Chapter Four--Rivermouth
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 awayjust then on a war-path, I couldn't determine; but they did not appearin any great force--in fact, did not appear at all.
In the remarkable geography which I never hurt myself with studyingat New Orleans, was a picture representing the landing of the PilgrimFathers at Plymouth. The Pilgrim Fathers, in rather odd hats and coats,are seen approaching the savages; the savages, in no coats or hatsto speak of, are evidently undecided whether to shake hands with thePilgrim 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 ofall my father had said, I was prepared for some such greeting fromthe aborigines. Nevertheless, I was not sorry to have my expectationsunfulfilled. By the way, speaking of the Pilgrim Fathers, I often usedto wonder why there was no mention made of the Pilgrim Mothers.
While our trunks were being hoisted from the hold of the ship, I mountedon the roof of the cabin, and took a critical view of Boston. As we cameup the harbor, I had noticed that the houses were huddled together on animmense bill, at the top of which was a large building, the State House,towering proudly above the rest, like an amiable mother-hen surroundedby her brood of many-colored chickens. A closer inspection did notimpress me very favorably. The city was not nearly so imposing as NewOrleans, which stretches out for miles and miles, in the shape of acrescent, along the banks of the majestic river.
I soon grew tired of looking at the masses of houses, rising above oneanother in irregular tiers, and was glad my father did not proposeto remain long in Boston. As I leaned over the rail in this mood, ameasly-looking little boy with no shoes said that if I would come downon the wharf he'd lick me for two cents--not an exorbitant price. But Ididn't go down. I climbed into the rigging, and stared at him. This, asI was rejoiced to observe, so exasperated him that he stood on his headon a pile of boards, in order to pacify himself.
The first train for Rivermouth left at noon. After a late breakfaston board the Typhoon, our trunks were piled upon a baggage-wagon, andourselves stowed away in a coach, which must have turned at least onehundred corners before it set us down at the railway station.
In less time than it takes to tell it, we were shooting across thecountry at a fearful rate--now clattering over a bridge, now screamingthrough a tunnel; here we cut a flourishing village in two, like aknife, and here we dived into the shadow of a pine forest. Sometimeswe glided along the edge of the ocean, and could see the sails of shipstwinkling like bits of silver against the horizon; sometimes we dashedacross rocky pasture-lands where stupid-eyed cattle were loafing. It wasfun to scare lazy-looking cows that lay round in groups under the newlybudded trees near the railroad track.
We did not pause at any of the little brown stations on the route (theylooked just like overgrown black-walnut clocks), though at every one ofthem a man popped out as if he were worked by machinery, and waved a redflag, and appeared as though he would like to have us stop. But we werean express train, and made no stoppages, excepting once or twice to givethe 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 wepassed slowly through the village of Hampton, we saw two boys fightingbehind a red barn. There was also a shaggy yellow dog, who looked asif he had commenced to unravel, barking himself all up into a knot withexcitement. We had only a hurried glimpse of the battle--long enough,however, to see that the combatants were equally matched and very muchin earnest. I am ashamed to say how many times since I have speculatedas 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 aremarried, and have pugnacious urchins of their own; yet to this day Isometimes find myself wondering how that fight turned out.
We had been riding perhaps two hours and a half, when we shot by a tallfactory with a chimney resembling a church steeple; then the locomotivegave a scream, the engineer rang his bell, and we plunged into thetwilight 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 fathershook hands with a straight, brisk old gentleman whose face was veryserene and rosy. He had on a white hat and a long swallow-tailed coat,the collar of which came clear up above his cars. He didn't look unlikea Pilgrim Father. This, of course, was Grandfather Nutter, at whosehouse I was born. My mother kissed him a great many times; and I wasglad to see him myself, though I naturally did not feel very intimatewith a person whom I had not seen since I was eighteen months old.
While we were getting into the double-seated wagon which GrandfatherNutter had provided, I took the opportunity of asking after the healthof the pony. The pony had arrived all right ten days before, and was inthe stable at home, quite anxious to see me.
As we drove through the quiet old town, I thought Rivermouth theprettiest place in the world; and I think so still. The streets are longand wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, whose drooping branches,interlacing here and there, span the avenues with arches gracefulenough to be the handiwork of fairies. Many of the houses have smallflower-gardens in front, gay in the season with china-asters, and aresubstantially built, with massive chimney-stacks and protruding eaves.A beautiful river goes rippling by the town, and, after turning andtwisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties itself into the sea.
The harbor is so fine that the largest ships can sail directly up tothe wharves and drop anchor. Only they don't. Years ago it was a famousseaport. Princely fortunes were made in the West India trade; and in1812, when we were at war with Great Britain, any number of privateerswere fitted out at Rivermouth to prey upon the merchant vessels of theenemy. Certain people grew suddenly and mysteriously rich. A great manyof "the first families" of today do not care to trace their pedigreeback 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. Thephantom fleet sailed off one day, and never came back again. The crazyold warehouses are empty; and barnacles and eel-grass cling to the pilesof the crumbling wharves, where the sunshine lies lovingly, bringingout the faint spicy odor that haunts the place--the ghost of the old deadWest India trade! During our ride from the station, I was struck, ofcourse, only by the general neatness of the houses and the beauty ofthe elm-trees lining the streets. I describe Rivermouth now as I came toknow it afterwards.
Rivermouth is a very ancient town. In my day there existed a traditionamong the boys that it was here Christopher Columbus made his firstlanding on this continent. I remember having the exact spot pointed outto me by Pepper Whitcomb! One thing is certain, Captain John Smith, whoafterwards, according to the legend, married Pocahontas--whereby he gotPowhatan for a father-in-law-explored the river in 1614, and was muchcharmed by the beauty of Rivermouth, which at that time was covered withwild strawberry-vines.
Rivermouth figures prominently in all the colonial histories. Everyother house in the place has its tradition more or less grim andentertaining. If ghosts could flourish anywhere, there are certainstreets in Rivermouth that would be full of them. I don't know of a townwith so many old houses. Let us linger, for a moment, in front of theone which the Oldest Inhabitant is always sure to point out to thecurious stranger.
It is a square wooden edifice, with gambrel roof and deep-setwindow-frames. Over the windows and doors there used to be heavycarvings--oak-leaves and acorns, and angels' heads with wings spreadingfrom the ears, oddly jumbled together; but these ornaments and otheroutward signs of grandeur have long since disappeared. A peculiarinterest attaches itself to this house, not because of its age, forit has not been standing quite a century; nor on account of itsarchitecture, which is not striking--but be
cause of the illustrious menwho at various periods have occupied its spacious chambers.
In 1770 it was an aristocratic hotel. At the left side of the entrancestood a high post, from which swung the sign of the Earl of Halifax. Thelandlord was a stanch loyalist--that is to say, he believed in the king,and when the overtaxed colonies determined to throw off the Britishyoke, the adherents to the Crown held private meetings in one of theback rooms of the tavern. This irritated the rebels, as they werecalled; and one night they made an attack on the Earl of Halifax, toredown the signboard, broke in the window-sashes, and gave the landlordhardly time to make himself invisible over a fence in the rear.
For several months the shattered tavern remained deserted. At last theexiled innkeeper, on promising to do better, was allowed to return; anew sign, bearing the name of William Pitt, the friend of America, swungproudly from the door-post, and the patriots were appeased. Here it wasthat the mail-coach from Boston twice a week, for many a year, setdown its load of travelers and gossip. For some of the details in thissketch, I am indebted to a recently published chronicle of those times.
It is 1782. The French fleet is lying in the harbor of Rivermouth, andeight of the principal officers, in white uniforms trimmed with goldlace, have taken up their quarters at the sign of the William Pitt. Whois 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 allthe way from Providence to visit the French gentlemen boarding there.What a gallant-looking cavalier he is, with his quick eyes and coalblack hair! Forty years later he visited the spot again; his locks weregray and his step was feeble, but his heart held its young love forLiberty.
Who is this finely dressed traveler alighting from his coach-and-four,attended by servants in livery? Do you know that sounding name, writtenin big valorous letters on the Declaration of Independence--written asif by the hand of a giant? Can you not see it now? JOHN HANCOCK. This ishe.
Three young men, with their valet, are standing on the doorstep of theWilliam Pitt, bowing politely, and inquiring in the most courteous termsin the world if they can be accommodated. It is the time of the FrenchRevolution, and these are three sons of the Duke of Orleans--LouisPhilippe and his two brothers. Louis Philippe never forgot his visitto Rivermouth. Years afterwards, when he was seated on the throne ofFrance, he asked an American lady, who chanced to be at his court, ifthe pleasant old mansion were still standing.
But a greater and a better man than the king of the French has honoredthis roof. Here, in 1789, came George Washington, the President ofthe United States, to pay his final complimentary visit to the Statedignitaries. The wainscoted chamber where he slept, and the dining-hallwhere he entertained his guests, have a certain dignity and sanctitywhich even the present Irish tenants cannot wholly destroy.
During the period of my reign at Rivermouth, an ancient lady, DameJocelyn by name, lived in one of the upper rooms of this notablebuilding. She was a dashing young belle at the time of Washington'sfirst visit to the town, and must have been exceedingly coquettish andpretty, judging from a certain portrait on ivory still in the possessionof the family. According to Dame Jocelyn, George Washington flirted withher just a little bit--in what a stately and highly finished manner canbe imagined.
There was a mirror with a deep filigreed frame hanging over themantel-piece in this room. The glass was cracked and the quicksilverrubbed off or discolored in many places. When it reflected your faceyou had the singular pleasure of not recognizing yourself. It gave yourfeatures the appearance of having been run through a mince-meat machine.But what rendered the looking-glass a thing of enchantment to me was afaded green feather, tipped with scarlet, which drooped from the topof the tarnished gilt mouldings. This feather Washington took from theplume of his three-cornered hat, and presented with his own hand to theworshipful Mistress Jocelyn the day he left Rivermouth forever. I wishI could describe the mincing genteel air, and the ill-concealedself-complacency, with which the dear old lady related the incident.
Many a Saturday afternoon have I climbed up the rickety staircase tothat dingy room, which always had a flavor of snuff about it, to siton a stiff-backed chair and listen for hours together to Dame Jocelyn'sstories of the olden time. How she would prattle! She was bedridden--poorcreature!--and had not been out of the chamber for fourteen years.Meanwhile the world had shot ahead of Dame Jocelyn. The changes that hadtaken place under her very nose were unknown to this faded, crooning oldgentlewoman, whom the eighteenth century had neglected to take away withthe 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 neverseen a steam engine, though she had heard "the dratted thing" screech inthe distance. In her day, when gentlefolk traveled, they went intheir own coaches. She didn't see how respectable people could bringthemselves down to "riding in a car with rag-tag and bobtail andLord-knows-who." Poor old aristocrat The landlord charged her no rentfor 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 veryfretful and capricious about her food. If she didn't chance to fancywhat was sent her, she had no hesitation in sending it back to the giverwith "Miss Jocelyn's respectful compliments."
But I have been gossiping too long--and yet not too long if I haveimpressed upon the reader an idea of what a rusty, delightful old townit was to which I had come to spend the next three or four years of myboyhood.
A drive of twenty minutes from the station brought us to the door-stepof Grandfather Nutter's house. What kind of house it was, and what sortof people lived in it, shall be told in another chapter.