The town of Portsmouth stretches along the south bank of the Piscataqua, about two miles from the sea as the crow flies—three miles following the serpentine7 course of the river. The stream broadens suddenly at this point, and at flood tide, lying without a ripple8 in a basin formed by the interlocked islands and the mainland, it looks more like an island lake than a river. To the unaccustomed eye there is no visible outlet9. Standing10 on one of the wharves11 at the foot of State Street or Court Street, a stranger would at first scarcely suspect the contiguity12 of the ocean. A little observation, however, would show him that he was in a seaport13. The rich red rust14 on the gables and roofs of ancient buildings looking seaward would tell him that. There is a fitful saline flavor in the air, and if while he gazed a dense15 white fog should come rolling in, like a line of phantom16 breakers, he would no longer have any doubts.
It is of course the oldest part of the town that skirts the river, though few of the notable houses that remain are to be found there. Like all New England settlements, Portsmouth was built of wood, and has been subjected to extensive conflagrations17. You rarely come across a brick building that is not shockingly modern. The first house of the kind was erected by Richard Wibird towards the close of the seventeenth century.
Though many of the old landmarks18 have been swept away by the fateful hand of time and fire, the town impresses you as a very old town, especially as you saunter along the streets down by the river. The worm-eaten wharves, some of them covered by a sparse19, unhealthy beard of grass, and the weather-stained, unoccupied warehouses20 are sufficient to satisfy a moderate appetite for antiquity21. These deserted22 piers23 and these long rows of empty barracks, with their sarcastic24 cranes projecting from the eaves, rather puzzle the stranger. Why this great preparation for a commercial activity that does not exist, and evidently had not for years existed? There are no ships lying at the pier-heads; there are no gangs of stevedores25 staggering under the heavy cases of merchandise; here and there is a barge26 laden27 down to the bulwarks28 with coal, and here and there a square-rigged schooner30 from Maine smothered31 with fragrant32 planks33 and clapboards; an imported citizen is fishing at the end of the wharf34, a ruminative35 freckled36 son of Drogheda, in perfect sympathy with the indolent sunshine that seems to be sole proprietor37 of these crumbling38 piles and ridiculous warehouses, from which even the ghost of prosperity has flown.
Once upon a time, however, Portsmouth carried on an extensive trade with the West Indies, threatening as a maritime39 port to eclipse both Boston and New York. At the windows of these musty counting-rooms which overlook the river near Spring Market used to stand portly merchants, in knee breeches and silver shoe-buckles and plum-colored coats with ruffles40 at the wrist, waiting for their ships to come up the Narrows; the cries of stevedores and the chants of sailors at the windlass used to echo along the shore where all is silence now. For reasons not worth setting forth41, the trade with the Indies abruptly42 closed, having ruined as well as enriched many a Portsmouth adventurer. This explains the empty warehouses and the unused wharves. Portsmouth remains43 the interesting widow of a once very lively commerce. I fancy that few fortunes are either made or lost in Portsmouth nowadays. Formerly44 it turned out the best ships, as it did the ablest ship captains, in the world. There were families in which the love for blue water was in immemorial trait. The boys were always sailors; “a grey-headed shipmaster, in each generation, retiring from the quarter-deck to the homestead, while a boy of fourteen took the hereditary45 place before the mast, confronting the salt spray and the gale46, which had blasted against his sire and grandsire.” (1. Hawthorne in his introduction to The Scarlet47 Letter.) With thousands of miles of sea-line and a score or two of the finest harbors on the globe, we have adroitly48 turned over our carrying trade to foreign nations.
In other days, as I have said, a high maritime spirit was characteristic of Portsmouth. The town did a profitable business in the war of 1812, sending out a large fleet of the sauciest49 small craft on record. A pleasant story is told of one of these little privateers—the Harlequin, owned and commanded by Captain Elihu Brown. The Harlequin one day gave chase to a large ship, which did not seem to have much fight aboard, and had got it into close quarters, when suddenly the shy stranger threw open her ports, and proved to be His Majesty50’s Ship-of-War Bulwark29, seventy-four guns. Poor Captain Brown!
Portsmouth has several large cotton factories and one or two corpulent breweries51; it is a wealthy old town, with a liking52 for first mortgage bonds; but its warmest lover will not claim for it the distinction of being a great mercantile centre. The majority of her young men are forced to seek other fields to reap, and almost every city in the union, and many a city across the sea, can point to some eminent53 merchant, lawyer, or what not, as “a Portsmouth boy.” Portsmouth even furnished the late king of the Sandwich Islands, Kekuanaoa, with a prime minister, and his nankeen Majesty never had a better. The affection which all these exiles cherish for their birthplace is worthy54 of remark. On two occasions—in 1852 and 1873, the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the settlement of Strawberry Bank—the transplanted sons of Portsmouth were seized with an impulse to return home. Simultaneously55 and almost without concerted action, the lines of pilgrims took up their march from every quarter of the globe, and swept down with music and banners on the motherly old town.
To come back to the wharves. I do not know of any spot with such a fascinating air of dreams and idleness about it as the old wharf at the end of Court Street. The very fact that it was once a noisy, busy place, crowded with sailors and soldiers—in the war of 1812—gives an emphasis to the quiet that broods over it to-day. The lounger who sits of a summer afternoon on a rusty56 anchor fluke in the shadow of one of the silent warehouses, and look on the lonely river as it goes murmuring past the town, cannot be too grateful to the India trade for having taken itself off elsewhere.
What a slumberous57, delightful58, lazy place it is! The sunshine seems to lie a foot deep on the planks of the dusty wharf, which yields up to the warmth a vague perfume of the cargoes59 of rum, molasses, and spice that used to be piled upon it. The river is as blue as the inside of a harebell. The opposite shore, in the strangely shifting magic lights of sky and water, stretches along like the silvery coast of fairyland. Directly opposite you is the navy yard, and its neat officers’ quarters and workshops and arsenals60, and its vast shiphouses, in which the keel of many a famous frigate61 has been laid. Those monster buildings on the water’s edge, with their roofs pierced with innumerable little windows, which blink like eyes in the sunlight, and the shiphouses. On your right lies a cluster of small islands,—there are a dozen or more in the harbor—on the most extensive of which you see the fading-away remains of some earthworks thrown up in 1812. Between this—Trefethren’s Island—and Peirce’s Island lie the Narrows. Perhaps a bark or a sloop-of-war is making up to town; the hulk is hidden amoung the islands, and the topmasts have the effect of sweeping62 across the dry land. On your left is a long bridge, more than a quarter of a mile in length, set upon piles where the water is twenty or thirty feet deep, leading to the navy yard and Kittery—the Kittery so often the theme of Whittier’s verse.
This is a mere63 outline of the landscape that spreads before you. Its changeful beauty of form and color, with the summer clouds floating over it, is not to be painted in words. I know of many a place where the scenery is more varied64 and striking; but there is a mandragora quality in the atmosphere here that holds you to the spot, and makes the half-hours seem like minutes. I could fancy a man sitting on the end of that old wharf very contentedly65 for two or three years, provided it could be always in June.
Perhaps, too, one would desire it to be always high water. The tide falls from eight to twelve feet, and when the water makes out between the wharves some of the picturesqueness makes out also. A corroded66 section of stovepipe mailed in barnacles, or the skeleton of a hoopskirt protruding67 from the tide mud like the remains of some old-time wreck68, is apt to break the enchantment69.
I fear I have given the reader an exaggerated idea of the solitude70 that reigns71 along the river-side. Sometimes there is society here of an unconventional kind, if you care to seek it. Aside from the foreign gentleman before mentioned, you are likely to encounter, farther down the shore toward the Point of Graves (a burial-place of the colonial period), a battered72 and aged73 native fisherman boiling lobsters74 on a little gravelly bench, where the river whispers and lisps among the pebbles75 as the tide creeps in. It is a weather-beaten ex-skipper or ex-pilot, with strands76 of coarse hair, like seaweed, falling about a face that has the expression of a half-open clam77. He is always ready to talk with you, this amphibious person; and if he is not the most entertaining of gossips—more weather-wise that Old Probabilities, and as full of moving incident as Othello himself—then he is not the wintery-haired shipman I used to see a few years ago on the strip of beach just beyond Liberty Bridge, building his drift-wood fire under a great tin boiler78, and making it lively for a lot of reluctant lobsters.
I imagine that very little change has taken place in this immediate79 locality, known prosaically80 as Puddle81 Dock, during the past fifty or sixty years. The view you get looking across Liberty Bridge, Water Street, is probably the same in every respect that presented itself to the eyes of the town folk a century ago. The flagstaff, on the right, is the representative of the old “standard of liberty” which the Sons planted on this spot in January, 1766, signalizing their opposition82 to the enforcement of the Stamp Act. On the same occasion the patriots83 called at the house of Mr. George Meserve, the agent for distributing the stamps in New Hampshire, and relieved him of his stamp-master’s commission, which document they carried on the point of a sword through the town to Liberty Bridge (the Swing Bridge), where they erected the staff, with the motto, “Liberty, Property, and no Stamp!”
The Stamp Act was to go into operation on the first day of November. On the previous morning the “New Hampshire Gazette” appeared with a deep black border and all the typographical emblems84 of affliction, for was not Liberty dead? At all events, the “Gazette” itself was as good as dead, since the printer could no longer publish it if he were to be handicapped by a heavy tax. “The day was ushered85 in by the tolling86 of all the bells in town, the vessels in the harbor had their colors hoisted87 half-mast high; about three o’clock a funeral procession was formed, having a coffin88 with this inscription89, LIBERTY, AGED 145, STAMPT. It moved from the state house, with two unbraced drums, through the principal streets. As it passed the Parade, minute-guns were fired; at the place of interment a speech was delivered on the occasion, stating the many advantages we had received and the melancholy90 prospect91 before us, at the seeming departure of our invaluable92 liberties. But some sign of life appearing, Liberty was not deposited in the grave; it was rescued by a number of her sons, the motto changed to Liberty revived, and carried off in triumph. The detestable Act was buried in its stead, and the clods of the valley were laid upon it; the bells changed their melancholy sound to a more joyful93 tone.” (1. Annals of Portsmouth, by Nathaniel Adams, 1825.)
With this side glance at one of the curious humors of the time, we resume our peregrinations.
Turning down a lane on your left, a few rods beyond Liberty Bridge, you reach a spot known as the Point of Graves, chiefly interesting as showing what a graveyard94 may come to if it last long enough. In 1671 one Captain John Pickering, of whom we shall have more to say, ceded95 to the town a piece of ground on this neck for burial purposes. It is an odd-shaped lot, comprising about half an acre, inclosed by a crumbling red brick wall two or three feet high, with wood capping. The place is overgrown with thistles, rank grass, and fungi96; the black slate97 headstones have mostly fallen over; those that still make a pretense98 of standing slant99 to every point of the compass, and look as if they were being blown this way and that by a mysterious gale which leaves everything else untouched; the mounds100 have sunk to the common level, and the old underground tombs have collapsed101. Here and there the moss102 and weeds you can pick out some name that shines in the history of the early settlement; hundreds of the flower of the colony lie here, but the known and the unknown, gentle and simple, mingle103 their dust on a perfect equality now. The marble that once bore a haughty104 coat of arms is as smooth as the humblest slate stone guiltless of heraldry. The lion and the unicorn105, wherever they appear on some cracked slab106, are very much tamed by time. The once fat-faced cherubs107, with wing at either cheek, are the merest skeletons now. Pride, pomp, grief, and remembrance are all at end. No reverent108 feet come here, no tears fall here; the old graveyard itself is dead! A more dismal109, uncanny spot than this at twilight110 would be hard to find. It is noticed that when the boys pass it after nightfall, they always go by whistling with a gayety that is perfectly111 hollow.
Let us get into some cheerfuler neighborhood!
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1
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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picturesqueness
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3
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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contiguity
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| n.邻近，接壤 | |
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seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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conflagrations
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| n.大火（灾）( conflagration的名词复数 ) | |
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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stevedores
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| n.码头装卸工人，搬运工( stevedore的名词复数 ) | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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ruminative
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| adj.沉思的，默想的，爱反复思考的 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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49
sauciest
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| adj.粗鲁的( saucy的最高级 )；粗俗的；不雅的；开色情玩笑的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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breweries
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| 酿造厂，啤酒厂( brewery的名词复数 ) | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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slumberous
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| a.昏昏欲睡的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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arsenals
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| n.兵工厂，军火库( arsenal的名词复数 )；任何事物的集成 | |
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frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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70
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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72
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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lobsters
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| 龙虾( lobster的名词复数 )； 龙虾肉 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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clam
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| n.蛤，蛤肉 | |
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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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prosaically
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| adv.无聊地；乏味地；散文式地；平凡地 | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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ceded
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| v.让给，割让，放弃( cede的过去式 ) | |
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fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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unicorn
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| n.(传说中的)独角兽 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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