WHEN Clinton awoke the next morning, and looked around upon the large, high chamber, and the strange furniture, and caught a glimpse through the windows of a long row of brick buildings, he could, at first, hardly tell where he was. Consciousness quickly returned, however, as he called to mind the long journey of the day before, and the warm greetings which he and Whistler received at the end of it. His cousin, whose bed he shared, was still soundly sleeping, although the sun’s bright rays had found their way into the room. People are apt to be more wasteful of their morning hours in the city than in the country. Clinton’s curiosity to see how the neighborhood looked by daylight would not allow him to remain long in bed. He got up quickly, dressed himself, and was peering inquisitively from the windows, when a loud scratching at the door led him to open it, and in sprang Bouncer, Whistler’s handsome and intelligent dog. With one leap he was on the bed, and in a moment the sleeper was awakened, and engaged in a lively frolic with his four-footed friend.
“O, you black rogue!” said Whistler, seizing him by the fore paws; “you’re glad I’ve got home, are you? Then kiss me, that’s a good fellow. There! that will do! Yes, he’s glad his master’s got home, so he is; and he almost flew off the handle last night, didn’t he? and he couldn’t wait for him to get up this morning, could he? Well, his master’s glad to see him, too, so he is. There, sir, you’ve kissed me enough; now jump down, and let me get up. Go and kiss him,” pointing to Clinton. “That’s cousin Clinton. Don’t you know him?”
“You ought to know me, Bouncer, for you sent me a wag of your tail in a letter last spring,” said Clinton, alluding to a rough pen and ink sketch of Bouncer’s tail which Whistler’s father had enclosed in a letter to Clinton, among sundry little love messages from the family.
“O, yes, I remember that!” said Whistler, with a laugh, as he jumped out of bed. “What did you think when you saw it? Didn’t you laugh?”
“I rather think we all laughed a little over it,” replied Clinton. “I had some idea of sending you back one of our cat’s purs in my letter, but I didn’t know exactly how to do it.”
“But what did you get up for, and leave me here asleep? Is that the way to serve a fellow?” inquired Whistler.
“O, I thought I wouldn’t disturb you,” replied Clinton. “I wanted to see that splendid view you told me of when we were on Bald Peak. Do you remember?”
“Yes; ninety-five millions of miles. But, you see, it’s all sky-scape; there isn’t much landscape to boast of,” said Whistler.
“No, I see there isn’t,” replied Clinton, as he glanced at the interminable brick block, with its row of low wooden sheds in the rear, all of uniform size and pattern, and its little bits of open spaces between the sheds, which served as back yards.
The row of houses, the backs of which bounded the prospect from Whistler’s window, was situated on a street parallel with that on which Mr. Preston lived. Dwellings and stores are usually built in blocks, or joined together, in cities and towns, because the land is too valuable to admit of an open space around each separate building. Mr. Davenport’s house was a fair specimen of this style of building. It was not far from the centre of a block of about twenty houses, which were very nearly uniform in their external appearance. It was of brick, and three stories high, besides the basement and attic. There were two entrances to each house,—the front door, reached by four stone steps, and a door opening into a narrow archway, which led to the back yard. An iron balustrade extended the entire length of the block, in front of the second story. Add to this a brick sidewalk, with a line of young trees near the edge, and a clean and well-paved street, and you have a tolerably distinct picture of the outside of Whistler’s home.
Whistler’s chamber was in the third story, on the side of the house farthest from the street. It was quite neatly furnished. The floor was carpeted, and the windows curtained. It contained a bureau, with a mirror attached to it, a small dressing-table, and several chairs, all of which, together with the bedstead, were painted a light chocolate color, ornamented with dark stripes. In one corner was a marble wash-basin, supplied with Cochituate water by means of a pipe, and furnished with an outlet at the bottom, connecting with another pipe, to let off the dirty water. There was a grate in the room, and a marble mantel-piece, over which hung a large engraved likeness of Washington, in a rosewood frame. On the side of the room opposite the bed there was a small book-rack, which was filled with volumes and pamphlets, many of which belonged to Whistler. There was a closet in the room, in which he kept his clothing, and many of his playthings. The general appearance of the chamber bore witness to the neat and orderly habits of its occupant.
The boys had now dressed and washed themselves, and brushed their hair, and went down stairs, followed by Bouncer. In the sitting-room they found Mr. Davenport, in his dressing-gown, so absorbed in his morning paper that he apparently did not notice their entrance. Not wishing to disturb him, they soon left the room, but had not gone far when he called to them in a loud and rather authoritative tone:
“Boys! boys! come back!”
They returned, wondering what the matter was, and Clinton, at least, feeling a little alarmed at such a stern call. They stood, just inside the door, about a minute, before Mr. Davenport spoke; and then, lifting his eyes from the paper, in a very sedate manner, he said:
“Good morning, boys.”
“Good morning, sir,” replied the boys, in a somewhat reserved and confused manner.
Another awkward pause followed, during which Mr. Davenport was engrossed with his paper. Whistler at length inquired:
“Is that all, father?”
“That is all,—what more would you have?” replied his father, a twinkle of fun now appearing in his eyes, and about the corners of his mouth.
They left him to the quiet enjoyment of his joke and his paper, and went into the dining-room, as the apartment was called where the meals of the family were spread. There they found Mrs. Davenport, assisting in putting the breakfast upon the table, while Ettie, Whistler’s little sister, was arranging the chairs. These, with Margaret, the domestic, constituted the whole of Mr. Davenport’s family at this time.
The breakfast-bell was rung, and the family gathered around the table, and soon commenced a lively conversation, much of which was addressed to Clinton.
“I believe this is your first appearance in Boston, Clinton,” observed Mr. Davenport.
“Yes, sir, it is,” replied Clinton.
“Well, you will see a great many strange sights, as you go about the city,” continued his uncle. “Boston isn’t a London, nor a New York; but it beats Brookdale, by considerable, in business, wealth and population. When I first visited Boston, thirty years ago, I thought it was about the biggest city in the world, and I can assure you it has grown a trifle since then. But I’ve got a word of advice to give you, and that reminds me of it. You don’t want to appear green, verdant, raw, countryfied, as we city folks say?”
“No, sir,” replied Clinton, in some trepidation at this startling array of epithets.
“Well, then,” continued his uncle, “you must follow these three rules. First, don’t stare at anything; that means, don’t look at anything as though it were new or strange. The second rule is, don’t be astonished at anything. And the third is like unto it,—don’t admire anything.”
Clinton looked perplexed. Sight-seeing was one of the principal objects of his visit to the city; and a pretty kind of sight-seeing that would be, he thought, if he could not look at anything, nor evince any surprise or pleasure, for fear of violating the cold proprieties of city manners. Whistler also shared in his perplexity; but, believing there was a “catch” somewhere in his father’s advice, he said:
“Father isn’t in earnest; he doesn’t mean what he says, I know.”
“Yes, I am in earnest,” replied his father.
“But, how can he see the city, if he mustn’t look at anything?” inquired Whistler.
“That’s another affair, altogether,” said Mr. Davenport. “I was telling him how to avoid appearing green, not how to see the sights. When I first came to the city myself, I suppose I was grass-green,—fast color, warranted to wash,—although I didn’t know it then. I used to go staring about at every thing and every body, looking into all the shop windows, reading all the signs, and seeing more wonders than there were chimneys in town. This used to provoke my brother, who had lived in the city a whole year, and had grown wonderfully genteel in his notions. He carried himself as stiff as a poker, and every time I turned my head he would say, ‘Don’t stare about so! you act like a regular greenhorn!’ At last I got quite angry with him, and I told him, right up and down, that I didn’t care if I was green,—it was my favorite color; I liked it; I gloried in it; I should be just as green as I pleased, and he needn’t throw it in my face any more. Now, if you want to see the sights, Clinton, I don’t know as you can do any better than I did; but, if you do not want people to suppose that you are not accustomed to the city, then you can follow the rules I have given.”
“I want to see things; I don’t care whether people think I’m from the country, or not,” replied Clinton.
“Very sensibly said, and I am happy to see that you take after your uncle,” said Mr. Davenport. “But we city folks are queer people. We get up all manner of wonderful clap-traps and contrivances, to astonish our country cousins, and then, if they look at them, we laugh, and tell them they’re green. But all the greenies don’t come from the country, by a good deal. I’ll warrant you see a specimen from the city, now and then, down in Brookdale. How was it?—did the cows chase you, Whistler, or didn’t they appreciate your verdancy?”
“No, sir, they didn’t chase me; but I suppose it was because feed was uncommonly good,” replied Whistler.
“Pretty fair,” said his father, who always relished a joke.
“Do cows ever eat boys, father?” inquired Ettie, who had soberly listened to the conversation, but apparently without fully comprehending the drift of it.
This question, asked with all gravity, and affording such a fine specimen of the very thing they were talking about,—city verdancy,—was received with a general laugh, which sent the tears brimming to Ettie’s eyes, when her father kindly replied:
“No, darling, the cows don’t eat boys; but they sometimes chase them, and toss them in the air with their horns, when they feel cross.”
“When we went to ride, the other day,” continued Ettie, “we saw a cow shaking her head at a dog, and running at him; and the dog kept jumping before her, and barking right in her face. She wanted to hook him, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” said her father; “and if the dog hadn’t been a little too spry for her, she would have sent him spinning into the air, just as you would toss up your doll.”
The conversation now changed to other topics, which we need not follow. It was not without an object that Mr. Davenport introduced the subject that has just been alluded to. This object was twofold. First, he wished to put Whistler on his guard against manifesting any impatience or unkindness if his cousin, in their walks about town, should happen to look at things pretty hard. And then, again, he thought it would be well enough to hint to Clinton, in a delicate way, that prolonged and excessive staring at novelties in the public streets, is regarded as a mark of rusticity by well-bred people. He knew that Clinton would not attempt to follow the rules he gave; neither did he suppose he would imitate his own example—somewhat exaggerated, no doubt—and make himself “as green as he pleased.” Curiosity would forbid the first, and that regard for the opinions of others which we all feel, deny it though we may, would prevent the other. He left it for his nephew’s good sense to find “the golden mean” between these two extremes.