ROMANCE AND REALITY.
CLINTON’S first day in the city was diligently devoted to sight-seeing,
under the direction of Whistler. As it was Saturday, and the last day of
Whistler’s vacation, they were both naturally anxious to make the best
use of the time. It would be no easy matter to track them through the
crowded and intricate streets, and mark the weary miles of brick
sidewalk they travelled over, now pausing to look into a gay shop
window, or to gaze at an imposing building; now sauntering along the
water’s edge, amid a forest of shipping and long ranges of granite
warehouses; now making a pleasant detour to the Common, and resting
themselves under the shadow of its lofty trees; and now picking their
way through the narrow streets of the poor, with their tipsy rows of
weak-jointed buildings, their plenitude of foreign faces and strange
brogues, and their astonishing overflow of infantile humanity, scattered
all along the sidewalks, in undress, half-dress, and almost no dress at
all. Nor were these the only novelties that attracted the notice of
Clinton. The constant succession of strange faces of every conceivable
type, the curious variety in dress and manners, the novel vehicles and
equipages in the streets,—these and many other things arrested his
attention at every step, and often suggested remarks that seemed very
droll to Whistler.
At length, however, the boys were both forced to confess that they were
very tired; and towards the middle of the afternoon Clinton concluded
that he had seen enough for one day, and proposed to Whistler to return
home. His feet, unused to the brick and stone pavement, were now so sore
that he walked with difficulty; and he declared that he felt more
fatigued than he should if he had hoed corn all day. They accordingly
took the shortest route home. Just before they reached the house, the
bell in a church steeple which they were passing began to toll.
“What is that for—a funeral?” inquired Clinton.
“No, it’s for a fire, I suppose; they don’t toll the bells for funerals
in Boston,” replied Whistler.
“Is it a fire?—let’s go to it!” exclaimed Clinton, forgetting, in his
excitement, his weary limbs and tender feet.
“No, I wouldn’t; we’re too tired to run to a fire now,” said Whistler.
“Besides, it’s a great way off; I believe it’s over to South Boston. Let
me count again.”
The tolling, which had ceased for a minute, was now resumed, and six
loud strokes were given, followed by another pause.
“Yes, the fire’s in District No. 6; that’s South Boston,” continued
Whistler.
“How far is it from here?” inquired Clinton, who still felt inclined to
go to the fire.
“It can’t be less than a mile, and it may be two, if it’s in the further
end of South Boston,” replied Whistler.
“Nobody seems to be going to it. Why, I should think every body would
run when the bells ring for fire,” said Clinton, who was surprised to
see how little notice was taken of the alarm.
“The firemen run, but other people don’t mind the alarm, unless they see
the light or the smoke,” replied Whistler.
An engine now came along, making a great noise as it rattled over the
pavements, although there were no bells upon it, and but little shouting
among the men who had charge of it. It was very gayly painted, and
decorated with highly-polished brass mountings. There were only about a
dozen men at the rope when the engine first came in sight; but their
ranks soon filled up by the arrival of other members of the company, and
the engine went spinning through the street at a rapid rate, followed by
a swarm of ragged boys. Clinton was more than half disposed to fall in
with the crowd of urchins; but, perceiving that Willie had no idea of
joining in the race, he prudently concluded to forego the pleasure.
The boys had now reached the house, and, on throwing themselves into
comfortable seats, began to realize how tired they were. They found
Ettie at full length upon the floor, engaged in putting together the
dissected map which the boys had made for her. Her knowledge of
geography was so slight, that the puzzle was anything but a simple one
to her.
“What’s the matter, Sissy?—can’t you put it together right?” inquired
Clinton.
“Yes, I can, _almost_,” replied Ettie; “but two or three of these pieces
are real ugly,—they won’t go in any where.”
“Let me see if I can’t help you,” added Clinton, getting down upon the
floor with his little cousin.
“I’d rather find it out myself,” replied Ettie, timidly.
“O, well, then, I won’t meddle with it,” said Clinton. “You’re just like
me; I don’t like to have folks show me how to do things, when I can find
out myself.”
Clinton could not repress a quiet smile as he glanced at the map, and
witnessed the strange positions which some of the states had assumed.
Illinois and Mississippi had exchanged places, both apparently quite
unconscious that they had “got into the wrong pew.” Tennessee had turned
half a somerset, and was standing upon her head. Maine was vainly trying
to fill the space that rightfully belonged to New York, while for the
last-named state no place had yet been found.
“What a curious thing that fire-alarm is! Do you understand how it
works, Willie?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, I’ve heard it all explained,” replied Whistler. “In the first
place, the city is divided into seven fire districts. In each of these
districts there are a number of little cast-iron boxes, fastened to the
sides of buildings, such as I showed you on Faneuil Hall. These are the
signal stations. When a fire breaks out near one of these stations, the
watchman, or the man who keeps the key, goes to the box and turns the
crank in it slowly six times. That sends the alarm along the wires to
the central office, in Court Square, and the man there knows just where
it came from, and he strikes the number of the district upon the bells.
There are about forty of those signal boxes, and each has its wire
running to the central office. Then there is another set of wires that
lead from the office to the bells.”
“All the bells in the city strike at the same time, don’t they?”
inquired Clinton.
“No, there is no need of ringing all the bells,” replied Whistler.
“There are only seventeen bells, I believe, connected with the alarm,
and these all strike together. The ringing is done by machinery,
something like the striking part of a town clock. It has a weight, and
an electro-magnet; and the power that sets it in motion comes from the
great battery in the central office. If the fire is put out before all
the engines get there, an engineer goes to the nearest signal box and
telegraphs ‘all out,’ and the man in the central office gives the signal
on the bells, and then the firemen go home.”
“It’s a complete arrangement, isn’t it? I should think the firemen would
like it. It must save them a good many steps,” said Clinton.
“It does,” added Whistler. “Before we had this telegraph there used to
be a great many more false alarms of fire than there are now. Besides,
when there is a fire, it saves them a good many steps in finding it.”
Mr. Davenport now came in, and, after a few words with Ettie, who had
not yet mastered the secret of the dissected map, he added, turning to
the boys:
“Well, young gentlemen, have you seen all the sights, and got home at
this time of day?”
“No, sir, we haven’t seen half of them; but we got pretty tired, and
thought we’d been about enough for one day,” replied Clinton.
“And you looked at everything just as hard as you pleased, did you?”
continued his uncle.
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“But he didn’t act green at all, father,” added Whistler.
“My feet got real sore, though,” said Clinton, whose modesty led him to
turn the subject. “I told Willie I’d rather hoe corn all day than walk
about the roads here,—I mean the streets.”
“Well, I’m about used up, too,” said his uncle. “I’ve been cudgelling my
brains all day over a very intricate insurance case, and I believe I
don’t understand it now quite so well as I did when I began. Why,
Clinton, hoeing corn is real fun compared with much of the work that we
city folks have to do. If you were to live here, and earn your living,
you would have to put up with worse things than sore feet. Many country
people seem to think that we have nothing to do but to sit in our
armchairs, and read the papers, and discuss the news, and take money;
but if they could exchange work with us a little while, they would be
more contented with their lot forever after. They work hard and get
tired, I know; but we not only get tired, but sick, too, and worry and
fret ourselves into our graves, while they are in the prime of life.
They work out in the pure air, while we are stived up in little hot
rooms, breathing everything but the odors of heaven. After all, the
country’s the place to enjoy life. Don’t you think so, Whistler?”
“Yes, sir, the country’s the place for me,” replied Whistler. “When I’m
a man I mean to have a great farm, and have it stocked with the best
horses, and cows, and sheep, and pigs, and poultry. And you’ll come and
live with me, too; won’t you, father?”
“Yes, I think I will, if you lump me in with the pigs, and poultry, and
other live stock,” said his father, with an assumed air of offended
dignity.
“No, father, I didn’t lump you with the stock; I put a period after
them, and began a new sentence with you,” replied Whistler.
“I think it must have been a very brief period; however, I’ll take your
word for it,” added his father. “But, speaking of the country, I suspect
you will find playing and working on a farm two very different things.
At any rate, I shall advise you not to invest your funds very deeply in
agricultural improvements, until you have worked on a farm a year or two
as a hand.”
“But I thought you just said farming was the best employment for a man,”
observed Whistler, in some perplexity.
“I did say what was equivalent to that,” resumed his father; “but all
men are not fit for farmers. Some are too lazy; some are too genteel;
some don’t know enough; some know too much, in their own estimation, and
so get their living by their wits; some are too uneasy to stay long
enough in one spot to raise a crop of six-weeks beans; some haven’t the
bodily strength to work on a farm; and some are too tricky to follow any
honest calling. Then there are others who were born to be sailors, or
mechanics, or students, or political leaders, or merchants, or doctors,
or clergymen, or lawyers. They have special talents for these or other
professions, and, of course, they can’t be farmers. You might as well
try to drown a man who was born to be hung, as try to make a farmer of a
man that was born to ‘plough the sea.’ But the great body of men do not
have these particular talents. They are about as well fitted for one
common employment as for another, and so they decide on the one that
they consider the most easy, profitable, and genteel; and it is just
here that they oftentimes make their great mistake. Are you going to
sleep over my lecture, Clinton?” he abruptly added, on observing that
his nephew had partially closed his eyes.
“No, sir, I understood every word,” quickly replied Clinton, slightly
blushing.
“Because, if you were, I thought I should like to keep you company,”
continued Mr. Davenport. “It’s a rather dry subject, I know; but it will
soon be one of practical importance to you, and Whistler, too. Have you
made up your mind what profession you should like to follow, Clinton?”
“No, sir,—not exactly,” replied Clinton. “I like farming very well, but
I’ve thought I should rather be a merchant than anything else.”
“Why do you think you should like to be a merchant?” inquired his uncle.
Clinton was somewhat at a loss for an answer; but at length he replied,
with some misgivings:
“Why, it must be fine to own ships and warehouses, and do a great
business, and make lots of money, and have everything you want, and be
looked up to by every body. Besides, the merchant can have his farm,
too, if he likes.”
“But you have tried farming, and you say you like that pretty well?”
inquired his uncle.
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“Well,” resumed Mr. Davenport, “let me tell you one thing. With you,
mercantile life is all romance, just as farming is to your cousin. On
the other hand, farming is real to you, while Whistler has had a chance
to observe something of the dark side of mercantile and professional
life. When you think of being a merchant, you think only of fine ships,
and great warehouses, and sumptuous dwellings, and the portly and
dignified men who rule on ’change. You don’t think of the early years of
drudgery and poverty most of these men went through, or of the
temptations they were exposed to, which, perhaps, overcame a score of
their companions for every one that escaped; you don’t think how they
have risked health, and perhaps lost it; you don’t think what fierce
struggles they have encountered, what crushing losses they have met, and
what a weight of care rests upon them night and day; you don’t think it
is possible that they will yet meet with overwhelming reverses, and die
in poverty; and, more than all, you don’t think that these successful
merchants are themselves exceptions to the great mass of the profession,
who were only moderately successful, if they did not wholly fail. Is it
not so?”
“Yes, sir, I never thought much of the dark side,” replied Clinton.
“I do not say this to discourage you from being a merchant,” resumed his
uncle. “I would discourage no boy from entering any honest calling, if
he chooses it, and appears to be fitted to it. I don’t know but that you
have special qualifications for the mercantile profession. If you have,
I would advise you to make that your business. Otherwise, you had better
remain where you are. At all events, you ought to look at your favorite
profession on all sides, dark as well as bright, before you tie yourself
down in it for life. To sum up, as we legal gentlemen say—but we ought
to have the decision reported; have you got a scrap of paper, Willie?”
“Yes, sir,—here’s a piece.”
“Well, you shall be clerk of the court, and write down the decision.
Take your pencil, and write as I dictate, commencing each sentence upon
a new line.”
Whistler followed his father’s directions, and the result was the
following memoranda:
“All men ought to follow some useful employment.
“Every man ought to choose that employment in which he can be
most useful and successful.
“Agriculture is the primitive and natural employment of man.
“It is an employment which combines the greatest number of
advantages with the fewest evils and temptations, and is
therefore best fitted to secure the happiness and good of
mankind.
“It is an employment which must ever demand the hands of the
great bulk of the race.
“But the state of human society, and the interests of the race,
render many other professions necessary.
“God gives certain persons special talents for these special
callings, so that they enter them as if by instinct.
“Many others are providentially thrown into them, having no
particular choice or inclination in the matter.
“Others still enter them from choice.
“Those who enter any profession from choice, should do so
deliberately and understandingly, and not suffer themselves to
be misled by a thin veil of romance.
“All employments are honorable, so far as they are useful in
themselves, and are pursued in an honorable manner.”
Mr. Davenport read the above after Whistler had taken it down, and then
handed it back to him, saying:
“There, Willie, you have a legal opinion, without fee. You may keep it
among your valuables, and give Clinton a copy, too, if he wants one. You
may not fully understand these principles now, but you will by-and-by,
and they will be of great value to you, if you follow them.”
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