THE CITY HOME.
WHEN Clinton awoke the next morning, and looked around upon the large,
high chamber, and the strange furniture, and caught a glimpse through
the windows of a long row of brick buildings, he could, at first, hardly
tell where he was. Consciousness quickly returned, however, as he called
to mind the long journey of the day before, and the warm greetings which
he and Whistler received at the end of it. His cousin, whose bed he
shared, was still soundly sleeping, although the sun’s bright rays had
found their way into the room. People are apt to be more wasteful of
their morning hours in the city than in the country. Clinton’s curiosity
to see how the neighborhood looked by daylight would not allow him to
remain long in bed. He got up quickly, dressed himself, and was peering
inquisitively from the windows, when a loud scratching at the door led
him to open it, and in sprang Bouncer, Whistler’s handsome and
intelligent dog. With one leap he was on the bed, and in a moment the
sleeper was awakened, and engaged in a lively frolic with his
four-footed friend.
“O, you black rogue!” said Whistler, seizing him by the fore paws;
“you’re glad I’ve got home, are you? Then kiss me, that’s a good fellow.
There! that will do! Yes, he’s glad his master’s got home, so he is; and
he almost flew off the handle last night, didn’t he? and he couldn’t
wait for him to get up this morning, could he? Well, his master’s glad
to see him, too, so he is. There, sir, you’ve kissed me enough; now jump
down, and let me get up. Go and kiss him,” pointing to Clinton. “That’s
cousin Clinton. Don’t you know him?”
“You ought to know me, Bouncer, for you sent me a wag of your tail in a
letter last spring,” said Clinton, alluding to a rough pen and ink
sketch of Bouncer’s tail which Whistler’s father had enclosed in a
letter to Clinton, among sundry little love messages from the family.
“O, yes, I remember that!” said Whistler, with a laugh, as he jumped out
of bed. “What did you think when you saw it? Didn’t you laugh?”
“I rather think we all laughed a little over it,” replied Clinton. “I
had some idea of sending you back one of our cat’s purs in my letter,
but I didn’t know exactly how to do it.”
“But what did you get up for, and leave me here asleep? Is that the way
to serve a fellow?” inquired Whistler.
“O, I thought I wouldn’t disturb you,” replied Clinton. “I wanted to see
that splendid view you told me of when we were on Bald Peak. Do you
remember?”
“Yes; ninety-five millions of miles. But, you see, it’s all sky-scape;
there isn’t much landscape to boast of,” said Whistler.
“No, I see there isn’t,” replied Clinton, as he glanced at the
interminable brick block, with its row of low wooden sheds in the rear,
all of uniform size and pattern, and its little bits of open spaces
between the sheds, which served as back yards.
The row of houses, the backs of which bounded the prospect from
Whistler’s window, was situated on a street parallel with that on which
Mr. Preston lived. Dwellings and stores are usually built in blocks, or
joined together, in cities and towns, because the land is too valuable
to admit of an open space around each separate building. Mr. Davenport’s
house was a fair specimen of this style of building. It was not far from
the centre of a block of about twenty houses, which were very nearly
uniform in their external appearance. It was of brick, and three stories
high, besides the basement and attic. There were two entrances to each
house,—the front door, reached by four stone steps, and a door opening
into a narrow archway, which led to the back yard. An iron balustrade
extended the entire length of the block, in front of the second story.
Add to this a brick sidewalk, with a line of young trees near the edge,
and a clean and well-paved street, and you have a tolerably distinct
picture of the outside of Whistler’s home.
Whistler’s chamber was in the third story, on the side of the house
farthest from the street. It was quite neatly furnished. The floor was
carpeted, and the windows curtained. It contained a bureau, with a
mirror attached to it, a small dressing-table, and several chairs, all
of which, together with the bedstead, were painted a light chocolate
color, ornamented with dark stripes. In one corner was a marble
wash-basin, supplied with Cochituate water by means of a pipe, and
furnished with an outlet at the bottom, connecting with another pipe, to
let off the dirty water. There was a grate in the room, and a marble
mantel-piece, over which hung a large engraved likeness of Washington,
in a rosewood frame. On the side of the room opposite the bed there was
a small book-rack, which was filled with volumes and pamphlets, many of
which belonged to Whistler. There was a closet in the room, in which he
kept his clothing, and many of his playthings. The general appearance of
the chamber bore witness to the neat and orderly habits of its occupant.
The boys had now dressed and washed themselves, and brushed their hair,
and went down stairs, followed by Bouncer. In the sitting-room they
found Mr. Davenport, in his dressing-gown, so absorbed in his morning
paper that he apparently did not notice their entrance. Not wishing to
disturb him, they soon left the room, but had not gone far when he
called to them in a loud and rather authoritative tone:
“Boys! boys! come back!”
They returned, wondering what the matter was, and Clinton, at least,
feeling a little alarmed at such a stern call. They stood, just inside
the door, about a minute, before Mr. Davenport spoke; and then, lifting
his eyes from the paper, in a very sedate manner, he said:
“Good morning, boys.”
“Good morning, sir,” replied the boys, in a somewhat reserved and
confused manner.
Another awkward pause followed, during which Mr. Davenport was engrossed
with his paper. Whistler at length inquired:
“Is that all, father?”
“That is all,—what more would you have?” replied his father, a twinkle
of fun now appearing in his eyes, and about the corners of his mouth.
They left him to the quiet enjoyment of his joke and his paper, and went
into the dining-room, as the apartment was called where the meals of the
family were spread. There they found Mrs. Davenport, assisting in
putting the breakfast upon the table, while Ettie, Whistler’s little
sister, was arranging the chairs. These, with Margaret, the domestic,
constituted the whole of Mr. Davenport’s family at this time.
The breakfast-bell was rung, and the family gathered around the table,
and soon commenced a lively conversation, much of which was addressed to
Clinton.
“I believe this is your first appearance in Boston, Clinton,” observed
Mr. Davenport.
“Yes, sir, it is,” replied Clinton.
“Well, you will see a great many strange sights, as you go about the
city,” continued his uncle. “Boston isn’t a London, nor a New York; but
it beats Brookdale, by considerable, in business, wealth and population.
When I first visited Boston, thirty years ago, I thought it was about
the biggest city in the world, and I can assure you it has grown a
trifle since then. But I’ve got a word of advice to give you, and that
reminds me of it. You don’t want to appear green, verdant, raw,
countryfied, as we city folks say?”
“No, sir,” replied Clinton, in some trepidation at this startling array
of epithets.
“Well, then,” continued his uncle, “you must follow these three rules.
First, don’t stare at anything; that means, don’t look at anything as
though it were new or strange. The second rule is, don’t be astonished
at anything. And the third is like unto it,—don’t admire anything.”
Clinton looked perplexed. Sight-seeing was one of the principal objects
of his visit to the city; and a pretty kind of sight-seeing that would
be, he thought, if he could not look at anything, nor evince any
surprise or pleasure, for fear of violating the cold proprieties of city
manners. Whistler also shared in his perplexity; but, believing there
was a “catch” somewhere in his father’s advice, he said:
“Father isn’t in earnest; he doesn’t mean what he says, I know.”
“Yes, I am in earnest,” replied his father.
“But, how can he see the city, if he mustn’t look at anything?” inquired
Whistler.
“That’s another affair, altogether,” said Mr. Davenport. “I was telling
him how to avoid appearing green, not how to see the sights. When I
first came to the city myself, I suppose I was grass-green,—fast color,
warranted to wash,—although I didn’t know it then. I used to go staring
about at every thing and every body, looking into all the shop windows,
reading all the signs, and seeing more wonders than there were chimneys
in town. This used to provoke my brother, who had lived in the city a
whole year, and had grown wonderfully genteel in his notions. He carried
himself as stiff as a poker, and every time I turned my head he would
say, ‘Don’t stare about so! you act like a regular greenhorn!’ At last I
got quite angry with him, and I told him, right up and down, that I
didn’t care if I was green,—it was my favorite color; I liked it; I
gloried in it; I should be just as green as I pleased, and he needn’t
throw it in my face any more. Now, if you want to see the sights,
Clinton, I don’t know as you can do any better than I did; but, if you
do not want people to suppose that you are not accustomed to the city,
then you can follow the rules I have given.”
“I want to see things; I don’t care whether people think I’m from the
country, or not,” replied Clinton.
“Very sensibly said, and I am happy to see that you take after your
uncle,” said Mr. Davenport. “But we city folks are queer people. We get
up all manner of wonderful clap-traps and contrivances, to astonish our
country cousins, and then, if they look at them, we laugh, and tell them
they’re green. But all the greenies don’t come from the country, by a
good deal. I’ll warrant you see a specimen from the city, now and then,
down in Brookdale. How was it?—did the cows chase you, Whistler, or
didn’t they appreciate your verdancy?”
“No, sir, they didn’t chase me; but I suppose it was because feed was
uncommonly good,” replied Whistler.
“Pretty fair,” said his father, who always relished a joke.
“Do cows ever eat boys, father?” inquired Ettie, who had soberly
listened to the conversation, but apparently without fully comprehending
the drift of it.
This question, asked with all gravity, and affording such a fine
specimen of the very thing they were talking about,—city verdancy,—was
received with a general laugh, which sent the tears brimming to Ettie’s
eyes, when her father kindly replied:
“No, darling, the cows don’t eat boys; but they sometimes chase them,
and toss them in the air with their horns, when they feel cross.”
“When we went to ride, the other day,” continued Ettie, “we saw a cow
shaking her head at a dog, and running at him; and the dog kept jumping
before her, and barking right in her face. She wanted to hook him,
didn’t she?”
“Yes,” said her father; “and if the dog hadn’t been a little too spry
for her, she would have sent him spinning into the air, just as you
would toss up your doll.”
The conversation now changed to other topics, which we need not follow.
It was not without an object that Mr. Davenport introduced the subject
that has just been alluded to. This object was twofold. First, he wished
to put Whistler on his guard against manifesting any impatience or
unkindness if his cousin, in their walks about town, should happen to
look at things pretty hard. And then, again, he thought it would be well
enough to hint to Clinton, in a delicate way, that prolonged and
excessive staring at novelties in the public streets, is regarded as a
mark of rusticity by well-bred people. He knew that Clinton would not
attempt to follow the rules he gave; neither did he suppose he would
imitate his own example—somewhat exaggerated, no doubt—and make himself
“as green as he pleased.” Curiosity would forbid the first, and that
regard for the opinions of others which we all feel, deny it though we
may, would prevent the other. He left it for his nephew’s good sense to
find “the golden mean” between these two extremes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------