I rode through town that afternoon, and it was not entirely because time
hung heavily on my hands. We were proud of our town. The houses were as
elegant and substantial as any you could find. Our streets were broad
and even. Our walks were paved with brick. There was not a finer tavern
than ours to the north of Boston, or better dressed men frequenting it.
Men said in those days that we would be a great seaport; that the world
would look more and more to that northern Massachusetts river mouth.
They had spoken thus of many other harbor towns in the centuries that
men have gone down to the sea. I think they have been wrong almost as
often as they had predicted. The ships have ceased to sail over the bar.
No one heeds the rotting planking of the wharves. The clang of hammers
and the sailors' songs have gone, and trade and gain and venture have
gone with them.

Strange, as I recall that afternoon. They were building a new L to the
tavern. Tradespeople were busy about their shops. Coaches newly painted,
and drawn by well-matched horses, rolled by me. Gentlemen in bright new
coats, servants in new family livery, sailors from the docks, clerks from
the counting houses, all gave the street a busy air--lent it a pleasant
assurance of affluence.

I was mistaken when I thought I could ride by as a stranger might. It
seemed to me that there was no one too busy to stop and look, to turn and
whisper a word to someone else. They had learned already that I was my
father's son. I could feel a hot flame of anger burning my cheeks, the
old, stinging passion of resentment I had felt so often when my father's
name was mentioned. They knew me. Their looks alone told that, but never
a nod, or smile of greeting, marked my return.