It was a beautiful May morning when the Typhoon hauled up at Long Wharf.
Whether the Indians were not early risers, or whether they were away
just then on a war-path, I couldn't determine; but they did not appear
in any great force--in fact, did not appear at all.
In the remarkable geography which I never hurt myself with studying
at New Orleans, was a picture representing the landing of the Pilgrim
Fathers at Plymouth. The Pilgrim Fathers, in rather odd hats and coats,
are seen approaching the savages; the savages, in no coats or hats
to speak of, are evidently undecided whether to shake hands with the
Pilgrim Fathers or to make one grand rush and scalp the entire party.
Now this scene had so stamped itself on my mind, that, in spite of
all my father had said, I was prepared for some such greeting from
the aborigines. Nevertheless, I was not sorry to have my expectations
unfulfilled. By the way, speaking of the Pilgrim Fathers, I often used
to wonder why there was no mention made of the Pilgrim Mothers.
While our trunks were being hoisted from the hold of the ship, I mounted
on the roof of the cabin, and took a critical view of Boston. As we came
up the harbor, I had noticed that the houses were huddled together on an
immense hill, at the top of which was a large building, the State House,
towering proudly above the rest, like an amiable mother-hen surrounded
by her brood of many-colored chickens. A closer inspection did not
impress me very favorably. The city was not nearly so imposing as New
Orleans, which stretches out for miles and miles, in the shape of a
crescent, along the banks of the majestic river.
I soon grew tired of looking at the masses of houses, rising above one
another in irregular tiers, and was glad my father did not propose
to remain long in Boston. As I leaned over the rail in this mood, a
measly-looking little boy with no shoes said that if I would come down
on the wharf he'd lick me for two cents--not an exorbitant price. But I
didn't go down. I climbed into the rigging, and stared at him. This, as
I was rejoiced to observe, so exasperated him that he stood on his head
on a pile of boards, in order to pacify himself.
The first train for Rivermouth left at noon. After a late breakfast
on board the Typhoon, our trunks were piled upon a baggage-wagon, and
ourselves stowed away in a coach, which must have turned at least one
hundred corners before it set us down at the railway station.
In less time than it takes to tell it, we were shooting across the
country at a fearful rate--now clattering over a bridge, now screaming
through a tunnel; here we cut a flourishing village in two, like a
knife, and here we dived into the shadow of a pine forest. Sometimes
we glided along the edge of the ocean, and could see the sails of ships
twinkling like bits of silver against the horizon; sometimes we dashed
across rocky pasture-lands where stupid-eyed cattle were loafing. It was
fun to scare lazy-looking cows that lay round in groups under the newly
budded trees near the railroad track.
We did not pause at any of the little brown stations on the route (they
looked just like overgrown black-walnut clocks), though at every one of
them a man popped out as if he were worked by machinery, and waved a red
flag, and appeared as though he would like to have us stop. But we were
an express train, and made no stoppages, excepting once or twice to give
the engine a drink. It is strange how the memory clings to some things.
It is over twenty years since I took that first ride to Rivermouth,
and yet, oddly enough, I remember as if it were yesterday, that, as we
passed slowly through the village of Hampton, we saw two boys fighting
behind a red barn. There was also a shaggy yellow dog, who looked as
if he had commenced to unravel, barking himself all up into a knot with
excitement. We had only a hurried glimpse of the battle--long enough,
however, to see that the combatants were equally matched and very much
in earnest. I am ashamed to say how many times since I have speculated
as to which boy got licked. Maybe both the small rascals are dead now
(not in consequence of the set-to, let us hope), or maybe they are
married, and have pugnacious urchins of their own; yet to this day I
sometimes find myself wondering how that fight turned out.
We had been riding perhaps two hours and a half, when we shot by a tall
factory with a chimney resembling a church steeple; then the locomotive
gave a scream, the engineer rang his bell, and we plunged into the
twilight of a long wooden building, open at both ends. Here we stopped,
and the conductor, thrusting his head in at the car door, cried out,
“Passengers for Rivermouth!”
At last we had reached our journey's end. On the platform my father
shook hands with a straight, brisk old gentleman whose face was very
serene and rosy. He had on a white hat and a long swallow-tailed coat,
the collar of which came clear up above his ears. He didn't look unlike
a Pilgrim Father. This, of course, was Grandfather Nutter, at whose
house I was born. My mother kissed him a great many times; and I was
glad to see him myself, though I naturally did not feel very intimate
with a person whom I had not seen since I was eighteen months old.
While we were getting into the double-seated wagon which Grandfather
Nutter had provided, I took the opportunity of asking after the health
of the pony. The pony had arrived all right ten days before, and was in
the stable at home, quite anxious to see me.
As we drove through the quiet old town, I thought Rivermouth the
prettiest place in the world; and I think so still. The streets are long
and wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, whose drooping branches,
interlacing here and there, span the avenues with arches graceful
enough to be the handiwork of fairies. Many of the houses have small
flower-gardens in front, gay in the season with china-asters, and are
substantially built, with massive chimney-stacks and protruding eaves.
A beautiful river goes rippling by the town, and, after turning and
twisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties itself into the sea.
The harbor is so fine that the largest ships can sail directly up to
the wharves and drop anchor. Only they don't. Years ago it was a famous
seaport. Princely fortunes were made in the West India trade; and in
1812, when we were at war with Great Britain, any number of privateers
were fitted out at Rivermouth to prey upon the merchant vessels of the
enemy. Certain people grew suddenly and mysteriously rich. A great many
of “the first families” of today do not care to trace their pedigree
back to the time when their grandsires owned shares in the Matilda Jane,
twenty-four guns. Well, well!
Few ships come to Rivermouth now. Commerce drifted into other ports. The
phantom fleet sailed off one day, and never came back again. The crazy
old warehouses are empty; and barnacles and eel-grass cling to the piles
of the crumbling wharves, where the sunshine lies lovingly, bringing
out the faint spicy odor that haunts the place--the ghost of the old dead
West India trade! During our ride from the station, I was struck, of
course, only by the general neatness of the houses and the beauty of
the elm-trees lining the streets. I describe Rivermouth now as I came to
know it afterwards.
Rivermouth is a very ancient town. In my day there existed a tradition
among the boys that it was here Christopher Columbus made his first
landing on this continent. I remember having the exact spot pointed out
to me by Pepper Whitcomb! One thing is certain, Captain John Smith, who
afterwards, according to the legend, married Pocahontas--whereby he got
Powhatan for a father-in-law-explored the river in 1614, and was much
charmed by the beauty of Rivermouth, which at that time was covered with
wild strawberry-vines.
Rivermouth figures prominently in all the colonial histories. Every
other house in the place has its tradition more or less grim and
entertaining. If ghosts could flourish anywhere, there are certain
streets in Rivermouth that would be full of them. I don't know of a town
with so many old houses. Let us linger, for a moment, in front of the
one which the Oldest Inhabitant is always sure to point out to the
curious stranger.
It is a square wooden edifice, with gambrel roof and deep-set
window-frames. Over the windows and doors there used to be heavy
carvings--oak-leaves and acorns, and angels' heads with wings spreading
from the ears, oddly jumbled together; but these ornaments and other
outward signs of grandeur have long since disappeared. A peculiar
interest attaches itself to this house, not because of its age, for
it has not been standing quite a century; nor on account of its
architecture, which is not striking--but because of the illustrious men
who at various periods have occupied its spacious chambers.
In 1770 it was an aristocratic hotel. At the left side of the entrance
stood a high post, from which swung the sign of the Earl of Halifax. The
landlord was a stanch loyalist--that is to say, he believed in the king,
and when the overtaxed colonies determined to throw off the British
yoke, the adherents to the Crown held private meetings in one of the
back rooms of the tavern. This irritated the rebels, as they were
called; and one night they made an attack on the Earl of Halifax, tore
down the signboard, broke in the window-sashes, and gave the landlord
hardly time to make himself invisible over a fence in the rear.
For several months the shattered tavern remained deserted. At last the
exiled innkeeper, on promising to do better, was allowed to return; a
new sign, bearing the name of William Pitt, the friend of America, swung
proudly from the door-post, and the patriots were appeased. Here it was
that the mail-coach from Boston twice a week, for many a year, set
down its load of travelers and gossip. For some of the details in this
sketch, I am indebted to a recently published chronicle of those times.
It is 1782. The French fleet is lying in the harbor of Rivermouth, and
eight of the principal officers, in white uniforms trimmed with gold
lace, have taken up their quarters at the sign of the William Pitt. Who
is this young and handsome officer now entering the door of the tavern?
It is no less a personage than the Marquis Lafayette, who has come all
the way from Providence to visit the French gentlemen boarding there.
What a gallant-looking cavalier he is, with his quick eyes and coal
black hair! Forty years later he visited the spot again; his locks were
gray and his step was feeble, but his heart held its young love for
Liberty.
Who is this finely dressed traveler alighting from his coach-and-four,
attended by servants in livery? Do you know that sounding name, written
in big valorous letters on the Declaration of Independence--written as
if by the hand of a giant? Can you not see it now? JOHN HANCOCK. This is
he.
Three young men, with their valet, are standing on the doorstep of the
William Pitt, bowing politely, and inquiring in the most courteous terms
in the world if they can be accommodated. It is the time of the French
Revolution, and these are three sons of the Duke of Orleans--Louis
Philippe and his two brothers. Louis Philippe never forgot his visit
to Rivermouth. Years afterwards, when he was seated on the throne of
France, he asked an American lady, who chanced to be at his court, if
the pleasant old mansion were still standing.
But a greater and a better man than the king of the French has honored
this roof. Here, in 1789, came George Washington, the President of
the United States, to pay his final complimentary visit to the State
dignitaries. The wainscoted chamber where he slept, and the dining-hall
where he entertained his guests, have a certain dignity and sanctity
which even the present Irish tenants cannot wholly destroy.
During the period of my reign at Rivermouth, an ancient lady, Dame
Jocelyn by name, lived in one of the upper rooms of this notable
building. She was a dashing young belle at the time of Washington's
first visit to the town, and must have been exceedingly coquettish and
pretty, judging from a certain portrait on ivory still in the possession
of the family. According to Dame Jocelyn, George Washington flirted with
her just a little bit--in what a stately and highly finished manner can
be imagined.
There was a mirror with a deep filigreed frame hanging over the
mantel-piece in this room. The glass was cracked and the quicksilver
rubbed off or discolored in many places. When it reflected your face
you had the singular pleasure of not recognizing yourself. It gave your
features the appearance of having been run through a mince-meat machine.
But what rendered the looking-glass a thing of enchantment to me was a
faded green feather, tipped with scarlet, which drooped from the top
of the tarnished gilt mouldings. This feather Washington took from the
plume of his three-cornered hat, and presented with his own hand to the
worshipful Mistress Jocelyn the day he left Rivermouth forever. I wish
I could describe the mincing genteel air, and the ill-concealed
self-complacency, with which the dear old lady related the incident.
Many a Saturday afternoon have I climbed up the rickety staircase to
that dingy room, which always had a flavor of snuff about it, to sit
on a stiff-backed chair and listen for hours together to Dame Jocelyn's
stories of the olden time. How she would prattle! She was bedridden--poor
creature!--and had not been out of the chamber for fourteen years.
Meanwhile the world had shot ahead of Dame Jocelyn. The changes that had
taken place under her very nose were unknown to this faded, crooning old
gentlewoman, whom the eighteenth century had neglected to take away with
the rest of its odd traps. She had no patience with newfangled notions.
The old ways and the old times were good enough for her. She had never
seen a steam engine, though she had heard “the dratted thing” screech in
the distance. In her day, when gentlefolk traveled, they went in
their own coaches. She didn't see how respectable people could bring
themselves down to “riding in a car with rag-tag and bobtail and
Lord-knows-who.” Poor old aristocrat The landlord charged her no rent
for the room, and the neighbors took turns in supplying her with meals.
Towards the close of her life--she lived to be ninety-nine--she grew very
fretful and capricious about her food. If she didn't chance to fancy
what was sent her, she had no hesitation in sending it back to the giver
with “Miss Jocelyn's respectful compliments.”
But I have been gossiping too long--and yet not too long if I have
impressed upon the reader an idea of what a rusty, delightful old town
it was to which I had come to spend the next three or four years of my
boyhood.
A drive of twenty minutes from the station brought us to the door-step
of Grandfather Nutter's house. What kind of house it was, and what sort
of people lived in it, shall be told in another chapter.