increase of these odd sticks—­if I may call them so, in no irreverent mood—­after 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 extinct—­a thing little likely—­he 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 crier—­one Nicholas Newman, whom I used to contemplate with awe, and now recall with a sort of affection.

Nicholas Newman—­Nicholas was a sobriquet, his real name being Edward—­was 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’clock—­the 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,