It was a beautiful May morning when the Typhoon hauled up at Long Wharf1. 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 remarkable2 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 savages3; 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 hoisted4 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 huddled5 together on an immense bill, at the top of which was a large building, the State House, towering proudly above the rest, like an amiable6 mother-hen surrounded by her brood of many-colored chickens. A closer inspection7 did not impress me very favorably. The city was not nearly so imposing8 as New Orleans, which stretches out for miles and miles, in the shape of a crescent, along the banks of the majestic9 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 exorbitant10 price. But I didn't go down. I climbed into the rigging, and stared at him. This, as I was rejoiced to observe, so exasperated11 him that he stood on his head on a pile of boards, in order to pacify12 himself.
The first train for Rivermouth left at noon. After a late breakfast on board the Typhoon, our trunks were piled upon a baggage-wagon13, 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 clattering14 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 glided15 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 pasture-lands 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 machinery16, 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 unravel17, 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 rascals18 are dead now (not in consequence of the set-to, let us hope), or maybe they are married, and have pugnacious19 urchins20 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 plunged21 into the twilight22 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 serene23 and rosy24. 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 Nutter25, 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 pony26. The pony had arrived all right ten days before, and was in the stable at home, quite anxious to see me.
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 drooping27 branches, interlacing here and there, span the avenues with arches graceful28 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 protruding29 eaves. A beautiful river goes rippling30 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 wharves31 and drop anchor. Only they don't. Years ago it was a famous seaport32. 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 prey33 upon the merchant vessels34 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 phantom35 fleet sailed off one day, and never came back again. The crazy old warehouses36 are empty; and barnacles and eel-grass cling to the piles of the crumbling37 wharves, where the sunshine lies lovingly, bringing out the faint spicy38 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 lining39 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 pointed40 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 edifice41, with gambrel roof and deep-set window-frames. Over the windows and doors there used to be heavy carvings42 -- oak-leaves and acorns43, and angels' heads with wings spreading from the ears, oddly jumbled44 together; but these ornaments45 and other outward signs of grandeur46 have long since disappeared. A peculiar47 interest attaches itself to this house, not because of its age, for it has not been standing48 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 spacious49 chambers50.
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 stanch53 loyalist -- that is to say, he believed in the king, and when the overtaxed colonies determined54 to throw off the British yoke55, the adherents56 to the Crown held private meetings in one of the back rooms of the tavern57. 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 deserted58. At last the exiled innkeeper, on promising59 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 patriots60 were appeased61. 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 sketch62, 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 Providence63 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 courteous64 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 and his two brothers. Louis Philippe never forgot his visit to Rivermouth. Years afterwards, when he was seated on the throne of France, he asked an American lady, who chanced to be at his court, if the pleasant old mansion65 were still standing.
But a greater and a better man than the king of the French has honored this roof. Here, in 1789, came George Washington, the President of the United States, to pay his final complimentary66 visit to the State dignitaries. The wainscoted chamber51 where he slept, and the dining-hall where he entertained his guests, have a certain dignity and sanctity which even the present Irish tenants67 cannot wholly destroy.
During the period of my reign68 at Rivermouth, an ancient lady, Dame69 Jocelyn by name, lived in one of the upper rooms of this notable building. She was a dashing young belle70 at the time of Washington's first visit to the town, and must have been exceedingly coquettish and pretty, judging from a certain portrait on ivory still in the possession of the family. According to Dame Jocelyn, George Washington flirted71 with her just a little bit -- in what a stately and highly finished manner can be imagined.
There was a mirror with a deep filigreed72 frame hanging over the mantel-piece in this room. The glass was cracked and the quicksilver rubbed off or discolored in many places. When it reflected your face you had the singular pleasure of not recognizing yourself. It gave your features the appearance of having been run through a mince-meat machine. But what rendered the looking-glass a thing of enchantment73 to me was a faded green feather, tipped with scarlet74, which drooped75 from the top of the tarnished76 gilt77 mouldings. This feather Washington took from the plume78 of his three-cornered hat, and presented with his own hand to the worshipful Mistress Jocelyn the day he left Rivermouth forever. I wish I could describe the mincing79 genteel air, and the ill-concealed self-complacency, with which the dear old lady related the incident.
Many a Saturday afternoon have I climbed up the rickety staircase to that dingy80 room, which always had a flavor of snuff about it, to sit on a stiff-backed chair and listen for hours together to Dame Jocelyn's stories of the olden time. How she would prattle81! She was bedridden -- poor creature! -- and had not been out of the chamber for fourteen years. Meanwhile the world had shot ahead of Dame Jocelyn. The changes that had taken place under her very nose were unknown to this faded, crooning old gentlewoman, whom the eighteenth century had neglected to take away with the 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 never seen a steam engine, though she had heard "the dratted thing" screech82 in the distance. In her day, when gentlefolk traveled, they went in their own coaches. She didn't see how respectable people could bring themselves down to "riding in a car with rag-tag and bobtail and Lord-knows-who." Poor old aristocrat52 The landlord charged her no rent for 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 very fretful and capricious about her food. If she didn't chance to fancy what was sent her, she had no hesitation83 in sending it back to the giver with "Miss Jocelyn's respectful compliments."
But I have been gossiping too long -- and yet not too long if I have impressed upon the reader an idea of what a rusty84, delightful85 old town it was to which I had come to spend the next three or four years of my boyhood.
A drive of twenty minutes from the station brought us to the door-step of Grandfather Nutter's house. What kind of house it was, and what sort of people lived in it, shall be told in another chapter.
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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nutter
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| n.疯子 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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filigreed
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| adj.饰有金银丝细工的v.（用金丝等制成的）精工制品( filigree的过去式和过去分词 )；精致的物品 | |
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73
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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74
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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75
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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77
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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78
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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79
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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80
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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81
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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82
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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83
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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84
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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85
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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