“Well, you will see a great many strange sights, as you go about the city,” continued his uncle. “Boston isn’t a London, nor a New York; but it beats Brookdale, by considerable, in business, wealth and population. When I first visited Boston, thirty years ago, I thought it was about the biggest city in the world, and I can assure you it has grown a trifle since then. But I’ve got a word of advice to give you, and that reminds me of it. You don’t want to appear green, verdant, raw, countryfied, as we city folks say?”
“No, sir,” replied Clinton, in some trepidation at this startling array of epithets.
“Well, then,” continued his uncle, “you must follow these three rules. First, don’t stare at anything; that means, don’t look at anything as though it were new or strange. The second rule is, don’t be astonished at anything. And the third is like unto it,—don’t admire anything.”
Clinton looked perplexed. Sight-seeing was one of the principal objects of his visit to the city; and a pretty kind of sight-seeing that would be, he thought, if he could not look at anything, nor evince any surprise or pleasure, for fear of violating the cold proprieties of city manners. Whistler also shared in his perplexity; but, believing there was a “catch” somewhere in his father’s advice, he said:
“Father isn’t in earnest; he doesn’t mean what he says, I know.”
“Yes, I am in earnest,” replied his father.
“But, how can he see the city, if he mustn’t look at anything?” inquired Whistler.
“That’s another affair, altogether,” said Mr. Davenport. “I was telling him how to avoid appearing green, not how to see the sights. When I first came to the city myself, I suppose I was grass-green,—fast color, warranted to wash,—although I didn’t know it then. I used to go staring about at every thing and every body, looking into all the shop windows, reading all the signs, and seeing more wonders than there were chimneys in town. This used to provoke my brother, who had lived in the city a whole year, and had grown wonderfully genteel in his notions. He carried himself as stiff as a poker, and every time I turned my head he would say, ‘Don’t stare about so! you act like a regular greenhorn!’ At last I got quite angry with him, and I told him, right up and down, that I didn’t care if I was green,—it was my favorite color; I liked it; I gloried in it; I should be just as green as I pleased, and he needn’t throw it in my face any more. Now, if you want to see the sights, Clinton, I don’t know as you can do any better than I did; but, if you do not want people to suppose that you are not accustomed to the city, then you can follow the rules I have given.”
“I want to see things; I don’t care whether people think I’m from the country, or not,” replied Clinton.
“Very sensibly said, and I am happy to see that you take after your uncle,” said Mr. Davenport. “But we city folks are queer people. We get up all manner of wonderful clap-traps and contrivances, to astonish our country cousins, and then, if they look at them, we laugh, and tell them they’re green. But all the greenies don’t come from the country, by a good deal. I’ll warrant you see a specimen from the city, now and then, down in Brookdale. How was it?—did the cows chase you, Whistler, or didn’t they appreciate your verdancy?”