What the reformatory legal enactments may do with the wine-growers of Ohio, and with the distillers of Pennsylvania and Indiana, we are curious to see. As for the latter, we can not say (speaking now in our individual capacity) that we should greatly regret the downfall of those huge distillery pig-yards, which spend their odors over the Ohio river; but as for the Cincinnati wines and vineyards, we must confess that we have a lurking fondness that way—first, because the grape culture is Scriptural, beautiful, healthful; and next, because it is clothing the hill-sides of our West with a purple and bountiful product, that develops nobly the agricultural resources of the country, and throws the gauntlet in the very face of Burgundy. Still again, we have a fancy—perhaps a wrong one—that pure wines, well made, and cheapened to the wants of the humblest laborer, will outgrow and overshadow that feverish passion for stronger drink which vitiates so sadly our whole working population: and yet once again, we have charity for western vineyards, for a very love of their products; and have felt ourselves, after a wee bit of the quiet hock which Zimmermann presses out of the ripe Catawba—a better feeling toward our fellows, and a richer relish for such labor of the office as now hampers our pen.
Under story of pleasure-seeking for the summer, some Journalists record the intent of a southern party to broach—in the August that now lies thirty days into the sunshine—the passage of the Rocky Mountains, skirting by the way the miniature valley of the Missouri—wearing weapons of defense and offense—carrying parlors upon wheels, and kitchens in their carts—shooting rabbits and Indians as the seasons vary, and dining upon buffalo and corn bread à volanté.
We wish them much pleasure of the trip—meaning good roads, few Indians, and musquito bars.
Seriously, however, when shall we see the valley of the Missouri form a pleasant tangent to summer travel, and the sportsman who now camps it by Long Lake, or shoots coot by Moniment Point—oiling his rifle for a range at the stalking varmint by St. Joseph's, and along the thousand forked branches of the Missouri waters?
At Minnessota, they say (the doubtful newspapers again,) people have discovered a gem of a lake,—so still, that the bordering trees seem growing root upward, and the islands are all Siamesed where they float; and so clear that you count your fish before you throw them the bait, and make such selections among the eager patrons of your hook, as you would do at the City market on the corner of Spring-street.
When Professor Page's Galvanic Railroad will take us there in a day, we will wash the ink from our fingers in the lake of Minnessota; and if the fates favor us, will stew a trout in Longworth's Catawba; meantime, we wait hopefully feeding upon Devoe's, moderately fatted mutton, and great plenty of imaginative diet.
Among the rest, old Markham's "Summer Contentments" has furnished us with rare meals, and inveigled us into trying with inapt hands the metier of the rod and angle. We flatter ourselves that we have won upon the character of the angler, however little we may win upon his fish.
"He must," says pleasant old Markham, "neither be amazed with storms, nor frighted with thunder; and if he is not temperate, but has a gnawing stomach, that will not endure much fasting, and must observe hours, it troubleth the mind and body, and loseth that delight which only maketh pastime pleasing.