At this bit of truculent burlesque the quiet man made a bold push, and walked away with a somewhat sickened face, and as no one now intervened between them, the inebriate laid a familiar hand upon Cousin Frank’s collar, and said with a wink at his late listener: “Looks like a lerigious man, don’t he? I guess I give him a good dose, if he does think himself the head-deacon of this boat.” And he went on to state his ideas of religion, from which it seemed that he was a person of the most advanced thinking, and believed in nothing worth mentioning.
It is perhaps no worse for an Infidel to be drunk than a Christian, but my friend found this tipsy blasphemer’s case so revolting, that he went to the hand-bag, took out the empty claret-bottle, and seeking a solitary corner of the boat, cast the bottle into the water, and felt a thrill of uncommon self-approval as this scapegoat of all the wine at his grocer’s bobbed off upon the little waves. “Besides, it saves carrying the bottle home,” he thought, not without a half-conscious reserve, that if his penitence were ever too much for him, he could easily abandon it. And without the reflection that the gate is always open behind him, who could consent to enter upon any course of perfect behavior? If good resolutions could not be broken, who would ever have the courage to form them? Would it not be intolerable to be made as good as we ought to be? Then, admirable reader, thank Heaven even for your lapses, since it is so wholesome and saving to be well ashamed of yourself, from time to time.
“What an outrage,” said Cousin Frank, in the glow of virtue, as he rejoined the ladies, “that that tipsy rascal should be allowed to go on with his ribaldry. He seems to pervade the whole boat, and to subject everybody to his sway. He’s a perfect despot to us helpless sober people, — I wouldn’t openly disagree with him on any account. We ought to send a Round Robin to the captain, and ask him to put that religious liberal in irons during the rest of the voyage.”
In the mean time, however, the object of his indignation had used up all the conversible material in that part of the boat, and had deviously started for the other end. The elderly woman with the umbrella rose and followed him, somewhat wearily, and with a sadness that appeared more in her movement than in her face; and as the two went down the cabin, did the comical affair look, after all, something like tragedy? My reader, who expects a little novelty in tragedy, and not these stale and common effects, will never think so.
“You’ll not pretend, Frank,” says Lucy, “that in such an intellectual place as Boston a crowd as large as this can be got together, and no distinguished literary people in it. I know there are some notables aboard: do point them out to me. Pretty near everybody has a literary look.”
“Why, that’s what we call our Boston look, Cousin Lucy. You needn’t have written anything to have it, — it’s as general as tubercular consumption, and is the effect of our universal culture and habits of reading. I heard a New-Yorker say once that if you went into a corner grocery in Boston to buy a codfish, the man would ask you how you liked ‘Lucille,’ whilst he was tying it up. No, no; you mustn’t be taken in by that literary look; I’m afraid the real literary men don’t always have it. But I do see a literary man aboard yonder,” he added, craning his neck to one side, and then furtively pointing,— “the most literary man I ever knew, one of the most literary men that ever lived. His whole existence is really bound up in books; he never talks of anything else, and never thinks of anything else, I believe. Look at him, — what kind and pleasant eyes he’s got! There, he sees me!” cries Cousin Frank, with a pleasurable excitement. “How d’ye do?” he calls out.
“O Cousin Frank, introduce us,” sighs Lucy.
“Not I! He wouldn’t thank me. He doesn’t care for pretty girls outside of books; he’d be afraid of ‘em; he’s the bashfullest man alive, and all his heroines are fifty years old, at the least. But before I go any further, tell me solemnly, Lucy, you’re not interviewing me? You’re not going to write it to a New York newspaper? No? Well, I think it’s best to ask, always. Our friend there — he’s everybody’s friend, if you mean nobody’s enemy, by that, not even his own — is really what I say, — the most literary man I ever knew. He loves all epochs and phases of literature, but his passion is the Charles Lamb period and all Lamb’s friends. He loves them as if they were living men; and Lamb would have loved him if he could have known him. He speaks rapidly, and rather indistinctly, and when you meet him and say Good day, and you suppose he answers with something about the weather, ten to one he’s asking you what you think of Hazlitt’s essays on Shakespeare, or Leigh Hunt’s Italian Poets, or Lamb’s roast pig, or Barry Cornwall’s songs. He couldn’t get by a bookstall without stopping — for half an hour, at any rate. He knows just when all the new books in town are to be published, and when each bookseller is to get his invoice of old English books. He has no particular address, but if you leave your card for him at any bookstore in Boston, he’s sure to get it within two days; and in the summer-time you’re apt to meet him on these excursions. Of course, he writes about books, and very tastefully and modestly; there’s hardly any of the brand-new immortal English poets, who die off so rapidly, but has had a good word from him; but his heart is with the older fellows, from Chaucer down; and, after the Charles Lamb epoch, I don’t know whether he loves better the Elizabethan age or that of Queen Anne. Think of him making me stop the other day at a bookstall, and read through an essay out of the “Spectator!” I did it all for love of him, though money couldn’t have persuaded me that I had time; and I’m always telling him lies, and pretending to be as well acquainted as he is with authors I hardly know by name, — he seems so fondly to expect it. He’s really almost a disembodied spirit as concerns most mundane interests — his soul is in literature, as a lover’s in his mistress’s beauty; and in the next world, where, as the Swedenborgians believe, spirits seen at a distance appear like the things they most resemble in disposition, as doves, hawks, goats, lambs, swine, and so on, I’m sure that I shall see his true and kindly soul in the guise of a noble old Folio, quaintly lettered across his back in old English text, Tom. I.”
While our friends talked and looked about them, a sudden change had come over the brightness and warmth of the day; the blue heaven had turned a chilly gray, and the water looked harsh and cold. Now, too, they noted that they were drawing near a wooden pier built into the water, and that they had been winding about in a crooked channel between muddy shallows, and that their course was overrun with long, disheveled sea-weed. The shawls had been unstrapped, and the ladies made comfortable in them.
“Ho for the beach!” cried Cousin Frank, with a vehement show of enthusiasm. “Now, then, Aunt Melissa, prepare for the great enjoyment of the day. In a few moments we shall be of the elves
‘That on the sand with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back.’
Come! we shall have three hours on the beach, and that will bring us well into the cool of the evening, and we can return by the last boat.”
“As to the cool of the evening,” said Aunt Melissa, “I don’t know. It’s quite cool enough for comfort at present, and I’m sure that anything more wouldn’t be wholesome. What’s become of our beautiful weather?” she asked, deeply plotting to gain time.
“It’s one of our Boston peculiarities, not to say merits,” answered Frank, “which you must have noticed already, that we can get rid of a fine day sooner than any other region. While you’re saying how lovely it is, a subtle change is wrought, and under skies still blue and a sun still warm the keen spirit of the east wind pierces every nerve, and all the fine weather within you is chilled and extinguished. The gray atmosphere follows, but the day first languishes in yourself. But for this, life in Boston would be insupportably perfect, if this is indeed a drawback. You’d find Bostonians to defend it, I dare say. But this isn’t a regular east wind to-day; it’s merely our nearness to the sea.”
“I think, Franklin,” said Aunt Melissa, “that we won’t go down to the
beach this afternoon,” as if she had been there yesterday, and would go to-morrow. “It’s too late in the day; and it wouldn’t be good for the child, I’m sure.”
“Well, aunty, it was you determined us to wait for the boat, and it’s your right to say whether we shall leave it or not. I’m very willing not to go ashore. I always find that, after working up to an object with great effort, it’s surpassingly sweet to leave it unaccomplished at last. Then it remains forever in the region of the ideal, amongst the songs that never were sung, the pictures that never were painted. Why, in fact, should we force this pleasure? We’ve eaten our lunch, we’ve lost the warm heart of the day; why should we poorly drag over to that damp and sullen beach, where we should find three hours very long, when by going back now we can keep intact that glorious image of a day by the sea which we’ve been cherishing all summer? You’re right, Aunt Melissa; we won’t go ashore; we will stay here, and respect our illusions.”
At heart, perhaps, Lucy did not quite like this retreat; it was not in harmony with the youthful spirit of her sex, but she reflected that she could come again, — O beneficent cheat of Another Time, how much thou sparest us in our over-worked, over-enjoyed world! — she was very comfortable where she was, in a seat commanding a perfect view for the return trip; and she submitted without a murmur. Besides, now that the boat had drawn up to the pier, and discharged part of her passengers, and was waiting to take on others, Lucy was interested in a mass of fluttering dresses and wide-rimmed straw hats that drew down toward the “Rose Standish,” and gracefully thronged the pier, and prettily hesitated about, and finally came aboard with laughter and little false cries of terror, attended through all by the New England disproportion of that sex which is so foolish when it is silly. It was a large picnic party which had been spending the day upon the beach, as each of the ladies showed in her face, where, if the roses upon her cheeks were somewhat obscured by the imbrowning seaside sun, a bright pink had been compensatingly bestowed upon the point of her nose. A mysterious quiet fell upon them all when they were got aboard and had taken conspicuous places, which was accounted for presently when a loud shout was heard from the shore, and a man beside an ambulant photographic machine was seen wildly waving his hat. It is impossible to resist a temptation of this kind, and our party all yielded, and posed themselves in striking and characteristic attitudes, — even Aunt Melissa sharing the ambition to appear in a picture which she should never see, and the nurse coming out strong from the abeyance in which she had been held, and lifting the baby high into the air for a good likeness. The frantic gesticulator on the shore gave an impressive wave with both hands, took the cap from the instrument, turned his back, as photographers always do, with that air of hiding their tears, for the brief space that seems so long, and then clapped on the cap again, while a great sigh of relief went up from the whole boat-load of passengers. They were taken.
But the interval had been a luckless one for the “Rose Standish,” and when she stirred her wheels, clouds of mud rose to the top of the water, and there was no responsive movement of the boat. She was aground in the falling tide.
“There seems a pretty fair prospect of our spending some time here, after all,” said Frank, while the ladies, who had reluctantly given up the idea of staying, were now in a quiver of impatience to be off. The picnic was shifted from side to side; the engine groaned and tugged, Captain Miles Standish and his crew bestirred themselves vigorously, and at last the boat swung loose, and strode down the sea-weedy channels; while our friends, who had already done the great sights of the harbor, now settled themselves to the enjoyment of its minor traits and beauties. Here and there they passed small parties on the shore, which, with their yachts anchored near, or their boats drawn up from the water, were cooking an out-door meal by a fire that burned bright red upon the sands in the late afternoon air. In such cases, people willingly indulge themselves in saluting whatever craft goes by, and the ladies of these small picnics, as they sat round the fires, kept up a great waving of handkerchiefs, and sometimes cheered the “Rose Standish,” though I believe the Bostonians are ordinarily not a demonstrative race. Of course the large picnic on board fluttered multitudinous handkerchiefs in response, both to these people ashore and to those who hailed them from vessels which they met. They did not refuse the politeness even to the passengers on a rival boat when she passed them, though at heart they must have felt some natural pangs at being passed. The water was peopled everywhere by all sorts of sail lagging slowly homeward in the light evening breeze; and on some of the larger vessels there were family groups to be seen, and a graceful smoke, suggestive of supper, curled from the cook’s galley. I suppose these ships were chiefly coasting craft, of one kind or another, come from the Provinces at farthest; but to the ignorance and the fancy of our friends, they arrived from all remote and romantic parts of the world, — from India, from China, and from the South Seas, with cargoes of spices and gums and tropical fruits; and I see no reason why one should ever deny himself the easy pleasure they felt in painting the unknown in such lively hues. The truth is, a strange ship, if you will let her, always brings you precious freight, always arrives from Wonderland under the command of Captain Sinbad. How like a beautiful sprite she looks afar off, as if she came from some finer and fairer world than ours! Nay, we will not go out to meet her; we will not go on board; Captain Sinbad shall bring us the invoice of gold-dust, slaves, and rocs’ eggs to-night, and we will have some of the eggs for breakfast; or if he never comes, are we not just as rich? But I think these friends of ours got a yet keener pleasure out of the spectacle of a large and stately ship, that with all sails spread moved silently and steadily out toward the open sea. It is yet grander and sweeter to sail toward the unknown than to come from it; and every vessel that leaves port has this destination, and will bear you thither if you will.
“It may be that the gulf shall wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew,”
absently murmured Lucy, looking on this beautiful apparition.
“But I can’t help thinking of Ulysses’ cabin-boy, yonder,” said Cousin Frank, after a pause; “can you, Aunt Melissa?”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about Franklin,” answered Aunt Melissa, somewhat severely.
“Why, I mean that there is a poor wretch of a boy on board there, who’s run away, and whose heart must be aching just now at the thought of the home he has left. I hope Ulysses will be good to him, and not swear at him for a day or two, or knock him about with a belaying-pin. Just about this time his mother, up in the country, is getting ready his supper, and wondering what’s become of him, and torturing herself with hopes that break one by one; and to-night when she goes up to his empty room, having tried to persuade herself that the truant’s come back and climbed in at the window”— “Why, Franklin, this isn’t true, is it?” asks Aunt Melissa.
“Well, no, let’s pray Heaven it isn’t, in this case. It’s been true often enough to be false for once.”
“What a great, ugly, black object a ship is!” said Cousin Lucy.
Slowly the city rose up against the distance, sharpening all its outlines, and filling in all its familiar details, — like a fact which one dreams is a dream, and which, as the mists of sleep break away, shows itself for reality.
The air grows closer and warmer, — it is the breath of the hot and toil-worn land.
The boat makes her way up through the shipping, seeks her landing, and presently rubs herself affectionately against the wharf. The passengers quickly disperse themselves upon shore, dismissed each with an appropriate sarcasm by the tipsy man, who has had the means of keeping himself drunk throughout, and who now looks to the discharge of the boat’s cargo.
As our friends leave the wharf-house behind them, and straggle uneasily, and very conscious of sunburn, up the now silent length of Pearl Street to seek the nearest horse-cars, they are aware of a curious fidget
ing of the nurse, who flies from one side of the pavement to the other and violently shifts the baby from one arm to the other.
“What’s the matter?” asks Frank; but before the nurse can answer, “Thim little divils,” he perceives that the whooping-coughers of the morning have taken the occasion to renew a pleasant acquaintance, and are surrounding the baby and nurse with an atmosphere of whooping-cough.
“I say, friends! we can’t stand this, you know,” says the anxious father. “We must part some time, and this is a favorable moment. Now I’ll give you all this, if you don’t come another step!” and he empties out to them, from the hand-bags he carries, the fragments of lunch which the frugal mind of Aunt Melissa had caused her to store there. Upon these the whooping-coughers hurl themselves in a body, and are soon left round the corner. Yet they would have been no disgrace to our party, whose appearance was now most disreputable: Frank and Lucy stalked ahead, with shawls dragging from their arms, the former loaded down with hand-bags and the latter with India-rubbers; Aunt Melissa came next under a burden of bloated umbrellas; the nurse last, with her hat awry, and the baby a caricature of its morning trimness, in her embrace. A day’s pleasure is so demoralizing, that no party can stand it, and come out neat and orderly.
“Cousin Frank,” asked Lucy, awfully, “what if we should meet the Mayflowers now?” — the Mayflowers being a very ancient and noble Boston family whose acquaintance was the great pride and terror of our friends’ lives.
“I should cut them dead,” said Frank, and scarcely spoke again till his party dragged slowly up the steps of their minute suburban villa.
At the door his wife met them with a troubled and anxious face.
“Calamities?” asked Frank, desperately.
“O, calamities upon calamities! We’ve got a lost child in the kitchen,” answered Mrs. Sallie.
“O good heavens!” cried her husband. “Adieu, my dreams of repose, so desirable after the quantity of active enjoyment I’ve had! Well, where is the lost child?”
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 956
