“We are all naturally a curious, inquisitive people,” replied he; “and a cunning one too, because we hardly ever answer one question except by asking another; but all these faults are increased by the tendencies of our institutions.”
“Have you been less curious or inquisitive before the revolution?”
“Not exactly that; but the inquisitiveness of the lower classes was less troublesome. Our gentlemen were not obliged to notice it; they were not directly responsible to the people; in short, we were in every respect more independent than we now are.”
I thought it best not to continue this sort of conversation; so, quitting the house, and walking down Beacon-street, I pointed to a new building which struck me as remarkably tasteful. “Here,” said I, “is quite a stylish mansion! I did not expect to find so much neatness and comfort in this city!”
“It is the mansion of Mr. ***,” replied my cicerone. “Don’t you think it a fine building? And in the Italian style, too! The owner is one of our richest men,—the son of Mr. ***, who came to Boston in the year ——. He made all his money in the —— business, and must now be worth upwards of a million of dollars. He has a very nice family too. His wife was a Miss ***, daughter to Mr. ***, one of our most respectable merchants; quite an intellectual girl, with plenty of money. I believe she brought him three hundred thousand dollars. Her sister married a Mr. ***, one of the most influential men in this city. They have been a good deal abroad, and furnished their house in the best style——”
Fearing that I should be condemned to listen to a long description of the various articles of furniture brought home from London or Paris, and at last to the statistics of the gentleman’s property,—a thing which is by no means unfrequent in Boston,—I abruptly changed the conversation by directing my cicerone’s attention to an unfinished building, whose enormous height was entirely disproportionate to the small surface it covered on the ground.
“This house,” I said, “seems to be perfectly new; how did it happen that so eligible a site for building remained so long a time unimproved?”
“It was a fine garden,” replied my cicerone, “belonging to Mr. ***, living in the house adjoining it; but he sold it as a house-lot for the neat little sum of twelve thousand dollars. It’s only a small piece of ground, just large enough for two parlours on a floor; but our houses are all three or four stories high, none of us wishing to be overlooked by his neighbour.”
“Did he keep the ground on speculation?” demanded I.
“Bless your soul, sir!” exclaimed he; “do you think Mr. *** is a speculator? He is a rich man, sir! he does not care for the money; ‘it’s only for the conven’ance of it,’ as the New Hampshire farmer said, when he dunned the gentleman for a bushel of potatoes. Who the deuce would not take twelve thousand dollars for a little garden, scarcely large enough to raise cabbage for the family?”