an old town by the sea-第10章

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a　serious　accident。　The　accident　occurred　in　the　crowded　station　at　the　Portsmouth　terminus；　and　was　unobserved　at　the　time。　The　catastrophe　was　followed；　though　not　immediately；　by　death；　and　that　also；　curiously　enough；　was　unobserved。　Nevertheless；　this　initial　train；　freighted　with　so　many　hopes　and　the　Directors　of　the　Road；　ran　over　and　killedLOCAL　CHARACTER。

Up　to　that　day　Portsmouth　had　been　a　very　secluded　little　community；　and　had　had　the　courage　of　its　seclusion。　From　time　to　time　it　had　calmly　produced　an　individual　built　on　plans　and　specifications　of　its　own；　without　regard　to　the　prejudices　and　conventionalities　of　outlying　districts。　This　individual　was　purely　indigenous。　He　was　born　in　the　town；　he　lived　to　a　good　old　age　in　the　town；　and　never　went　out　of　the　place；　until　he　was　finally　laid　under　it。　To　him；　Boston；　though　only　fifty…six　miles　away；　was　virtually　an　unknown　quantityonly　fifty…six　miles　by　brutal　geographical　measurement；　but　thousands　of　miles　distant　in　effect。　In　those　days；　in　order　to　reach　Boston　you　were　obliged　to　take　a　great　yellow；　clumsy　stage…coach；　resembling　a　three…story　mud…turtleif　zoologist　will；　for　the　sake　of　the　simile；　tolerate　so　daring　an　invention；　you　were　obliged　to　take　it　very　early　in　the　morning；　you　dined　at　noon　at　Ipswich；　and　clattered　into　the　great　city　with　the　golden　dome　just　as　the　twilight　was　falling；　provided　always　the　coach　had　not　shed　a　wheel　by　the　roadside　or　one　of　the　leaders　had　not　gone　lame。　To　many　worthy　and　well…to…do　persons　in　Portsmouth；　this　journey　was　an　event　which　occurred　only　twice　or　thrice　during　life。　To　the　typical　individual　with　whom　I　am　for　the　moment　dealing；　it　never　occurred　at　all。　The　town　was　his　entire　world；　he　was　a　parochial　as　a　Parisian；　Market　Street　was　his　Boulevard　des　Italiens；　and　the　North　End　his　Bois　de　Boulogne。

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　poemmen　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　sticksif　I　may　call　them　so；　in　no　irreverent　moodafter　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　extincta　thing　little　likelyhe　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　crierone　Nicholas　Newman；　whom　I　used　to　contemplate　with　awe；　and　now　recall　with　a　sort　of　affection。

Nicholas　NewmanNicholas　was　a　sobriquet；　his　real　name　being　Edwardwas　a　most　estimable　person；　very　short；　cross…eyed；　somewhat　bow…legged；　and　with　a　bell　out　of　all　proportion　to　his　stature。　I　have　never　since　seen　a　bell　of　that　size　disconnected　with　a　church　steeple。　The　only　thing　about　him　that　matched　the　instrument　of　his　office　was　his　voice。　His　〃Hear　All！〃　still　deafens　memory's　ear。　I　remember　that　he　had　a　queer　way　of　sidling　up　to　one；　as　if　nature　in　shaping　him　had　originally　intended　a　crab；　but　thought　better　of　it；　and　made　a　town…crier。　Of　the　crustacean　intention　only　a　moist　thumb　remained；　which　served　Mr。　Newman　in　good　stead　in　the　delivery　of　the　Boston　evening　papers；　for　he　was　incidentally　newsdealer。　His　authentic　duties　were　to　cry　auctions；　funerals；　mislaid　children；　traveling　theatricals；　public　meetings；　and　articles　lost　or　found。　He　was　especially　strong　in　announcing　the　loss　of　reticules；　usually　the　property　of　elderly　maiden　ladies。　The　unction　with　which　he　detailed　the　several　contents；　when　fully　confided　to　him；　would　have　seemed　satirical　in　another　person；　but　on　his　part　was　pure　conscientiousness。　He　would　not　let　so　much　as　a　thimble；　or　a　piece　of　wax；　or　a　portable　tooth；　or　any　amiable　vanity　in　the　way　of　tonsorial　device；　escape　him。　I　have　heard　Mr。　Newman　spoken　of　as　〃that　horrid　man。〃　He　was　a　picturesque　figure。

Possibly　it　is　because　of　his　bell　that　I　connect　the　town　crier　with　those　dolorous　sounds　which　I　used　to　hear　rolling　out　of　the　steeple　of　the　Old　North　every　night　at　nine　o'clockthe　vocal　remains　of　the　colonial　curfew。　Nicholas　Newman　has　passed　on；　perhaps　crying　his　losses　elsewhere；　but　this　nightly　tolling　is　still　a　custom。　I　can　more　satisfactorily　explain　why　I　associate　with　it　a　vastly　different　personality；　that　of　Sol　Holmes；　the　barber；　for　every　night　at　nine　o'clock　his　little　shop　on　Congress　Street　was　in　full　blast。　Many　a　time　at　that　hour　I　have　flattened　my　nose　on　his　window…glass。　It　was　a　gay　little　shop　（he　called　it　〃an　Emporium〃）；　as　barber　shops　generally　are；　decorated　with　circus　bills；　tinted　prints；　and　gaudy　fly…catchers　of　tissue　and　gold　paper。　Sol　Holmeswhose　antecedents　to　us　boys　were　wrapped　in　thrilling　mystery；　we　imagined　him　to　have　been　a　prince　in　his　native　landwas　a　colored　man；　not　too　dark　〃for　human　nature's　daily　food；〃　and　enjoyed　marked　distinction　as　one　of　the　few　exotics　in　town。　At　this　juncture　the　foreign　element　was　at　its　minimum；　every　official；　from　selectman　down　to　the　Dogberry　of　the　watch；　bore　a　name　that　had　been　familiar　to　the　town　for　a　hundred　years　or　so。　The　situation　is　greatly　changed。　I　expect　to　live　to　see　a　Chinese　policeman；　with　a　sandal…wood　club　and　a　rice…paper　pocket　handkerchief；　patrolling　Congress　Street。

Holmes　was　a　handsome　man；　six　feet　or　more　in　height；　and　as　straight　as　a　pine。　He　possessed　his　race's　sweet　temper；　simplicity；　and　vanity。　His　martial　bearing　was　a　positive　factor　in　the　effectiveness　of　the　Portsmouth　Greys；　whenever　those　bloodless　warriors　paraded。　As　he　brought　up　the　rear　of　the　last　platoon；　with　his　infantry　cap　stuck　jauntily　on　the　left　side　of　his　head　and　a　bright　silver　cup　slung　on　a　belt　at　his　hip；　he　seemed　to　youthful　eyes　one　of　the　most　imposing　things　in　the　display。　To　himself　he　was　pretty　much　〃all　the　company。〃　He　used　to　say；　with　a　drollness　which　did　not　strike　me　until　years　afterwards；　〃Boys；　I　and　Cap'n　Towle　is　goin'　to　trot　out　'the　Greys'　to…morroh。〃　Though　strictly　honest　in　all　business　dealings；　his　tropical　imagination；　whenever　he　strayed　into　the　fenceless　fields　of　autobiography；　left　much　to　be　desired　in　the　way　of　accuracy。　Compared　with　Sol　Holmes　on　such　occasions；　Ananias　was　a　person　of　morbid　integrity。　Sol　Holmes's　tragic　end　was　in　singular　contrast　with　his　sunny　temperament。　One　night；　long　ago；　he　threw　himself　from　the　deck　of　a　Sound　steamer；　somewhere　between　Stonington　and　New　York。　What　led　or　drove　him　to　the　act　never　transpired。

There　are　few　men　who　were　boys　in　Portsmouth　at　the　period　of　which　I　write　but　will　remember　Wibird　Penhallow　and　his　sky…blue　wheelbarrow。　I　find　it　difficult　to　describe　him　other　than　vaguely；　possibly　because　Wilbird　had　no　expression　whatever　in　his　countenance。　With　his　vacant　white　face　lifted　to　the　clouds；　seemingly　oblivious　of　everything；　yet　going　with　a　sort　of　heaven…given　instinct　straight　to　his　destination；　he　trundled　that　rattling　wheelbarrow　for　many　a　year　over　Portsmouth　cobblestones。　He　was　so　unconscious　of　his　environment　that　sometimes　a　small　boy　would　pop　into　the　empty　wheelbarrow　and　secure　a　ride　without　Wibird　arriving　at　any　very　clear　knowledge　of　the　fact。　His　employment　in　life　was　to　deliver　groceries　and　other　merchandise　to　purchasers。　This　he　did　in　a　dreamy；　impersonal　kind　of　way。　It　was　as　if　a　spirit　had　somehow　go　hold　of　an　earthly　wheelbarrow　and　was　trundling　it　quite　unconsciously；　with　no　sense　of　responsibility。　One　day　he　appeared　at　a　kitchen　door　with　a　two…gallon　molasses　jug；　the　top　of　which　was　wanting。　It　was　not　longer　a　jug；　but　a　tureen。　When　the　recipient　of　the　damaged　article　remonstrated　with　〃Goodness　gracious；　Wibird！　You　have　broken　the　jug；〃　his　features　lighted　up；　and　he　seemed　immensely　relieved。　〃I　thought；　〃　He　remarked；　〃I　heerd　somethink　crack！〃

Wibird　Penhallow's　heaviest　patron　was　the　keeper　of　a　variety　store；　and　the　first　specimen　of　a　pessimist　I　ever　encountered。　He　was　an　excellent　specimen。　He　took　exception　to　everything。　He　objected　to　the　telegraph；　to　the　railway；　to　steam　in　all　its　applications。　Some　of　his　arguments；　I　recollect；　made　a　deep　impression　on　my　mind。　〃Nowadays；〃　he　once　observed　to　me；　〃if　your　son　or　your　grandfather　drops　dead　at　the　other　end　of　creation；　you　know　of　it　in　ten　minutes。　What's　the　use？　Unless　you　are　anxious　to　know　he's　dead；　you've　got　just　two　or　three　weeks　more　to　be　miserable　in。〃　He　scorned　the　whole　business；　and　was　faithful　to　his　scorn。　When　he　received　a　telegram；　which　was　rare；　he　made　a　point　of　keeping　it　awhile　unopened。　Through　the　exercise　of　this　whim　he　once　missed　an　opportunity　of　buying　certain　goods　to　great　advantage。　〃There！〃　he　exclaimed；　〃if　the　telegraph　hadn't　been　invented　the　idiot　would　have　written　to　me；　and　I'd　have　sent　a　letter　by　return　coach；　and　got　the　goods　before　he　found　out　prices　had　gone　up　in　Chicago。　If　that　boy　brings　me　another　of　those　tapeworm　telegraphs；　I'll　throw　an　axe…handle　at　him。〃　His　pessimism　extended　up；　or　down；　to　generally　recognized　canons　of　orthography。　They　were　all　iniquitous。　If　k…n…i…f…e　spelled　knife；　then；　he　contended；　k…n…i…f…e…s　was　the　plural。　Diverting　tags；　written　by　his　own　hand　in　conformity　with　this　theory；　were　always　attached　to　articles　in　his　shop　window。　He　is　long　since　ded；　as　he　himself　would　have　put　it；　but　his　phonetic　theory　appears　to　have　survived　him　in　crankish　brains　here　and　there。　As　my　discouraging　old　friend　was　not　exactly　a　public　character；　like　the　town　crier　or　Wibird　Penhallow；　I　have　intentionally　thrown　a　veil　over　his　identity。　I　have；　so　to　speak；　dropped　into　his　pouch　a　grain　or　two　of　that　magical　fern…seed　which　was　supposed　by　our　English　ancestors；　in　Elizabeth's　reign；　to　possess　the　quality　of　rendering　a　man　invisible。

Another　person　who　singularly