An Old Town By the Sea | Page 6

midwinter after a heavy snowstorm. You may walk for miles under
wonderful silvery arches formed by the overhanging and interlaced
boughs of the trees, festooned with a drapery even more graceful and
dazzling than springtime gives them. The numerous elms and maples
which shade the principal thoroughfares are not the result of chance,
but the ample reward of the loving care that is taken to preserve the
trees. There is a society in Portsmouth devoted to arboriculture. It is not
unusual there for persons to leave legacies to be expended in setting out
shade and ornamental trees along some favorite walk. Richards Avenue,
a long, unbuilt thoroughfare leading from Middle Street to the South
Burying-Ground, perpetuates the name of a citizen who gave the labor
of his own hands to the beautifying of that windswept and barren road
the cemetery. This fondness and care for trees seems to be a matter of
heredity. So far back as 1660 the selectmen instituted a fine of five
shillings for the cutting of timber or any other wood from off the town
common, excepting under special conditions.
In the business section of the town trees are few. The chief business
streets are Congress and Market. Market Street is the stronghold of the
dry-goods shops. There are seasons, I suppose, when these shops are
crowded, but I have never happened to be in Portsmouth at the time. I
seldom pass through the narrow cobble-paved street without wondering
where the customers are that must keep all these flourishing little
establishments going. Congress Street--a more elegant thoroughfare
than Market--is the Nevski Prospekt of Portsmouth. Among the

prominent buildings is the Athenaeum, containing a reading-room and
library. From the high roof of this building the stroller will do well to
take a glance at the surrounding country. He will naturally turn seaward
for the more picturesque aspects. If the day is clear, he will see the
famous Isle of Shoals, lying nine miles away--Appledore, Smutty-Nose,
Star Island, White Island, etc.; there are nine of them in all. On
Appledore is Laighton's Hotel, and near it the summer cottage of Celia
Thaxter, the poet of the Isles. On the northern end of Star Island is the
quaint town of Gosport, with a tiny stone church perched like a sea-gull
on its highest rock. A mile southwest form Star Island lies White Island,
on which is a lighthouse. Mrs. Thaxter calls this the most picturesque
of the group. Perilous neighbors, O mariner! in any but the serenest
weather, these wrinkled, scarred, are storm-smitten rocks, flanked by
wicked sunken ledges that grow white at the lip with rage when the
great winds blow!
How peaceful it all looks off there, on the smooth emerald sea! and
how softly the waves seem to break on yonder point where the
unfinished fort is! That is the ancient town of Newcastle, to reach
which from Portsmouth you have to cross three bridges with the most
enchanting scenery in New Hampshire lying on either hand. At
Newcastle the poet Stedman has built for his summerings an enviable
little stone chateau--a seashell into which I fancy the sirens creep to
warm themselves during the winter months. So it is never without its
singer.
Opposite Newcastle is Kittery Point, a romantic spot, where Sir
William Pepperell, the first American baronet, once lived, and where
his tomb now is, in his orchard across the road, a few hundred yards
from the "goodly mansion" he built. The knight's tomb and the old
Pepperell House, which has been somewhat curtailed of it fair
proportions, are the objects of frequent pilgrimages to Kittery Point.
From the elevation (the roof of the Athenaeun) the navy yard, the river
with its bridges and islands, the clustered gables of Kittery and
Newcastle, the illimitable ocean beyond make a picture worth climbing
four or five flights of stairs to gaze upon. Glancing down on the town

nestled in the foliage, it seems like a town dropped by chance in the
midst of a forest. Among the prominent objects which lift themselves
above the tree tops are the belfries of the various churches, the white
façade of the custom house, and the mansard and chimneys of the
Rockingham, the principal hotel. The pilgrim will be surprised to find
in Portsmouth one of the most completely appointed hotels in the
United States. The antiquarian may lament the demolition of the old
Bell Tavern, and think regretfully of the good cheer once furnished the
wayfarer by Master Stavers at the sign of the Earl of Halifax, and by
Master Stoodley at his inn on Daniel Street; but the ordinary traveler
will thank his stars, and confess that his lines have fallen in pleasant
places, when he finds himself among the frescoes of the Rockingham.
Obliquely opposite the doorstep of