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