Lines in Pleasant Places :: :: University of Virginia Library

Vain is thy hope, presumptuous Muse, to make the mad essay
To add unto the joyousness that clusters round today!
I have no words of eloquence like his who spoke before,
But just a reel of rambling rhymes to read you,—nothing more,—
In which I'll try to tell for you, if you'll indulge me so,
Much that they did and didn't do a hundred years ago.

I've had a spirit message come, rapped out in sturdy raps,
From those who long have vanished, but who still are on their taps,
And it gives a pleasant history of things long passed away,
Brought by my grave communicants once more to light of day,

Who've anxious seemed, although removed, to let the people know
Just how they managed things down here a hundred years ago.

Then these were warlike scenes and times—militiamen were drawn
To march with Pepperell, the knight, and Colonel William Vaughan;
And tales of their brave deeds did long by firesides have renown,
Where bold Sir William, he and Vaughan, to Chapeaurouge went down,
And let the French and Indians learn that Yankees were not slow
In fighting for the cross and crown a hundred years ago.

Then there were Colonel Atkinson and Colonel Nat. Meserve,
Two fire-eating sons of guns of most undoubted nerve,
Who led the brave New Hampshire men by forest and by sea,
To drive forth from their fastnesses the savage enemy,
—For the “heathen round about” were strong, and meant the people woe,—
But Christian prayers, and swords, prevailed a hundred years ago.

But in the midst of war's alarms a peaceful note befell;
It was the note from yonder clock that first struck yonder bell!
Squire Daniel Pierce, the donor, determined by its chime
To hint to folk, on Life's dull march, the need of marking time;
The town received the timely gift, which struck its primal blow
The twenty-fifth of March, about one hundred years ago.

Then Mr. Peter Livius, by granting of the town,
Dammed up the creek called Islington, and laid the draw-bridge down,
Connecting worldly Strawberry Bank with peaceful Christian Shore,
And building mills that we recall in dusty days of yore;
Also the broad tide gates that swung to check the water's flow;
A marvel of philosophy a hundred years ago.

Then elemental warfare dire in heaven and earth awaked,
The fires descended from above, the ground with terror quaked;
The people all were much appalled, their hearts with fear did fail,

And then they bought a fire-engine—then they built a jail!—
The relevancy do not ask—it matters not to know—
But things were mixed up terribly a hundred years ago.

Then lotteries were recognized, and none rebuked the scheme
To buy a library of books by what we wicked deem;
The town a hundred tickets took, the proceeds to inure
To help erect a tenement in which to keep the poor;
But if they blanks or prizes drew, the record does not show—
Perhaps the fathers were in luck a hundred years ago.

Then the gallows was resorted to in settling mortal ill,
And Dow, of Hampton Falls, was hanged, who Peter Clough did kill.
Ah, sadly did he expiate that grievous public wound—
For every grain of that he did they hanged him by the Pound!
Of course I mean the cattle-pound—up here a mile or so,
Where the stray “critters” all were put, a hundred years ago.

Our sires were loyal to the king, and caps were wildly swung
When, British arms triumphant, 'twas told glad crowds among,
And when Quebec was captured, the guns and bells proclaimed
The joy, and fires on Windmill Hill in cheerful brightness flamed;
Processions moved about the streets, and punch in streams did flow!—
Ah! those were rum old times indeed a hundred years ago.

Then Portsmouth girls were just as fair as those that greet us now—
A Strawberry Bank pre-eminence, that all did e'er allow;
Coquetry then was rarely known and found but seldom dupes,
And dress was rather limited in magnitude of hoops,
But graces unadorned combined to win them many a beau
(As now desired by them all) a hundred years ago.

And then the earnest thinking men began to feel their night,
They had no sunshine of their own, but moved by borrowed light;

They wished intelligence to spread, New Hampshire wilds to bless,
And Heaven, to cheer their darkness, lent their need a printing press;
The old Gazette, time-honored name, then broke the shell, we know,
A sturdy chicken, hatched by Fowle, a hundred years ago.

And how the people wondered when first the sheet appeared!
It was the greatest miracle that e'er their vision cheered;
They thought its words of wisdom than Solomon's more wise,
And Daniel Fowle no vulgar fowl, but Bird of Paradise;
And deemed the ancient pressman, Prime (a negro black as sloe),
More than a common colored man a hundred years ago.

'Twas no broad acre that of news, for mails were scarcely known;
They subject were to obstacles, as well as to the crown;
The post came through but once a week, and scarcely brought a word
That might the pulse of man or mouse in our late day have stirred;

100

Though this perhaps was fast enough when everything was slow,
As we may well suppose it was a hundred years ago.

And when in Boston there prevailed a fatal pestilence,
And careful Portsmouth selectmen conceived a safety fence
Across Great Swamp, to head the plague and keep it from the town,
And smoked the mails (and females too) before they'd let them down,—
We've wondered how the editor contrived to make a show,
For local news was very scarce a hundred years ago.

But patrons were more patient then, and did not make to-do;
Excuses they admitted and regarded them as true;
They read the little they obtained, each word upon the page,
Till bold John Stavers, four-in-hand, appeared upon the stage,
And then the mails more steady grew, as he drove to and fro
The first stage in America a hundred years ago.

There came no quick electric spark along a path of wire,
To give the people notes from far, of good news or of dire;

101

Elections then were never known, except that Calvin taught,
And, save the South and old North Church, the South and North were nought;
Kansas was not created yet, so far as they could know
Who printed off the old Gazette a hundred years ago.

Then poetry ne'er blazed in verse, and sentiment was rare,
The editor, in language terse, spoke at his subject square;
No drops e'er fell upon the page from eyes with sorrow wet;
No laughter sprang from printed fun in rich harmonious jet;
The people were averse to verse,—cared more for use than show,—
They had no music in their souls a hundred years ago.

No fashion plates bewitched the maids, in homespun glories clad,
No flaming advertisements told where luxuries could be had,
No selling out at less than cost, no bankrupt stocks of goods,
No damaged articles late wet in some fictitious floods,

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No lure held out to hide the trap that lay concealed below,
For humbug wasn't understood a hundred years ago.

Then careful ships three times a year brought tidings from beyond
The dark and stormy waters of the mighty “herring pond,”
Giving the news of the other climes, their markets and their fights,
Telling of continental scenes, their wrongs and eke their rights,
Telling of London, and the King, and Parliament also—
Our sires rejoiced in things like these a hundred years ago.

People contented were, and still, and plodded on their way,
Scarce ever looking from the town until their dying day;
And when they shuffled off the coil, they didn't leave their ground,
But even now, as we have shown, they yet are knocking round;
As was their light they faithful walked, and did their work below,
And “Slow and sure” their motto was a hundred years ago.

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The raps here ceased; I asked for more, but only this could hear:
“Compare your present with the past and see how you appear;
See if your light has been bestowed the public mind to guide,
Or if a Jack-o'lantern, mere, to dump men in the tide;
And if you would be profited by what we hereby show,
Try to be honest as they were a hundred years ago.”

A Poem, following an Address by Rev. Andrew P. Peabody, D. D., at the Centennial Anniversary of the establishment of the Press in New Hampshire. Portsmouth, October 6, 1856.