Whistler; or, The Manly Boy

by Walter Aimwell

As Clinton sat gazing at the fountain, the majestic column of water began to falter, and almost instantly lowered its proud crest and disappeared, leaving no trace of the fountain but the iron pipe through which it gushed forth. The man who had charge of it had shut off the water, which is done by means of a stop-cock near the pond. He soon after appeared, walking through the pond, towards the fountain. He wore a pair of high, water-proof boots; and, as there was a series of stone blocks from the border of the pond to the fountain, sunk but a few inches under water, for him to walk upon, he got along very comfortably. Having removed the mouth-piece of the fountain, he screwed on another one, and returned. In a few moments the water burst forth in a new shape. There were a number of small jets arranged in a circle, each jet taking an outward direction. The water formed a graceful curve, as it rounded over towards the lake; and though it was not so lofty and imposing as the other jet, it was in some respects more beautiful.

The fountain at length stopped playing, and Clinton, after watching a while some boats which boys were sailing on the pond, started off in quest of new sights. He first paid a visit to the great elm tree, near the pond, admired its magnificent proportions, read its brief and imperfect history, as inscribed on a tablet inserted in the iron fence which surrounds it, and mused on the stirring scenes it had looked down upon during the lapse of two hundred years. While thus engaged, he came in contact with a quiet, modest-looking lad, of about his own age, who seemed to be engaged in the same pursuit as himself—sight-seeing. A mutual feeling of lonesomeness, or an intuitive perception of sympathy and congeniality of character, or some other attractive principle, seemed to draw them together, at first sight, and they were soon engaged in conversation. In a short time Clinton had learned from his new acquaintance that his name was Henry; that he came from the country, to get a situation as apprentice, or clerk, but had not yet succeeded; and that he had two older brothers in Boston, with whom he was staying.

“Have you been up to the top of the State House?” inquired Henry, as Clinton began to look about for some new object of interest.

“No,” replied Clinton; “have you?”

“Yes, I went up last week with my brother,” said Henry. “Come, let’s go up now,—I should like to go again, and I can promise you it’s a splendid sight.”

“Come on, then,—it’s just where I want to go,” said Clinton, much pleased that he was to have a companion in making the toilsome ascent.

So they passed on, through the spacious front yard, with its many flights of stone steps; paused a moment to look at the fountains in front of the capitol; paid a visit to the marble statue of Washington, in the alcove opening from Doric Hall; inspected such portions of the building as were open to the public; and then began their long journey to the lantern which surmounts the dome. Up, up, up they went, through the state’s great garret, with its interminable stairs, its dreary passages, its venerable dust and cobwebs, and its hot and stifling atmosphere. Now they are in the great dome, whose huge frame-work encompasses them on every side, and fills the mind with something like awe. And now the light increases—they breathe easier. They have ascended the last of the one hundred and seventy steps; they are two hundred and thirty feet above the level of the sea.

Clinton found that the lantern of the dome, which looked so small from the street, was in reality a room of pretty good size. It was a museum of autographs,—every place where it was possible to write, scratch or cut a name, having been improved by the hundreds of thousands who have visited this favorite resort of strangers. But the inside attractions did not long detain the boys from the magnificent scene without. Clinton’s exclamations, as his young companion hurried him from one window to another, were few and brief, but by no means tame or inexpressive. There lay the Common at his feet, looking like a garden-patch of moderate size. The horses and carriages in the streets seemed to be but baby toys, and the people were like ants creeping over the ground. The city spread itself out on every side, with its long lines of brick walls and slated roofs, and its innumerable steeples, towers and cupolas, all compactly wedged together. Outside of this shapeless mass of brick and stone was a line of water, which nearly surrounded the city. A part of the way it was a narrow ribbon, crossed by numerous bridges, over some of which railway trains were slowly crawling, like caterpillars. Towards the east, however, the shore was fringed with a forest of masts, and the waters stretched outward into the great ocean, and the gleaming of white canvas could be seen, far beyond the green islands that guard the entrance of the harbor. To the landward were to be seen cities and villages, hills, fields and forests, extending for many miles. The boys felt that but two things were wanting, and these were, a good spy-glass, and some one, familiar with the ground, to point out and name the various objects of interest that were spread before them.

After stopping more than half an hour in the lantern, Clinton and Henry commenced the descent. It was nearly noon when they reached the street; and, as Clinton had a long distance to go, and was not familiar with the way, he soon parted with his companion, whose stopping-place lay in another direction, and set his face towards the South End. He trudged along carelessly, until he thought he must be in the neighborhood of the street where his uncle lived. And now he tried to find his bearings, but without success. Nothing looked familiar. He was in a maze. But, as he always preferred to solve his own difficulties, rather than have others help him out of them, he determined that he would make no inquiries so long as there was a chance of finding his way out. Pretty soon he came out on an avenue, which he knew must be Washington Street, from its appearance. Now he felt that he had got a clew that would enable him to find his uncle’s house. He walked along for nearly half a mile, but could not find the street for which he was looking. He was beginning to feel some misgivings, when he came in sight of a steeple on which the points of the compass were indicated, and he discovered that instead of going south he was actually heading towards the north. He also recognized the church as the Old South, and he was, consequently, further from his destination than when he left the Common. The sun was so nearly overhead that it did not afford him much aid in directing his course, and he had therefore trusted to instinct, which, in the human kind, is not always a very safe guide.

Of course Clinton faced about and retraced his steps. The dinner hour was at hand; and, wisely concluding that he had experimented enough for one day in the navigation of unknown streets, he inquired his way, and at length reached his uncle’s, faint and weary with his forenoon’s adventures. His account of his walk from the State House furnished considerable merriment to the family. Whistler declared that he was about to go after the city crier, and tell him to cry, “A child lost, about fourteen years old,” &c., &c.; while Mr. Davenport, who always had a story ready, said that Clinton was almost as bad as an old Quaker he once knew, who used to come to Boston occasionally with a load of chairs, and who would sometimes get so bewildered by the hubbub and confusion of the city, as to go up three or four flights of stairs, into the attic, to find his way to the street! He also related the case of a little Irish boy, who landed in Boston from an emigrant ship, and actually became insane from bewilderment. The little fellow, who was but thirteen years old, had no friends here but a brother, who came over a short time before. Confused by the strangeness, and, to his eyes, the magnificence of the city, which for weeks had been the culminating point of his anticipations, he wandered about, gazing upon the novelties by day, and dreaming of them by night, until he believed himself the inhabitant of a fairy-land, and could not recognize the brother whose bed he shared; “for,” said he, “he was dressed so nice, and we used n’t to be so at home.” Reason soon fled, and for weeks he by turns babbled like a child and raved like a madman. He was taken to the lunatic hospital, and it took several weeks to cure him.