An Old Town By the Sea | Page 5

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 emblems 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 ushered in by the tolling of
all the bells in town, the vessels in the harbor had their colors hoisted
half-mast high; about three o'clock a funeral procession was formed,
having a coffin with this inscription, 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 melancholy prospect before
us, at the seeming departure of our invaluable 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 joyful 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 graveyard may come to if it last long enough. In 1671
one Captain John Pickering, of whom we shall have more to say, ceded
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 fungi; the black slate
headstones have mostly fallen over; those that still make a pretense of
standing slant 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 mounds have sunk to the common level,
and the old underground tombs have collapsed. Here and there the
moss 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, mingle their dust
on a perfect equality now. The marble that once bore a haughty coat of
arms is as smooth as the humblest slate stone guiltless of heraldry. The
lion and the unicorn, wherever they appear on some cracked slab, are
very much tamed by time. The once fat-faced cherubs, with wing at
either cheek, are the merest skeletons now. Pride, pomp, grief, and
remembrance are all at end. No reverent feet come here, no tears fall
here; the old graveyard itself is dead! A more dismal, uncanny spot
than this at twilight 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 perfectly hollow.
Let us get into some cheerfuler neighborhood!

III. A STROLL ABOUT TOWN
AS you leave the river front behind you, and pass "up town," the streets
grow wider, and the architecture becomes more ambitious--streets
fringed with beautiful old trees and lined with commodious private
dwellings, mostly square white houses, with spacious halls running
through the centre. Previous to the Revolution, white paint was seldom

used on houses, and the diamond-shaped window pane was almost
universal. Many of the residences stand back from the brick or
flagstone sidewalk, and have pretty gardens at the side or in the rear,
made bright with dahlias and sweet with cinnamon roses. If you chance
to live in a town where the authorities cannot rest until they have
destroyed every precious tree within their blighting reach, you will be
especially charmed by the beauty of the streets of Portsmouth. In some
parts of the town, when the chestnuts are in blossom, you would fancy
yourself in a garden in fairyland. In spring, summer, and autumn the
foliage is the glory of the fair town--her luxuriant green and golden
treeses! Nothing could seem more like the work of enchantment than
the spectacle which certain streets in Portsmouth present in the