New Hampshire -- History -- Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775; Portsmouth (N.H.) -- Social life and customs
Of course there were varieties of local characters without his
limitations; venerable merchants retired from the East India trade;
elderly gentlewomen, with family jewels and personal peculiarities; one
or two scholarly recluses in by-gone cut of coat, haunting the Athenaeum
reading-room; ex-sea captains, with rings on their fingers, like Simon
Danz’s visitors in Longfellow’s poem--men who had played busy parts in
the bustling world, and had drifted back to Old Strawberry Bank in the
tranquil sunset of their careers. I may say, in passing, that these
ancient mariners, after battling with terrific hurricanes and typhoons
on every known sea, not infrequently drowned themselves in pleasant
weather in small sail-boats on the Piscataqua River. Old sea-dogs who
had commanded ships of four or five hundred tons had naturally slight
respect for the potentialities of sail-boats twelve feet long. But there
was to be no further increase of these odd sticks--if I may call them
so, in no irreverent mood--after those innocent-looking parallel bars
indissolubly linked Portsmouth with the capital of the Commonwealth of
Massachusetts. All the conditions were to be changed, the old angles
to be pared off, new horizons to be regarded. The individual, as an
eccentric individual, was to undergo great modifications. If he were not
to become extinct--a thing little likely--he was at least to lose his
prominence.
However, as I said, local character, in the sense in which the term
is here used, was not instantly killed; it died a lingering death, and
passed away so peacefully and silently as not to attract general, or
perhaps any, notice. This period of gradual dissolution fell during my
boyhood. The last of the cocked hats had gone out, and the railway had
come in, long before my time; but certain bits of color, certain half
obsolete customs and scraps of the past, were still left over. I was
not too late, for example, to catch the last town crier--one Nicholas
Newman, whom I used to contemplate with awe, and now recall with a sort
of affection.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account