Chapter Four. Rivermouth

The Story of a Bad Boy

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

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 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 mansion 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 complimentary visit
to the State dignitaries. The wainscoted chamber where he slept, and
the dining-hall where he entertained his guests, have a certain
dignity and sanctity which even the present Irish tenants cannot
wholly destroy.

During the period of my reign at Rivermouth, an ancient lady,
Dame Jocelyn by name, lived in one of the upper rooms of this notable
building. She was a dashing young belle 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 flirted with her just a little bit-in what a stately and
highly finished manner can be imagined.

There was a mirror with a deep filigreed 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 enchantment
to me was a faded green feather, tipped with scarlet, which drooped
from the top of the tarnished gilt mouldings. This feather Washington
took from the plume 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 mincing 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 dingy 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
prattle! 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" screech 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 aristocrat 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 hesitation 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 rusty, delightful
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.