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.’