CHAPTER XII.
ROMANCE AND REALITY.
CLINTON’S first day in the city was diligently devoted to sight-seeing, under the direction of Whistler. As it was Saturday, and the last day of Whistler’s vacation, they were both naturally anxious to make the best use of the time. It would be no easy matter to track them through the crowded and intricate streets, and mark the weary miles of brick sidewalk they travelled over, now pausing to look into a gay shop window, or to gaze at an imposing building; now sauntering along the water’s edge, amid a forest of shipping and long ranges of granite warehouses; now making a pleasant detour to the Common, and resting themselves under the shadow of its lofty trees; and now picking their way through the narrow streets of the poor, with their tipsy rows of weak-jointed buildings, their plenitude of foreign faces and strange brogues, and their astonishing overflow of infantile humanity, scattered all along the sidewalks, in undress, half-dress, and almost no dress at all. Nor were these the only novelties that attracted the notice of Clinton. The constant succession of strange faces of every conceivable type, the curious variety in dress and manners, the novel vehicles and equipages in the streets,—these and many other things arrested his attention at every step, and often suggested remarks that seemed very droll to Whistler.
At length, however, the boys were both forced to confess that they were very tired; and towards the middle of the afternoon Clinton concluded that he had seen enough for one day, and proposed to Whistler to return home. His feet, unused to the brick and stone pavement, were now so sore that he walked with difficulty; and he declared that he felt more fatigued than he should if he had hoed corn all day. They accordingly took the shortest route home. Just before they reached the house, the bell in a church steeple which they were passing began to toll.
“What is that for—a funeral?” inquired Clinton.
“No, it’s for a fire, I suppose; they don’t toll the bells for funerals in Boston,” replied Whistler.
“Is it a fire?—let’s go to it!” exclaimed Clinton, forgetting, in his excitement, his weary limbs and tender feet.
“No, I wouldn’t; we’re too tired to run to a fire now,” said Whistler. “Besides, it’s a great way off; I believe it’s over to South Boston. Let me count again.”
The tolling, which had ceased for a minute, was now resumed, and six loud strokes were given, followed by another pause.
“Yes, the fire’s in District No. 6; that’s South Boston,” continued Whistler.
“How far is it from here?” inquired Clinton, who still felt inclined to go to the fire.
“It can’t be less than a mile, and it may be two, if it’s in the further end of South Boston,” replied Whistler.
“Nobody seems to be going to it. Why, I should think every body would run when the bells ring for fire,” said Clinton, who was surprised to see how little notice was taken of the alarm.
“The firemen run, but other people don’t mind the alarm, unless they see the light or the smoke,” replied Whistler.
An engine now came along, making a great noise as it rattled over the pavements, although there were no bells upon it, and but little shouting among the men who had charge of it. It was very gayly painted, and decorated with highly-polished brass mountings. There were only about a dozen men at the rope when the engine first came in sight; but their ranks soon filled up by the arrival of other members of the company, and the engine went spinning through the street at a rapid rate, followed by a swarm of ragged boys. Clinton was more than half disposed to fall in with the crowd of urchins; but, perceiving that Willie had no idea of joining in the race, he prudently concluded to forego the pleasure.
The boys had now reached the house, and, on throwing themselves into comfortable seats, began to realize how tired they were. They found Ettie at full length upon the floor, engaged in putting together the dissected map which the boys had made for her. Her knowledge of geography was so slight, that the puzzle was anything but a simple one to her.
“What’s the matter, Sissy?—can’t you put it together right?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, I can, almost,” replied Ettie; “but two or three of these pieces are real ugly,—they won’t go in any where.”
“Let me see if I can’t help you,” added Clinton, getting down upon the floor with his little cousin.
“I’d rather find it out myself,” replied Ettie, timidly.
“O, well, then, I won’t meddle with it,” said Clinton. “You’re just like me; I don’t like to have folks show me how to do things, when I can find out myself.”
Clinton could not repress a quiet smile as he glanced at the map, and witnessed the strange positions which some of the states had assumed. Illinois and Mississippi had exchanged places, both apparently quite unconscious that they had “got into the wrong pew.” Tennessee had turned half a somerset, and was standing upon her head. Maine was vainly trying to fill the space that rightfully belonged to New York, while for the last-named state no place had yet been found.
“What a curious thing that fire-alarm is! Do you understand how it works, Willie?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, I’ve heard it all explained,” replied Whistler. “In the first place, the city is divided into seven fire districts. In each of these districts there are a number of little cast-iron boxes, fastened to the sides of buildings, such as I showed you on Faneuil Hall. These are the signal stations. When a fire breaks out near one of these stations, the watchman, or the man who keeps the key, goes to the box and turns the crank in it slowly six times. That sends the alarm along the wires to the central office, in Court Square, and the man there knows just where it came from, and he strikes the number of the district upon the bells. There are about forty of those signal boxes, and each has its wire running to the central office. Then there is another set of wires that lead from the office to the bells.”
“All the bells in the city strike at the same time, don’t they?” inquired Clinton.
“No, there is no need of ringing all the bells,” replied Whistler. “There are only seventeen bells, I believe, connected with the alarm, and these all strike together. The ringing is done by machinery, something like the striking part of a town clock. It has a weight, and an electro-magnet; and the power that sets it in motion comes from the great battery in the central office. If the fire is put out before all the engines get there, an engineer goes to the nearest signal box and telegraphs ‘all out,’ and the man in the central office gives the signal on the bells, and then the firemen go home.”
“It’s a complete arrangement, isn’t it? I should think the firemen would like it. It must save them a good many steps,” said Clinton.
“It does,” added Whistler. “Before we had this telegraph there used to be a great many more false alarms of fire than there are now. Besides, when there is a fire, it saves them a good many steps in finding it.”
Mr. Davenport now came in, and, after a few words with Ettie, who had not yet mastered the secret of the dissected map, he added, turning to the boys:
“Well, young gentlemen, have you seen all the sights, and got home at this time of day?”
“No, sir, we haven’t seen half of them; but we got pretty tired, and thought we’d been about enough for one day,” replied Clinton.
“And you looked at everything just as hard as you pleased, did you?” continued his uncle.
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“But he didn’t act green at all, father,” added Whistler.
“My feet got real sore, though,” said Clinton, whose modesty led him to turn the subject. “I told Willie I’d rather hoe corn all day than walk about the roads here,—I mean the streets.”
“Well, I’m about used up, too,” said his uncle. “I’ve been cudgelling my brains all day over a very intricate insurance case, and I believe I don’t understand it now quite so well as I did when I began. Why, Clinton, hoeing corn is real fun compared with much of the work that we city folks have to do. If you were to live here, and earn your living, you would have to put up with worse things than sore feet. Many country people seem to think that we have nothing to do but to sit in our armchairs, and read the papers, and discuss the news, and take money; but if they could exchange work with us a little while, they would be more contented with their lot forever after. They work hard and get tired, I know; but we not only get tired, but sick, too, and worry and fret ourselves into our graves, while they are in the prime of life. They work out in the pure air, while we are stived up in little hot rooms, breathing everything but the odors of heaven. After all, the country’s the place to enjoy life. Don’t you think so, Whistler?”
“Yes, sir, the country’s the place for me,” replied Whistler. “When I’m a man I mean to have a great farm, and have it stocked with the best horses, and cows, and sheep, and pigs, and poultry. And you’ll come and live with me, too; won’t you, father?”
“Yes, I think I will, if you lump me in with the pigs, and poultry, and other live stock,” said his father, with an assumed air of offended dignity.
“No, father, I didn’t lump you with the stock; I put a period after them, and began a new sentence with you,” replied Whistler.
“I think it must have been a very brief period; however, I’ll take your word for it,” added his father. “But, speaking of the country, I suspect you will find playing and working on a farm two very different things. At any rate, I shall advise you not to invest your funds very deeply in agricultural improvements, until you have worked on a farm a year or two as a hand.”
“But I thought you just said farming was the best employment for a man,” observed Whistler, in some perplexity.
“I did say what was equivalent to that,” resumed his father; “but all men are not fit for farmers. Some are too lazy; some are too genteel; some don’t know enough; some know too much, in their own estimation, and so get their living by their wits; some are too uneasy to stay long enough in one spot to raise a crop of six-weeks beans; some haven’t the bodily strength to work on a farm; and some are too tricky to follow any honest calling. Then there are others who were born to be sailors, or mechanics, or students, or political leaders, or merchants, or doctors, or clergymen, or lawyers. They have special talents for these or other professions, and, of course, they can’t be farmers. You might as well try to drown a man who was born to be hung, as try to make a farmer of a man that was born to ‘plough the sea.’ But the great body of men do not have these particular talents. They are about as well fitted for one common employment as for another, and so they decide on the one that they consider the most easy, profitable, and genteel; and it is just here that they oftentimes make their great mistake. Are you going to sleep over my lecture, Clinton?” he abruptly added, on observing that his nephew had partially closed his eyes.
“No, sir, I understood every word,” quickly replied Clinton, slightly blushing.
“Because, if you were, I thought I should like to keep you company,” continued Mr. Davenport. “It’s a rather dry subject, I know; but it will soon be one of practical importance to you, and Whistler, too. Have you made up your mind what profession you should like to follow, Clinton?”
“No, sir,—not exactly,” replied Clinton. “I like farming very well, but I’ve thought I should rather be a merchant than anything else.”
“Why do you think you should like to be a merchant?” inquired his uncle.
Clinton was somewhat at a loss for an answer; but at length he replied, with some misgivings:
“Why, it must be fine to own ships and warehouses, and do a great business, and make lots of money, and have everything you want, and be looked up to by every body. Besides, the merchant can have his farm, too, if he likes.”
“But you have tried farming, and you say you like that pretty well?” inquired his uncle.
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“Well,” resumed Mr. Davenport, “let me tell you one thing. With you, mercantile life is all romance, just as farming is to your cousin. On the other hand, farming is real to you, while Whistler has had a chance to observe something of the dark side of mercantile and professional life. When you think of being a merchant, you think only of fine ships, and great warehouses, and sumptuous dwellings, and the portly and dignified men who rule on ’change. You don’t think of the early years of drudgery and poverty most of these men went through, or of the temptations they were exposed to, which, perhaps, overcame a score of their companions for every one that escaped; you don’t think how they have risked health, and perhaps lost it; you don’t think what fierce struggles they have encountered, what crushing losses they have met, and what a weight of care rests upon them night and day; you don’t think it is possible that they will yet meet with overwhelming reverses, and die in poverty; and, more than all, you don’t think that these successful merchants are themselves exceptions to the great mass of the profession, who were only moderately successful, if they did not wholly fail. Is it not so?”
“Yes, sir, I never thought much of the dark side,” replied Clinton.
“I do not say this to discourage you from being a merchant,” resumed his uncle. “I would discourage no boy from entering any honest calling, if he chooses it, and appears to be fitted to it. I don’t know but that you have special qualifications for the mercantile profession. If you have, I would advise you to make that your business. Otherwise, you had better remain where you are. At all events, you ought to look at your favorite profession on all sides, dark as well as bright, before you tie yourself down in it for life. To sum up, as we legal gentlemen say—but we ought to have the decision reported; have you got a scrap of paper, Willie?”
“Yes, sir,—here’s a piece.”
“Well, you shall be clerk of the court, and write down the decision. Take your pencil, and write as I dictate, commencing each sentence upon a new line.”
Whistler followed his father’s directions, and the result was the following memoranda:
“All men ought to follow some useful employment.
“Every man ought to choose that employment in which he can be most useful and successful.
“Agriculture is the primitive and natural employment of man.
“It is an employment which combines the greatest number of advantages with the fewest evils and temptations, and is therefore best fitted to secure the happiness and good of mankind.
“It is an employment which must ever demand the hands of the great bulk of the race.
“But the state of human society, and the interests of the race, render many other professions necessary.
“God gives certain persons special talents for these special callings, so that they enter them as if by instinct.
“Many others are providentially thrown into them, having no particular choice or inclination in the matter.
“Others still enter them from choice.
“Those who enter any profession from choice, should do so deliberately and understandingly, and not suffer themselves to be misled by a thin veil of romance.
“All employments are honorable, so far as they are useful in themselves, and are pursued in an honorable manner.”
Mr. Davenport read the above after Whistler had taken it down, and then handed it back to him, saying:
“There, Willie, you have a legal opinion, without fee. You may keep it among your valuables, and give Clinton a copy, too, if he wants one. You may not fully understand these principles now, but you will by-and-by, and they will be of great value to you, if you follow them.”