an old town by the sea-第12节
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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
