PORTSMOUTH AND KITTERY. 227 of New Hampshire." The royal heart, we are told, was touched, and the king commanded Massachusetts to surrender her claim to two tiers of townships, twenty-eight in number, thus giving New Hampshire her present sea-coast, a narrow strip of only eighteen miles width. The seaside. hotel and cottage, developing farther inland into farms with stately old mansions, are the universal development of this region. The plains near the coast do not, however, stretch far into the interior, for the surface soon becomes broken and rugged, rising into higher and higher hills until they culminate in the magnificent scenery of the White Mountains. In fact, between its popular seabeaches, splendid lakes, and grand mountain-district New Hampshire is an almost universal resort for the tourist and summer saunterer, and is filled with hotels and boardinghouses, some bearing most aristocratic names. It is not singular, therefore, that the shaft of satire should have been levelled during the recent moist season at one of the many hotels of this scenic State: "In a certain part of New Hampshire, Where the true name should be 'Dampshire,' Has a host so conscientious That he calls his boarding-house the 'Montague."" PORTSMOUTH AND KITTERY. It does not take long for the railway-train to cross the narrow strip of New Hampshire only about thirty-five minutes-between Newburyport and Portsmouth, from the Merrimac to the Piscataqua River, between which it is enclosed. In a brief space we are upon the border of Portsmouth, and pass "Frank Jones & Son's Brewery," emitting a strong odor of not very fresh beer, and a reminder of the man who is a robust opponent of prohibitory laws and is said to chiefly own this part of New Hampshire. He has been shrewd enough to recently sell his great brewery to an English syndicate for a round sum. Portsmouth is a small town, quiet and quaint, the river flowing past with rapid tidal stream, and having upon an island of the opposite shore the well-known Kittery Navy-yard of Maine. This river is really a strait, broadening into a bay some distance above Portsmouth, and thus carrying such an enormous tidal current that the harbor is always free from ice. In this venerable and tranquil place, which has stood still for a good while, commerce has about surrendered sway to the superior attractions of the modern summer resort, and one almost envies the home-like charms of the comfortable old dwellings that slumber in their extensive gardens. To this spot came "the founder of New Hampshire," Captain Mason, who had been the governor of the South Sea Castle in Portsmouth harbor, England, and at his suggestion the settlement, originally called Strawberry Bank from the abundance of its growth of wild strawberries, was called Portsmouth. He wrote that it was "a name most suitable for the place, it being the river's mouth, and as good as any in the land." The old town to-day has barely nine thousand people. Its quietness and ancient ways have been too tame for the younger generation, who have gone elsewhere to seek their fortunes. Portsmouth harbor is bordered by islands, and in fact the whole region adjacent to the Piscataqua seems interlaced with waterways, dividing it into many islands with picturesque shores, some of them yet bearing the remains of the old forts that defended the port in the troublous colonial times. Upon Continental Island is the Kittery Navyyard, near which is the village of Kittery Point, where was born and is buried the greatest man of colonial fame in these parts, Sir William Pepperell, the famous leader of the expedition that captured Louisburg from the French in 1745, for which he was knighted. "LADY WENTWORTH OF THE HALL.” 229 66 LADY WENTWORTH OF THE HALL." Among the islands adjoining Portsmouth harbor, and having a broad beach facing the sea, is Newcastle Island, which for the annual fee of three peppercorns was incorporated by King William III. and Queen Mary. Here lived in semi-regal state the Wentworths, who were the colonial governors, and their memory is preserved in the colossal Wentworth Hotel, whose vast proportions are visible far over land and sea. Newcastle Village to-day is a straggling fishing-settlement, but the Wentworth mansion at Little Harbor, wherein was held the provincial court, still remains-an irregular, quaint, but picturesque building of considerable size, having within it the councilchamber and some interesting old portraits. Far away to the northward rises the isolated peak of the adjacent Maine coast, the broad-topped Mount Agamenticus, which was the throne of the Indian sagamore Passaconoway, whom the local legends describe as St. Aspenquid. To the southward is the wide sweep of Ipswich Bay, enclosed by the long, slender arm of Cape Ann, and having in its graceful curve the Rye and Hampton Beaches. The most noted occupant of Wentworth House was the courtly but gouty old governor Benning Wentworth, who named Bennington, Vermont, and whose wedding on his sixtieth birthday has given Longfellow one of his most striking themes. As we read his graceful poem one can almost see Martha Hilton as she goes along the street swinging her pail and splashing with the water her naked feet. Mistress Stavers in her furbelows, the buxom landlady at the inn, feels called upon to give her sharp reproof: "Oh, Martha Hilton! fie! how dare you go About the town half-dressed and looking so?"" To this the gypsy laughed and saucily replied: "No matter how I look, I yet shall ride In my own chariot, ma'am.' In course of time Martha came to be employed at Wentworth House as maid-of-all-work, not wholly unobserved by the old governor, as the sequel proved. He arranged a feast for his sixtieth birthday, and all the great people of the colony were at his table. Of it the poet sings: "When they had drunk the king with many a cheer, Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there, "The listening guests were greatly mystified: Then I command you as chief magistrate.' THE ISLES OF SHOALS. 231 XXXII. THE ISLES OF SHOALS. ONE of the strangest places on the Atlantic coast is the collection of crags and reefs out in the ocean off Portsmouth harbor known as the Isles of Shoals. We start from the wharf on a little steamer to go out there. The tidal current of the Piscataqua River moves swiftly past the almost idle wharves of the town, where two or three schooners are unloading Pennsylvania coal. The front of the port gives evidence that a large commerce once existed, but has passed away, for many of the quays are now abandoned and overgrown with weeds. Yachts and row-boats dot the water, as pleasure-seekers are numerous, and over opposite is the State of Maine, its shores being a succession of islands, the white buildings of the navy-yard, its shiphouses, and dock spreading broadly across the view. The flag floats from a tall staff, and a little steam-launch briskly crosses the river toward us, making a sort of ferry, but the navy-yard itself seems almost idle, a vessel or two being outfitted, and the vast establishment, much like League Island, is waiting for the new American navy to be created, so that it may get business. The green and sloping shores of the surrounding islands frame it in and make a pleasant picture, while a corvette moored in front has her flag flying apeak, ready to go to sea. We steam down the crooked river, threading our way among the islands of the harbor, passing the abandoned forts below the town, and skirting the attractive shore of Newcastle Island and its fishing village, with the huge Wentworth Hotel rising against the southern sky. Soon we pass the lighthouses, and, leaving Whale's Back Light on our left, are out at Ahead, and about six miles off shore, looms up the dim and shadowy outline of the islands, lying like a cloud along the edge of the horizon. The prow is turned toward sea. |