she would."
"Where is it?" said Mrs. Quigley.
"A little way back of Williamsburg," said Bleetzer, "fine country."
"Picturesque?" asked Mary Jane.
"Oh Lord, yes," said Bleetzer. "You've a taste for the country, I see, Miss Quigley."
"Oh, a passion," said Mary Jane.
Indeed she has, she has a passion for any thing she likes.
"Any rocks or waterfalls?" said she.
"I think so;" said Bleetzer, "I'm quite sure there's a brook."
"And then we shall have ducks," said Mary Jane; "that will be so pretty!"
"Is there good society in the neighborhood?" said Mrs. Quigley.
"Quiet but polished," said Bleetzer.
"Is there good shooting about there?" asked Anthony, (that is Master Quigley's name).
Mr. Bleetzer said he presumed there was, without a doubt. He had often observed, indeed, that wild fowl took to the low countries and neighborhood of brooks.
I must say that I formed quite a favorable opinion of the place in the rear of Williamsburg; Mary Jane was quite sure she should be charmed with it. I do not pretend that I had at that time any definite notion of what the appearance of the place might be. I think Mary Jane had. Such is the force of that girl's imagination! If an up-town school can accomplish a woman, I think that young woman is accomplished. In anticipation of her pleasure behind Williamsburg (in case Bleetzer's wife's sister would sell the place), she read us in the evening this passage, taken from a book of poetry:
"'The lofty woods, the forests wide and long,
Adorned with leaves and branches fresh and green,
In whose cool bowers the birds, with many a song,
Do welcome with their quire the summer's queen;
The meadows fair, where Flora's gifts among
Are intermix'd with verdant grass between;
The silver scaled fish that softly swim
Within the sweet brook's crystal watery stream.'"
I determined to go over with Anthony, and take a look at the place. Anthony said he would put on his shooting-jacket, and take his gun, and bring back a few ducks with him. Mary Jane entreated him not to kill them all off.
The place, I learned from Bleetzer, was called "Sabine Farm," which my ladies thought a very humdrum name, but which a spruce gentleman whom I consulted on board the Williamsburg ferry-boat about the situation seemed to have a fancy for. He didn't know the place, he said, but it certainly had a ravishing name; and he smiled as if he was telling me something I knew already.
Anthony, having only a few caps in his pouch, bought a fresh box in Williamsburg. I do not think that box of caps is broken open to this day.
Talk of ducks, and "forests wide and long!" Were you ever behind Williamsburg? Sabine Farm indeed!
I had no previous notion of the flatness of the country in that neighborhood. It seemed very odd to me how a brook could run at all; there certainly could be no fast running. There was not the faintest "wood-note" of any game. Anthony thought it might be a snipe country in the season; but it was not the season, I suspect. There were two or three tame geese we saw upon the Sabine Farm, who took to the ditch on our appearance. Anthony did not waste his powder, though I am sorry to say he peppered the geese and the place generally with oaths.
As for fever and ague, an old negro man who was in charge of the premises told us "it was a precious place for that."
"Pretty sickly then," said I, "is it?"
"Oh, Lud, no, not a bit on't."
"How about the fever and ague?"
"Bless your soul, we don't call that sickly; we has it rigilar bout here."
"Is it dangerous?" said Anthony.
"Dangerous! Lud a massa, 'tsnot half so dangerous as that are gun o' yourn. There's them's had it these forty years gone, and prime old bucks yet."
What a cottage it was, to be sure! Blossom was right. There would be an ell and a wing to put on. How could Bleetzer ever recommend such a place as that? The "Sabine Farm" would never do.
"Oh," said Bleetzer, when he came in that evening, "you've got high-falutin notions, Quigley. The country will be the country you know. It ain't like town; you can't make it like town; it never was like town. For instance, how the deuce are you going to light your house in the country? Gas, you think, and pipes. Deuce a bit of it! You must live by candle-light—sixty cents a pound, Judd's best. There's water, again! what'll you do for water? Of course you think of Croton, and a stop-cock in the corner. No such thing, Quigley. You must take the country as it is. If you get a creek on your own grounds, with a good dip for a tin pail, you are lucky."
"But the brook, Mr. Bleetzer," said Miss Quigley, "you said there was a brook."
"Creek is a brook, mam. Your poets make the difference. As for rocks and waterfalls and all that, Miss Quigley, they are only to be found in the wild parts, where I am free to say, you couldn't raise—not your own parsneps."
I acquiesced in this.
Mr. Bleetzer went on to say, however, that his brother-in-law, Mrs. Bleetzer's sister's husband, had lived on the Sabine Farm for ten years, and "such beets and carrots as he raised! Radishes every Easter Sunday! Do you love radishes, Miss Quigley?"
Miss Quigley doted on radishes.
"I don't think," said Bleetzer, "there's such a productive soil for radishes within fifty miles of New York."
Anthony's account, however, dampened whatever expectations Mr. Bleetzer might have raised.
Somebody, I think a friend of Mrs. Quigley, recommended a place up the river. Such society as there was up the river! What a place it must be for genteel people! I think Mary Jane blushed at the very thought of going to live up the river.
Behind Williamsburg was vulgar; Mrs. Quigley thought so from the first. "To tell the truth" (this is what she whispered to me privately), "I fancy Bleetzer's wife's relations are only so-so kind of people."
Mrs. Quigley went on further to say, that country residences and farms were common enough every where, but up the river people had "seats." For instance, there was the seat of that fine old gentleman, Mr. Antique Moire, beautifully watered, and such a lawn-like surface! Was it not enrolled upon the river maps "Seat of Antique Moire, Esq.?" Why should there not be a "Seat of Joseph Quigley, Esq.," in that neighborhood? What if Mrs. Quigley did not know Mrs. Moire! what if Mary Jane did not visit Miss Sophy Crinoline Moire! Could the association fail to be agreeable, under the same serene sky, enjoying the same water-view, employing, perhaps, a far superior gardener to the Moire gardener; and Mrs. Quigley would send an occasional bunch of flowers?
All this, under Mrs. Quigley's way of telling it, was very captivating; so I set off one day in April up the river in search of a "seat."
"Seats" are dearer than farms, though I think not so productive. The stable-man to whom I applied at the landing for a conveyance and a guide, called out to his people in the attic.
"Up stairs, I say there; halloa!"
"Halloa!" said up stairs.
"Whose well day is it?"
Voice answered, "Jim's."
"Jim's it is, then," said the stable-man; "genl'm'n wants to see the 'seats' about," continued he to a thin-faced chap who just now made his appearance.
The nag was driven up presently; the stable-man waved us away smilingly, and we dashed off up the hillside.
I looked askance at Jim; he had a fearfully invalid look.
"Healthy about here?" said I.
"They calls it pooty healthy," said Jim.
"You've been sick, haven't you?" said I.
"Guy, Sir, you'd better ask," said Jim.
"Well, now, I hope?" continued I.
"You heard boss, didn't ye?" said Jim; "it's my well day to-day."
"Well day?" repeated I.
"Guy," said the bey, turning toward me, "you must be a stranger in these parts, you must."
"I am," said I.
"Never heard o' chills and fever?"
"Heard of it," said I, "but never saw a case;" as indeed I never had.
"Then ye sees it now," said the lad.
It was a good opportunity to gain some information about the disease. I can not say that I was favorably impressed by the account Jim gave of himself. I should say it must be a very unpleasant complaint.
"Do they have it much hereabout?" inquired I.
"Have it like pison," said the boy.
"And yet people say it's a healthy region?"
"Oh, we all says so, Sir; because why, ye see, it's like givin' a horse a bad name; and exceptin' the shakes, it's pooty middlin' healthy, Sir."
I asked about the gentlemen who came up to reside during the summer.
"Well, Sir, the gentlemens what's got ‘seats,' keeps pooty close after dark, and don't catch it; or if they does, or finds all the servants goin' off on account of the chills, they ups and puts an advertisement in, sayin' its one of the healthiest towns on the river. We understands all that, Sir. Lookin' out for a ‘seat,' Sir?"
I was.
Jim thought he knew of a place that would be just the thing; "sightly, and middlin' free from fever."
I can not say I was greatly charmed with the place. I did not have a very flattering account to carry back to Mary Jane. North River "seats," in their natural condition, are exceedingly rough places. The quantity of stones about them is really quite imposing. I am told they can be worked up very tastefully into rustic fences and such like; but I am further told that it is one of the most expensive tastes a man can cultivate. I am inclined to believe this to be true.
I was shown several gardens said to be immensely productive; and yet they had been erected (if I may employ a city word) upon the most uninviting localities. The rocks had been blasted, the hollows filled up, the slopes terraced, the walks graveled, and the result had been some parcels of most surprising beets and parsneps ever seen at a New York fair. The work had been expensive, it is true; a thousand dollars the acre at the very least; "and the gardener's wages (who was a thorough fellow) about five hundred a year; but, bless my soul, what parsneps! what tomatoes! what satisfaction! what mention at the farmers' clubs by Mapes and others!
People talk about Axminster carpets and brocade curtains, and that sort of thing} but my own opinion is that prize vegetables, as grown by gentlemen farmers at their "seats," and as noticed by Mapes, Meigs, and others, are the most expensive luxuries known to the American merchant life. It is my opinion that every tomato of extra size grown at any of the "seats" I had the honor of visiting, must stand them in (that is, the proprietors) from eight to ten shillings apiece; and this I consider to be a tall price, even for prize vegetables.
In short, between the gardens and the chills, I gave up all notion of a "seat" upon the river. Mrs. Quigley, Miss Quigley, Master Quigley, and myself next consulted the advertisements. How charmingly they do read! "A snug little quiet country place, only two hours from town, well shaded, highly picturesque, and commanding one of the finest views in this or any country may be had for the trifle of seventy dollars an nacre. The very place for a retired merchant."
How we doted on that little farm! How Mary Jane dressed it up with a rose-bush (Baltimore belle) at the door, and honey-suckles, and a pony grazing on the lawn!
I went to see it; only over in New Jersey, on the Palisades. There was a fine view to be sure, but no house as yet—indeed, no house in the neighborhood. I think it was one of the quietest places I ever visited in my life. The cab-driver who took me there said it was "an uncommon sightly place." He had been there before to a picnic, and he and his friends had tried to set a flag-staff, but couldn't.
"I don't believe," said Jehu, "that a man could set a crow-bar into this ere farm, mor'n three inches, in any one spot."
And yet there were a few straggling trees there: I can't yet understand how they grow; for I prospected a little with my cane in the soil, and found that Jehu was right. My daughter's rose-bush and honey-suckle could never thrive there.
I must say I was a little indignant. I went again to the city office where the newspaper had referred me, and expressed myself to the people in attendance somewhat indignantly.
The agent drew me into a side-room. "Mr. Quigley," said he (how he knew my name I can not say), "I suspect you are right. I am inclined to think the farm is mostly rock; but Sir (and here he put his forefinger in the top button-hole of my surtout), if it's rock, as you think, it's the greatest speculation a man can possibly make. Consider, Mr. Quigley, for a moment the price of building stone."
I did.
A great deal to be sure.
"Your flats are there under the cliff; a blast loads them; the current takes them down; Sir, it's dirt cheap."
I talked the matter over at home. Mrs. Quigley didn't want a quarry; she wanted a country place.
So there was nothing to do but look again.
I have not much faith in photography as applied to country places. We heard of the photograph of a country residence which was on sale; the photograph could be seen down town. It was as pretty a little picture as one often sees.
Notwithstanding I nudged Miss Quigley to contain herself, she broke out with saying it was beautiful, and just the thing we wanted. Over and over again, that girl's imagination is a source of expense to me.
There was nothing to do, but we must go and see the Gothic cottage; Mrs. Quigley couldn't believe it was the same. The wild grass and the gravel waste about it were not fairly represented in the photograph. Besides which, Miss Quigley said it was new and painty, and stuck up.
If I ever have a house to sell, I shall have it photographed. It makes a twenty per cent. better thing of it at the very least. Moreover, a photograph doesn't give one a hint of any chills and fever. It doesn't take in the low grounds about a place, or the canal.
An old gentleman we met on our return told us, confidentially, it was as much as a man's life was worth to pass a summer in that neighborhood. We gave up all thought of the photograph.
"Mrs. Quigley," said I, "suppose we try next the New Haven Road?"
"We shall have all our necks broken," said Mrs. Quigley.
"I don't think so," said I, "It's much too expensive breaking people's necks. It has cost the road some three hundred thousand dollars to balance that old Norwalk account, and it's an economic corporation. I don't think there's a company any where which pays out less for extra cars and dépôt room. You may be sure these people have learned to put a value on a sound neck since they have had them to pay for."
"But the pickpockets," said Mrs. Quigley; "they say the New Haven station is a dreadful place for pickpockets."
So it is, indeed. It couldn't be contrived more nicely for them. And yet does any body suppose that the New Haven corporation is in league with the pickpockets? Does any body suppose that this judicious and provident company have actually secured and sustained their exceedingly dark, narrow station-house near the corner of Canal Street as an encouragement to men who go about filching pockets?
And yet, if this same company take a man's fare, and compel him to stand all the way down to Rye, not once only, but time and again, are they not turned filchers themselves, only in a genteel manner? Is there any excuse for it, except that people can't go in any other way, and so must submit?
Have the New Haven Company any bowels? I think not.
However, the Quigleys went down to Rye—Mr. and Master Quigley standing, and Mrs. and Miss Quigley having secured a seat. Rye is a pretty name; there is an English town of that name. Mr. Havor Morgage (a large and thriving real estate agent) had given us a list of places thereabout for sale. What a splendid list it was! The descriptions, written out as they were in ink, seemed more truthful than in print. For my part I have grown suspicious of printed matter.
And besides the descriptions written out in a clerkly hand, we recognized some remarks thrown into the margin by Mr. Morgage himself, such as—
—"Mr. Quigley will find this a charming little retreat."
—"A very cheap place."
—"A delightful establishment."
—"One of the most desirable situations in this country."
Indeed I had no idea of the immense number of desirable situations for "seats" which this country affords until I came to be on the look out for a place. I rarely hear of any other. Asa business man, I must say that I have been a little startled by the great number of them which are on sale, particularly about Rye.
Why should any body wish to go away from Rye? It is a pretty place; on the New Haven Road, it is true; but still there is access by water, and a fairish turnpike, understood to be safe, and without drawbridges.
I don't think I ever visited a locality where the people speak so charitably of each other as in Rye. Mrs. Quigley was, of course, a little curious about the neighborhood. The invariable reply to Mrs. Quigley's inquiry at all the places we visited with a view to purchase, was, that the neighborhood was delightful.
I wondered more and more why people should wish to leave Rye. Can any body, not in the secret, tell me why a man should be willing to desert so charming a locality?
I ventured to ask the question of an old gentleman not long retired from the city, whose fine place was in the market. I will call him Mr. Flinn.
"Well, Sir," said he, "Mrs. Flinn doesn't altogether like the—er—retirement of the country, being accustomed to a large and gay society. You perceive, Sir, it's something—er—cramping to be down here in a small way. In short, Sir, you perceive Mrs. Flinn doesn't like the place."
"Not ill here, I hope,' Mrs. Quigley ventured to ask.
"Oh, bless you, no; Rye's a remarkably healthy place; I don't think there's a healthier situation—er—between here and New York."
I really don't suppose there is.
"Any fever and ague, Mr. Flinn?"
"Oh, well, you perceive, Mr. —, I beg your pardon, Sir—"
"Quigley, Sir," said I; "my name is Quigley."
"Ah, Quigley—Quigley & Ellets, Maiden Lane, perhaps?"
I am: I said I was.
"I regard," said Mr. Flinn, "the town of Rye as one of the healthiest upon the Eastern end of Long Island Sound. I really do not suppose, Mr. Quigley, now since you speak of sickness, that there has been a well-authenticated case of consumption originating here in the past several years."
"Really!" said Mrs. Quigley.
"How about the chills and fever?" said Anthony.
"Oh, you refer, perhaps, to—intermittent?"
Mrs. Quigley said he did.
"There have been," said Mr. Flinn, "one or two sporadic cases. Would madam like to look over the house?"
When we had left Mr. Flinn's, I said, "Mrs. Quigley, do you know the meaning of sporadic?"
"I don't," said she, "but I think it looks very suspicious, Mr. Quigley."
It did. I entertained the opinion at the time (though I did not name it to Mrs. Quigley) that it meant spasmodic.
The matter made us very particular in our inquiries. We certainly did hear of several cases of fever and ague about the localities we visited in Rye, "mild cases," and, very singularly, due in each instance to a drain or ditch which some Irish neighbor had been opening the past summer.
It is surprising how people will continue to dig drains, or cellars, summer after summer.
Another remarkable fact is, 1 find, observable in all the places along the Sound which are at all liable to any sporadic cases of intermittent; and that is—that the particular locality occupied or offered for sale by your informant is remarkably free from any suspicion of fever. The sporadic cases invariably appear a little to the southward or westward.
If one must live in the same town with a troublesome disease (such as I judge the intermittent to be), it is of course pleasant to know your neighbor's place is more liable to it than your own. This may be stated in rather an un-christian way; but, I think, in a natural way.
I had far rather live out of reach of the affair altogether. Can any one be good enough to inform Mr. Quigley of a nice place, within thirty miles of New York, which is above all suspicion of fever and ague; where there are no sporadic cases of intermittent; where they have not recently been opening some drain which "acts as a local cause." If any one could, Mr. Quigley would be deeply grateful.
Having returned safely over the New Haven Road, with the money still in their pockets, the Quigleys continue to be looking out for a snug place in the country.
Mrs. Quigley is anxious to have a genteel neighborhood, and pleasant people about; Miss Quigley would like a soil adapted to the growth of honey-suckles and peaches, with a brook meandering in the distance; Anthony, my son, is not particular about the picturesque, but would like a good ducking "mash," and a fairish bit of turnpike for a 2 44.
As for myself, all I ask is a good vegetable garden (already erected), and no intermittent—sporadic or otherwise—about the locality.