The Nutter House--all the more prominent dwellings in Rivermouth are
named after somebody; for instance, there is the Walford House, the
Venner House, the Trefethen House, etc., though it by no means follows
that they are inhabited by the people whose names they bear--the Nutter
House, to resume, has been in our family nearly a hundred years, and
is an honor to the builder (an ancestor of ours, I believe), supposing
durability to be a merit. If our ancestor was a carpenter, he knew his
trade. I wish I knew mine as well. Such timber and such workmanship
don't often come together in houses built nowadays.
Imagine a low-studded structure, with a wide hall running through the
middle. At your right hand, as you enter, stands a tall black mahogany
clock, looking like an Egyptian mummy set up on end. On each side of
the hall are doors (whose knobs, it must be confessed, do not turn very
easily), opening into large rooms wainscoted and rich in wood-carvings
about the mantel-pieces and cornices. The walls are covered with
pictured paper, representing landscapes and sea-views. In the parlor,
for example, this enlivening figure is repeated all over the room. A
group of English peasants, wearing Italian hats, are dancing on a lawn
that abruptly resolves itself into a sea-beach, upon which stands a
flabby fisherman (nationality unknown), quietly hauling in what appears
to be a small whale, and totally regardless of the dreadful naval combat
going on just beyond the end of his fishing-rod. On the other side of
the ships is the main-land again, with the same peasants dancing.
Our ancestors were very worthy people, but their wall-papers were
abominable.
There are neither grates nor stoves in these quaint chambers, but
splendid open chimney-places, with room enough for the corpulent
back-log to turn over comfortably on the polished andirons. A wide
staircase leads from the hall to the second story, which is arranged
much like the first. Over this is the garret. I needn't tell a
New England boy what--a museum of curiosities is the garret of a
well-regulated New England house of fifty or sixty years' standing.
Here meet together, as if by some preconcerted arrangement, all the
broken-down chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, all
the seedy hats, all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the split
walking-sticks that have retired from business, “weary with the march of
life.” The pots, the pans, the trunks, the bottles--who may hope to
make an inventory of the numberless odds and ends collected in this
bewildering lumber-room? But what a place it is to sit of an afternoon
with the rain pattering on the roof! What a place in which to read
Gulliver's Travels, or the famous adventures of Rinaldo Rinaldini!
My grandfather's house stood a little back from the main street, in
the shadow of two handsome elms, whose overgrown boughs would dash
themselves against the gables whenever the wind blew hard. In the rear
was a pleasant garden, covering perhaps a quarter of an acre, full of
plum-trees and gooseberry bushes. These trees were old settlers, and are
all dead now, excepting one, which bears a purple plum as big as an egg.
This tree, as I remark, is still standing, and a more beautiful tree
to tumble out of never grew anywhere. In the northwestern corner of the
garden were the stables and carriage-house opening upon a narrow lane.
You may imagine that I made an early visit to that locality to inspect
Gypsy. Indeed, I paid her a visit every half-hour during the first day
of my arrival. At the twenty-fourth visit she trod on my foot rather
heavily, as a reminder, probably, that I was wearing out my welcome. She
was a knowing little pony, that Gypsy, and I shall have much to say of
her in the course of these pages.
Gypsy's quarters were all that could be wished, but nothing among my new
surroundings gave me more satisfaction than the cosey sleeping apartment
that had been prepared for myself. It was the hall room over the front
door.
I had never had a chamber all to myself before, and this one, about
twice the size of our state-room on board the Typhoon, was a marvel of
neatness and comfort. Pretty chintz curtains hung at the window, and a
patch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph's coat covered the little
truckle-bed. The pattern of the wall-paper left nothing to be desired in
that line. On a gray background were small bunches of leaves, unlike
any that ever grew in this world; and on every other bunch perched a
yellow-bird, pitted with crimson spots, as if it had just recovered from
a severe attack of the small-pox. That no such bird ever existed did
not detract from my admiration of each one. There were two hundred and
sixty-eight of these birds in all, not counting those split in two where
the paper was badly joined. I counted them once when I was laid up with
a fine black eye, and falling asleep immediately dreamed that the whole
flock suddenly took wing and flew out of the window. From that time I
was never able to regard them as merely inanimate objects.
A wash-stand in the corner, a chest of carved mahogany drawers, a
looking-glass in a filigreed frame, and a high-backed chair studded with
brass nails like a coffin, constituted the furniture. Over the head of
the bed were two oak shelves, holding perhaps a dozen books--among which
were Theodore, or The Peruvians; Robinson Crusoe; an odd volume of
Tristram Shandy; Baxter's Saints' Rest, and a fine English edition of
the Arabian Nights, with six hundred wood-cuts by Harvey.
Shall I ever forget the hour when I first overhauled these books? I do
not allude especially to Baxter's Saints' Rest, which is far from being
a lively work for the young, but to the Arabian Nights, and particularly
Robinson Crusoe. The thrill that ran into my fingers' ends then has not
run out yet. Many a time did I steal up to this nest of a room,
and, taking the dog's-eared volume from its shelf, glide off into an
enchanted realm, where there were no lessons to get and no boys to
smash my kite. In a lidless trunk in the garret I subsequently unearthed
another motley collection of novels and romances, embracing the
adventures of Baron Trenck, Jack Sheppard, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and
Charlotte Temple--all of which I fed upon like a bookworm.
I never come across a copy of any of those works without feeling a
certain tenderness for the yellow-haired little rascal who used to lean
above the magic pages hour after hour, religiously believing every word
he read, and no more doubting the reality of Sindbad the Sailor, or the
Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, than he did the existence of his
own grandfather.
Against the wall at the foot of the bed hung a single-barrel
shot-gun--placed there by Grandfather Nutter, who knew what a boy
loved, if ever a grandfather did. As the trigger of the gun had been
accidentally twisted off, it was not, perhaps, the most dangerous weapon
that could be placed in the hands of youth. In this maimed condition
its “bump of destructiveness” was much less than that of my small brass
pocket-pistol, which I at once proceeded to suspend from one of the
nails supporting the fowling-piece, for my vagaries concerning the red
man had been entirely dispelled.
Having introduced the reader to the Nutter House, a presentation to the
Nutter family naturally follows. The family consisted of my
grandfather; his sister, Miss Abigail Nutter; and Kitty Collins, the
maid-of-all-work.
Grandfather Nutter was a hale, cheery old gentleman, as straight and as
bald as an arrow. He had been a sailor in early life; that is to say, at
the age of ten years he fled from the multiplication-table, and ran away
to sea. A single voyage satisfied him. There never was but one of our
family who didn't run away to sea, and this one died at his birth. My
grandfather had also been a soldier--a captain of militia in 1812. If I
owe the British nation anything, I owe thanks to that particular British
soldier who put a musket-ball into the fleshy part of Captain Nutter's
leg, causing that noble warrior a slight permanent limp, but offsetting
the injury by furnishing him with the material for a story which the old
gentleman was never weary of telling and I never weary of listening to.
The story, in brief, was as follows.
At the breaking out of the war, an English frigate lay for several days
off the coast near Rivermouth. A strong fort defended the harbor, and a
regiment of minute-men, scattered at various points along-shore, stood
ready to repel the boats, should the enemy try to effect a landing.
Captain Nutter had charge of a slight earthwork just outside the mouth
of the river. Late one thick night the sound of oars was heard; the
sentinel tried to fire off his gun at half-cock, and couldn't, when
Captain Nutter sprung upon the parapet in the pitch darkness, and
shouted, “Boat ahoyl” A musket-shot immediately embedded itself in the
calf of his leg. The Captain tumbled into the fort and the boat, which
had probably come in search of water, pulled back to the frigate.
This was my grandfather's only exploit during the war. That his prompt
and bold conduct was instrumental in teaching the enemy the hopelessness
of attempting to conquer such a people was among the firm beliefs of my
boyhood.
At the time I came to Rivermouth my grandfather had retired from active
pursuits, and was living at ease on his money, invested principally
in shipping. He had been a widower many years; a maiden sister, the
aforesaid Miss Abigail, managing his household. Miss Abigail also
managed her brother, and her brother's servant, and the visitor at her
brother's gate--not in a tyrannical spirit, but from a philanthropic
desire to be useful to everybody. In person she was tall and angular;
she had a gray complexion, gray eyes, gray eyebrows, and generally wore
a gray dress. Her strongest weak point was a belief in the efficacy of
“hot-drops” as a cure for all known diseases.
If there were ever two people who seemed to dislike each other, Miss
Abigail and Kitty Collins were those people. If ever two people really
loved each other, Miss Abigail and Kitty Collins were those people also.
They were always either skirmishing or having a cup of tea lovingly
together.
Miss Abigail was very fond of me, and so was Kitty; and in the course of
their disagreements each let me into the private history of the other.
According to Kitty, it was not originally my grandfather's intention
to have Miss Abigail at the head of his domestic establishment. She had
swooped down on him (Kitty's own words), with a band-box in one hand and
a faded blue cotton umbrella, still in existence, in the other. Clad
in this singular garb--I do not remember that Kitty alluded to--any
additional peculiarity of dress--Miss Abigail had made her appearance at
the door of the Nutter House on the morning of my grandmother's funeral.
The small amount of baggage which the lady brought with her would have
led the superficial observer to infer that Miss Abigail's visit was
limited to a few days. I run ahead of my story in saying she remained
seventeen years! How much longer she would have remained can never be
definitely known now, as she died at the expiration of that period.
Whether or not my grandfather was quite pleased by this unlooked-for
addition to his family is a problem. He was very kind always to Miss
Abigail, and seldom opposed her; though I think she must have tried his
patience sometimes, especially when she interfered with Kitty.
Kitty Collins, or Mrs. Catherine, as she preferred to be called,
was descended in a direct line from an extensive family of kings who
formerly ruled over Ireland. In consequence of various calamities,
among which the failure of the potato-crop may be mentioned, Miss
Kitty Collins, in company with several hundred of her countrymen and
countrywomen--also descended from kings--came over to America in an
emigrant ship, in the year eighteen hundred and something.
I don't know what freak of fortune caused the royal exile to turn up
at Rivermouth; but turn up she did, a few months after arriving in this
country, and was hired by my grandmother to do “general housework” for
the sum of four shillings and six-pence a week.
Kitty had been living about seven years in my grandfather's family when
she unburdened her heart of a secret which had been weighing upon it all
that time. It may be said of people, as it is said of nations, “Happy
are they that have no history.” Kitty had a history, and a pathetic one,
I think.
On board the emigrant ship that brought her to America, she became
acquainted with a sailor, who, being touched by Kitty's forlorn
condition, was very good to her. Long before the end of the voyage,
which had been tedious and perilous, she was heartbroken at the thought
of separating from her kindly protector; but they were not to part just
yet, for the sailor returned Kitty's affection, and the two were married
on their arrival at port. Kitty's husband--she would never mention his
name, but kept it locked in her bosom like some precious relic--had a
considerable sum of money when the crew were paid off; and the young
couple--for Kitty was young then--lived very happily in a lodging-house on
South Street, near the docks. This was in New York.
The days flew by like hours, and the stocking in which the little bride
kept the funds shrunk and shrunk, until at last there were only three
or four dollars left in the toe of it. Then Kitty was troubled; for
she knew her sailor would have to go to sea again unless he could
get employment on shore. This he endeavored to do, but not with much
success. One morning as usual he kissed her good day, and set out in
search of work.
“Kissed me goodby, and called me his little Irish lass,” sobbed Kitty,
telling the story, “kissed me goodby, and, Heaven help me, I niver set
oi on him nor on the likes of him again!”
He never came back. Day after day dragged on, night after night, and
then the weary weeks. What had become of him? Had he been murdered? Had
he fallen into the docks? Had he--deserted her? No! She could not believe
that; he was too brave and tender and true. She couldn't believe that.
He was dead, dead, or he'd come back to her.
Meanwhile the landlord of the lodging-house turned Kitty into the
streets, now that “her man” was gone, and the payment of the rent
doubtful. She got a place as a servant. The family she lived with
shortly moved to Boston, and she accompanied them; then they went
abroad, but Kitty would not leave America. Somehow she drifted to
Rivermouth, and for seven long years never gave speech to her sorrow,
until the kindness of strangers, who had become friends to her, unsealed
the heroic lips.
Kitty's story, you may be sure, made my grandparents treat her more
kindly than ever. In time she grew to be regarded less as a servant than
as a friend in the home circle, sharing its joys and sorrows--a faithful
nurse, a willing slave, a happy spirit in spite of all. I fancy I hear
her singing over her work in the kitchen, pausing from time to time to
make some witty reply to Miss Abigail--for Kitty, like all her race, had
a vein of unconscious humor. Her bright honest face comes to me out from
the past, the light and life of the Nutter House when I was a boy at
Rivermouth.