From the July 28, 1869 issue of the Provincetown Advocate, selected and edited by Kaimi Rose Lum
Pond Village is more regularly built than Provincetown, but stands in a cramped position under a hill, from whose top there is a fine view of the bay, and of the ocean beyond, on the “backside.” … On the hill’s highest pinnacle stands the ancient cemetery, where rest the bones of many a son of Truro who lost his life upon her shores.
Long ago the inhabitants changed the town’s original name from Dangerfield to Truro; and the anger of the waves seems to have been appeased, for there are comparatively few wrecks on any portion of the shore of late years. The cemetery’s location was the occasion of a good joke once. Just as the mail coach was climbing the hill under it, one day, some years ago, several satirical passengers not “to the manner born” began commenting on the general barrenness of things about them, and halloed to the driver to choose them a good lot, where the neighbors were not quarrelsome. He whipped his horses up the steep, hurried to the cemetery and said gravely, “This is the location for you, gentlemen!”
Trundle across a sand plain, and ascend a steep hill, where the dismantled windmill stands guardian, and you are on the Highland, where stands one of the most important of our coast lights. The combined height of the tower and the bank on which it stands is 190 feet. It is a pleasant spot with more verdure than you may see elsewhere between Provincetown and Truro; and a pure wind blows constantly, even in the warmest weather. I was pleased to see that the hens kept their chickens carefully away from the edge of the high bank, doubtless feeling that the feathered mites would instantly be absorbed into space, if they ventured too far. The lighthouse keeper came out to meet me, and welcomed company with evident pleasure. Only in midsummer has he any society. The great Fresnel light in the tower’s cap is of the first order, and there are only two or three of equal capacity on the state’s coast. It consumes a gallon and a half of the purest lard oil nightly, and a watcher always stays by it. The gleam that may be seen 30 miles away, however, hardly gives light enough in the tower where it stands to read by. …
The cliff is so steep that I was within a step of the edge before I saw how perpendicular it sank into the waves, and how they had to cut into it to make themselves a beach. But there was ocean! One hundred feet below, crawling sublimely forward, breaking into myriads of white crested waves, only to combine and pursue its restless course again. I held my breath and gazed out, almost awestricken by the grandeur. … He must indeed be a base man who could live upon that cliff and think bad thoughts, or even do a bad deed. I never saw a calmer, purer face that that of the light-keeper. —E.K.
