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IN THE BEER WAULT.
that of night-watchman to that of scullion, is performed by men, and so well that a woman-hater would hug himself for joy. The inmates all wear the army blue, and spend their time wholly in a wellearned dolce far niente. It is enjoyable to watch the groups of grizzled veterans, with their pipes and cards, in the smokingroom, or listen to their stories of the old days as they lie at full length under the trees, and gaze across the hazy, purple city to the far sun-lit lake beyond, in delicious and dreamy contrast to their former activities and hardships. As the city extends itself, this charming domain will ultimately be its real park, no doubt, for the Soldiers' Home will find itself utterly without tenants before many more years. The deaths are very rapid now, and every year more and more of these aged and scarred veterans, who are now beginning to feel how the war shortened their lives by drawing too heavily on their youthful energies, strike their tents in this world,
and go into that great campaign of the hereafter whither every man marches under sealed orders. I have said that the lake was the “one great fact” about Milwaukee. The other great fact in Milwaukee is lager-beer. Probably the city is more widely known for this than for anything else. Her breweries ship their delectable product to all parts of the world, and have won compliments for its excellence even in the historic gardens of Bavaria. The beer business is a rapidly growing one, also, as the statistics of the Chamber of Commerce show, for it is less than thirty years since the first shipment was sent to tempt the willing appetites of New-Yorkers. In 1865 only about 65,000 barrels were manufactured in the whole city, and this was regarded as a large amount. Now there are a score of breweries, and for the year 1879 the records of the collector of internal revenue show a total of 548,770 barrels of beer sold by the brewers of Milwaukee, showing an increase within a year of 122,430 barrels. In making this amount of beer the brewers of Milwaukee used 1,234,632 bushels of barley, equivalent to 1,509,017 bushels of malt, and 1,097,540 pounds of hops, and realized for the product, at the wholesale price, the sum of $4,938,930. Still they find it necessary to continue enlarging their facilities, so widespread has become the demand for this favorite beverage. The barley is gathered from the entire Northwest, and even from California. The beer is made from very carefully selected materials, and by men of the most approved experience in brewing. Extreme care is taken in every detail of the work from beginning to end, and finally, no beer is allowed to leave the cellars until it is at least five months old; whereas many brewers, particularly in the East, sell their product only three or four months after it is made. It has been asserted that there is a difference in the water, or the air, or some other natural circumstance, which makes beer west of the Alleghanies superior to that manufactured on the Eastern slope; but Milwaukee men say this is erroneous, and that it is all a question of better knowledge and extraordinary caution in respect to all parts of the brewing process, and the age which the beverage is permitted to attain before it is sold. No doubt the success of Milwaukee lager is a result of the demand for very good beer which has arisen from the fact that this community contains so many Germans who are both judges and lovers of beer. Out of the 116,000 people in the city, over 60,000 are of that nationality. It is said that in the Second Ward, the northwestern corner of the town, there is not a single American, French, or Irish family. Whether this is so or not, it is certain one sees none but German faces, reads German signs, hears Teutonic speech, and catches all the flavor of the Father-land underneath an unmistakably American crust. Any one
can understand what is meant by this last phrase if he goes to the railway station and marks the appearance of the crowds of immigrants that daily pour in there, fresh from the voyage. Then let him take a Walnut Street car, and ride through the west side. The faces are the same; the dress is only slightly different; but there is an entire change, hard to define, in the sentiment of all that the late immigrant says and does. There being so many Germans and so much good beer, those out-door pleasure parks so dear to the German mind are in Haarderwyck!” As Tante said this, she looked off dreamily into space, as if she saw aunt and niece wandering together through groves of allegorical flowers. “She is not likely to see Haarderwyck,” answered Miss Vanhorn. Then, after a moment's pause—a pause which Tante did not break—she peered at Anne with halfopen eyes, and asked, abruptly, “Do you, then, know anything of botany ?” Tante made a slight motion with her delicate withered old hand. But Anne did not comprehend her, and answered, honestly, “No, grandaunt, I do not.” “Bah!” said Miss Vanhorn; ‘‘I might have known without the asking. Make what you can of her, madame. I will pay your bill for one year: no longer. But no nonsense, no extras, mind that.” Again she sought a caraway seed, pursuing it vindictively along the bottom of her bag, and losing it at the last, after all. “As regards wardrobe, I would advise some few changes,” said Tante, smoothly. “It is one of my axioms that pupils study to greater advantage when their thoughts are not disturbed by deficiencies in dress. Conformity to our simple standard is therefore desirable.” “It may be desirable; it is not always, on that account, attainable,” answered Miss Vanhorn, conveying a finally caught seed to her mouth, dropping it at the last moment, and carefully and firmly biting the seam of the glove finger in its place. “Purchases are made for the pupils with discretion by one of our most experienced teachers,” continued Tante. “Glad to hear it,” said her visitor, releasing the glove finger, and pretending to chew the seed which was not there. “But I do not need anything, Tante,” interposed Anne, the deep color deepening in her cheeks. “So much the better,” said her grandaunt, dryly, “since you will have nothing.” She went away soon afterward somewhat placated, owing to skillful reminiscences of a favorite cousin, who, it seemed, had been one of Tante's “dearest pupils” in times past; “a true Vanhorn, worthy of her Knickerbocker blood.” The word “Neeker-bo-ker,” delicately comprehended, applied, and, what was more important still, limited, was one of Tante's most telling achievements—a shibboleth. She knew all the old Dutch names, and remembered their intermarriages; she was
“Manners—not what, but hour. Manners are happy ways of doing things; each once a stroke of genius or of love—now repeated and hardened into usage. Manners require time; nothing is more vulgar than haste.”—EMERSox. ADAME MOREAU was a Frenchwoman, small and old, with a thin shrewd face and large features. She wore a plain black satin gown, the narrow skirt gathered in the old-fashioned style, and falling straight to the floor; the waist of the gown, fastened behind, was in front plaited into a long rounded point. Broad ruffles of fine lace shielded her throat and hands, and her cap, garnished with violet velvet, was trimmed with the same delicate fabric. She was never a handsome woman even in youth, and she was now seventy-five years of age; yet she was charming. She rose, kissed the young girl lightly on each cheek, and said a few words of welcome. Her manner was affectionate, but impersonal. She never took fancies; but neither did she take dislikes. That her young ladies were all charming young persons was an axiom never allowed to be brought into question; that they were simply and gracefully feminine was with equal firmness established. Other schools of modern and American origin might make a feature of public examinations, with questions by bearded professors from boys' colleges; but the establishment of Madame Moreau knew nothing of such innovations. The French woman's idea was not a bad one; good or bad, it was inflexible. She was a woman of marked character, and may be said to have accomplished much good in a mannerless generation and land. Thoroughly French, she was respected and loved by all her American scholars; and it will be long ere her name and memory fade away.
Miss Vanhorn did not come to see her niece until a week had passed. Anne had been assigned to the lowest French class among the children, had taken her first singing lesson from one Italian, fat, rosy, and smiling, and her first Italian lesson from another, lean, old, and soiled, had learned to answer questions in the Moreau French, and to talk a little, as well as to comprehend the fact that her clothes were remarkable, and that she herself was considered an oddity, when one morning Tante sent word that she was to come down to the drawing-room to see a visitor.
The visitor was an old woman with black eyes, a black wig, shining false teeth, a Roman nose, and a high color (which was, however, natural), and she was talking to Tante, who, with her own soft gray hair, and teeth which if false did not appear so, looked charmingly real beside her. Miss Vanhorn was short and stout; she was muffled in an India shawl, and upon her hands were a pair of creamcolored kid gloves much too large for her, so that when she fumbled, as she did every few moments, in an embroidered bag for aromatic seeds coated with sugar, she had much difficulty in finding them, owing to the empty wrinkled ends of the glove fingers. She lifted a gold-rimmed eyeglass to her eyes as Anne entered, and coolly inspected her.
“Dear me! dear me!” she said. Then, in execrable French, “What can be done with such a young savage as this o'
“How do you do, aunt?” said Anne, using the conventional words with a slight tremor in her voice. This was the woman who had brought up her mother— her dear, unremembered mother.
“Grandaunt,” said Miss Vanhorn, tartly. “Sit down; I can not bear to have people standing in front of me. How old are you?”
acquainted with the peculiar flavor of Huguenot descent; she comprehended the especial aristocracy of Tory families, whose original property had been confiscated by a raw republic under George Washington. Ah! skillful old Tante, what a general you would have made! Anne Douglas, the new pupil, was now left to face the school with her islandmade gowns, and what courage she could muster. Fortunately the gowns were black and severely plain. Tante, not at all disturbed by Miss Vanhorn's refusal, ordered a simple cloak and bonnet for her through an inexpensive French channel, so that in the street she passed unremarked; but, in the house, every-day life required more courage than scaling a wall. Girls are not brutal, like boys, but their light wit is pitiless. The Southern pupils, provided generously with money in the lavish old-time Southern way, the day scholars, dressed with the exquisite simplicity of Northern school-girls of good family, glanced with amusement at the attire of this girl from the Northwest. This girl, being young, felt their glances; as a refuge, she threw herself into her studies with double energy, and gaining confidence respecting what she had been afraid was her island patois, she advanced so rapidly in the French classes that she passed from the lowest to the highest, and was publicly congratulated by Tante herself. In Italian her progress was more slow. Her companion, in the class of two, was a beautiful dark-eyed Southern girl, who read musically, but seldom deigned to open her grammar. The forlorn, soiled old exile to whom, with unconscious irony, the bath-room had been assigned for recitations in the crowded house, regarded this pupil with mixed admiration and despair. Her remarks on Mary Stuart, represented by Alfieri, were nicely calculated to rouse him to patriotic fury, and then, when the old man burst forth in a torrent of excited words, she would raise her soft eyes in surprise, and inquire if he was ill. The two girls sat on the bathtub, which was decorously covered over and cushioned; the exile had a chair for dignity's sake. Above, in a corresponding room, a screen was drawn around the tub, and a piano placed against it. Here, all day long, another exile, a German music-master, with little gold rings in his ears, gave piano lessons, and Anne was one of his pupils. To Signor Belzini, the