chest. He said the colors were pricked into the skin with needles, and that
the operation was somewhat painful. I assured him, in an off-hand manner,
that I didn't mind pain, and begged him to set to work at once.
The simple-hearted fellow, who was probably not a little vain of his skill,
took me into the forecastle, and was on the point of complying with my
request, when my father happened to own the gangway-a circumstance that
rather interfered with the decorative art.
I didn't have another opportunity of conferring alone with Sailor Ben, for
the next morning, bright and early, we came in sight of the cupola of the
Boston State House.
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 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 bill, 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 pasture4ands
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 cars. 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. 20
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. 20
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, be 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