Oldport Days | Page 3

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Note: I have closed contractions in the text, e.g., "did n't" becoming
"didn't" for example; I have also added the missing period after
"caress" in line 11 of page 61, and have changed "ever" to "over" in
line 16 of page 121.
OLDPORT DAYS.
BY
THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON.
BOSTON: LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. NEW YORK:
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM. 1888.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, BY JAMES R.
OSGOOD & CO., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington.
University Press: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.

CONTENTS.
OLDPORT IN WINTER OLDPORT WHARVES THE HAUNTED
WINDOW A DRIFT-WOOD FIRE AN ARTIST'S CREATION IN A
WHERRY MADAM DELIA'S EXPECTATIONS SUNSHINE AND
PETRARCH A SHADOW FOOTPATHS
OLDPORT DAYS.
OLDPORT IN WINTER.
Our August life rushes by, in Oldport, as if we were all shot from the
mouth of a cannon, and were endeavoring to exchange visiting-cards on
the way. But in September, when the great hotels are closed, and the
bronze dogs that guarded the portals of the Ocean House are collected
sadly in the music pavilion, nose to nose; when the last four-in-hand
has departed, and a man may drive a solitary horse on the avenue
without a pang,--then we know that "the season" is over. Winter is yet
several months away,--months of the most delicious autumn weather
that the American climate holds. But to the human bird of passage all
that is not summer is winter; and those who seek Oldport most eagerly
for two months are often those who regard it as uninhabitable for the
other ten.
The Persian poet Saadi says that in a certain region of Armenia, where
he travelled, people never died the natural death. But once a year they
met on a certain plain, and occupied themselves with recreation, in the
midst of which individuals of every rank and age would suddenly stop,
make a reverence to the west, and, setting out at full speed toward that
part of the desert, be seen no more. It is quite in this fashion that guests
disappear from Oldport when the season ends. They also are apt to go
toward the west, but by steamboat. It is pathetic, on occasion of each
annual bereavement, to observe the wonted looks and language of
despair among those who linger behind; and it needs some fortitude to
think of spending the winter near such a Wharf of Sighs.
But we console ourselves. Each season brings its own attractions. In
summer one may relish what is new in Oldport, as the liveries, the
incomes, the manners. There is often a delicious freshness about these
exhibitions; it is a pleasure to see some opulent citizen in his first kid
gloves. His new-born splendor stands in such brilliant relief against the
confirmed respectability of the"Old Stone Mill," the only thing on the
Atlantic shore which has had time to forget its birthday! But in winter

the Old Mill gives the tone to the society around it; we then bethink
ourselves of the crown upon our Trinity Church steeple, and resolve
that the courtesies of a bygone age shall yet linger here. Is there any
other place in America where gentlemen still take off their hats to one
another on the public promenade? The hat is here what it still is in
Southern Europe,--the lineal successor of the sword as the mark of a
gentleman. It is noticed that, in going from Oldport to New York or
Boston, one is liable to be betrayed by an over-flourish of the hat, as is
an Arkansas man by a display of the bowie-knife.
Winter also imparts to these spacious estates a dignity that is
sometimes wanting in summer. I like to stroll over them during this
epoch of desertion, just as once, when I happened to hold the