# Down East Latch Strings/Chapter 23

Now a new interest lay ahead,—glimpses of old colonial seaports and coast scenery, and reminiscences of that Pilgrim history in which every American must feel the keenest interest; for we were going homeward along the Eastern Division, or coast line of railroad, extending from Portsmouth to Boston.
"It is perfectly natural," remarks Baily, "that all these places along the northern shore of Massachusetts should become, as they are doing, the haunt of a constantly increasing throng of pilgrims."
"Of course it is. There is scarcely a headland, a reef, an island, a hill, and certainly not one of the older towns, on the coast between Boston and Portland, which is not linked with some noteworthy incident in our history, or about which poetry has not thrown some of its own peculiar charm. There is not a town on this seaboard but was the home of ancestors for a time of all who are of New England descent; not an old graveyard but we find in it stones marking their last resting-places."
"Yes," Prue assents; and here, too, have lived and written the masters of our literature, and I believe that before long, the scenes of many of the poems of Whittier, Longfellow or Celia Thaxter; of the romances of Hawthorne, the river-voyages of Thoreau, and quantities of other stories, and travels, and essays written under these mossy roofs, will be as eagerly searched for, and regarded with as much interest, as are now the spots described in Wordsworth's Excursion or in Scott's Lady of the Lake."
The principal charm of this coast to many, however, will not be its historical associations, but the rare beauty of its scenery. There are other parts of our great seaboard which surpass this in grandeur,—as at Mount Desert or Grand Manan; and possibly in loveliness, as in eastern Long Island; but there is no part where so many of the elements ​of beauty are found in perfect combination. Here, richly cultivated fields and green lawns slope down to the water's edge, and picturesque cottages crown every knoll; while close at hand may rise a rugged hill, clothed as it has been for centuries with pine, its base torn and rent into a thousand fantastic shapes by the ever-restless sea. Nestled the foot of some sheltered cove you come upon a quaint fisherman's hamlet, and on the other side of the point may be a city's wharves. Beaches of unsurpassed beauty are broken by cliffs, where one can sit unwearied for hours and watch the breaking waves. And all along the coast there rises a range of hills from whose tops are most enchanting views, in which sea and land, city and village, meadow and forest, blend in a picture of indescribable beauty.
"The interest and profit of a holiday spent upon the eastern shore of New England will be greatly increased if one has some previous knowledge, however slight, of the local history of the places to be visited. To obtain this will not be difficult, as nearly every place has a a library, in which half-an-hour judiciously spent will enable one to obtain a general outline of the history, together with the most important events connected with the place. It is wise also, in every place, to make the first visit to the top of some hill, securing if possible, the services of an intelligent person to point out the various objects of interest. Of the value of a fortnight's excursion of this kind in this part of our country it is difficult to speak too highly."
At Portsmouth, then, (whose hotel accommodations are the envy of its neighbors), we halted, long enough to take a long drive and a sail over to the Isles of Shoals, and a trip to York beach (a description of which has already been given,—Chap. V.), by the new branch railroad, some ten miles long, which now runs to the beach from this city.
Pring, in 1603, Champlain, in 1605, and Smith, in 1614, all reconnoitered this bay, and the latter attached his name to what are now called the Isles of Shoals. They properly describe the river-month as a bay obstructed by large islands and indenting the rocky shores with many inlets. On one of these islands is now the Kittery navy-yard; on another, constituting the ancient town of Newcastle, the great Wentworth Hotel, looking southward across Little harbor to the mainland cape which divides the bay from the open sea. This is Odiorne's point, and here, in 1623, John Mason, representing the Laconia Commercial Company, built the first house in New Hampshire, the foundations of which may still be traced. A few years later, the company chose a site for its "great house" on an eminence farther up the river, marked on the maps since Smith's voyage as Strawberry hill or Strawberry bank, now in the southern part of the city. This was in 1631. There dwelt Capt. Walter Neale, the first governor, a soldier of fortune, who discovered the White Mountains and named them the Chrystal Hills. There originated the enterprise which developed Portsmouth and the valleys of the upper Merrimac, Piscataqua and Saco. It was not a religious ​but a money-making community, and hence the picture of the earliest civilization here has a brightness that does not belong to that of its Pilgrim neighbors.
Explorations soon showed that the dream of gold and precious stones, or even of mines of baser metals, had been a "baseless fabric," but commerce widened, and with wealth grew its pomp and circumstance. Many stately relics still remain of these busy old merchant days which preceded the Revolution (the first overt act of rebellion against the crown was committed here in seizing the powder stored in Fort William and Henry, in December of 1774,—the powder whose opportune arrival saved us at the battle of Bunker Hill), and put to shame newer and perhaps more costly houses. Whatever direction the rambler takes through Portsmouth's streets,—so beautifully shaded with the mighty elms and maples the fathers planted,—he will come upon notable houses, some of which, like the Ladd, Warner and Langdon mansions, are among the finest existing specimens of our colonial architecture.
The most remarkable of them all is the Wentworth mansion at Little harbor, about two miles from the centre of the city, a pleasant walk or an even more delightful boating excursion. It is a curious, rambling old place, built by the last colonial governor, Benning Wentworth, in 1750, for a refuge from the turmoil (and gossip, perchance) of the busy town. The house itself is substantially as when the old governor left it. The old front door, now disused, opens into a surprisingly small entry in which are still the racks for the muskets of the governor's guard. At the right, and on a lower plane, is the council chamber,—an imposing room with an elaborate wooden mantel, the carving of which is said to have required a year's labor. Several notable portraits adorn the walls, one by Copley. Beyond, is the billiard room, in which stands an ancient spinnet, strangely suggestive of the revelry that ceased long ago; and revelry did go on, for the Wentworths were a wild lot, and this one, as everybody knows, graced a banquet on the night of his birthday by marrying Martha Hilton, his maid-servant, who, by the way, was quite as good, or better than he, in all save polish of manners. Both Whittier and Longfellow have woven the incident into poems, but neither author could save the censure of Lady Wentworth's descendants, on the score of too free "poetic license." When the old governor died, his wife married a younger Wentworth, and with her husband entertained Washington when, in 1789, he made a sort of triumphal progress through these colonies. That is the last memorable festivity the old house saw. Its rooms and furniture are now cared for, and a fee of twenty-five cents is charged to visitors as a contribution toward the expense of this worthy guardianship.
The gay influences of which I have spoken are seen in the appearance of the town. It is as venerable and quiet as any of these seaports, whose best days came to an end when the Embargo act of 1812 put a ​ ​stop to their marine enterprises; yet its broad and open streets, and its hundreds of fine old mansions do not carry with their age decay or mould, but elegance and traditions of good cheer. "This, with her well-preserved colonial architecture and long descended household furniture, china and silver, and the gentility befitting such inheritances, as well as that which comes from breeding and ancestry, make up the chief charm of Portsmouth.…The completed and restful look of everything make one grateful for the fate which has left it undevastated by improvements." It must not be supposed that Portsmouth is dilapitated or at all behind the age in feeling, however. The time-worn streets are lighted by electricity; the ancient mansions are furnished with modern appliances for comfort; over their mossy gables are strung telephone wires, and the minds of their occupants are wide-awake. Yet the past has always been respected, so that no wanton change, or brash parvenuism disturbs either the self-satisfaction of the older citizens, or that unity of appearance with historic interest which is so charming to strangers.
One of the most delightful walks is down to the scene of the first landing at Odiorne's point, where that family has a homestead dating back to 1660, and then over to Newcastle, on Great island, concerning which Mr. John Albee has lately written a rambling history full of antiquarian enthusiasm.
A mile from Newcastle village stands the The Wentworth, one of largest and finest summer hotels on the eastern coast. "It stands on a bluff overlooking the sea and the whole surrounding country. On the west may be seen the Pawtuckaway mountains, in Nottingham, Saddle-back mountain, in Deerfield, 'The Blue hills of Strafford,' and on the north, in a clear atmosphere, the White Mountains. In the foreground are the three bridges connecting the island with the mainland and the quaint old city of Portsmouth, with its environs and harbor full of little islets, twenty in number. On the north are the navy yard, Kittery Foreside, and Mount Agamenticus, the throne of the great sagamore, Passaconoway, known in legend as St. Aspenquid. On the northeast you look down on the mouth of the 'gay Piscataqua,' and the compact village of Newcastle on its south bank flanked by Fort Constitution and the antique Walbach martello tower, said to have been built in one night in anticipation of an English invasion.
"On the other side of the river arc Kittery point, the home of Sir William Pepperell, Gerrish's island (which contains the cairn of the royal Champernowne), and the long broken coast of Maine. East is the Atlantic ocean and the Isles of Shoals, six miles distant. Looking southeast you see Ipswich bay, enclosed by the long, slender arm of Cape Ann. In the bend of Ipswich bay are the Rye and Hampton beaches, six and ten miles distant. Coming nearer are Odiorne's and Frost's points. Between the hotel and these two points ​ ​is Little harbor, forming an inland lake suited to fishing, boating, and bathing. On the southwest and west is a wooded country, through which runs the beautiful Sagamore creek, emptying into Little harbor directly opposite the hotel. On the shores of this creek are many picturesque old houses, among them the noted Martine mansion, the Lear Hermitage, and at its mouth the famous Wentworth house."
On Kittery point stands "the queer old Fort McClary, a nondescript structure, half wood, half stone, and many-angled; something between a block house and a Martello tower." A little distance eastward of it is the mansion of Sir William Pepperell, and his tomb. Sir William was a trader and the son of a trader; a militia colonel, rich, prosperous, a man of probity and sagacity, and the central human figure in these parts, in the first half of the 18th century. In the French war of 1745, he was selected, in spite of the fact that the governor of the province, the doughty old Benning Wentworth, might have gone, to lead that famous expedition against the citadel of Louisburg. Vaughn and Portsmouth did most of the practical work of gaining the victory, but Pepperell got the lion's share of the credit and the first knighthood issued to an American. Besides his own mansion, there are several others in Kittery associated with his name or fame: the Bray house, built in 1660; the Sparhawk house; the Cutts house, of tragical history; and others. Indeed, it has been said that in his prime he could travel from here to the Saco and always sleep under his own roof. Francis Campernowne is another name of noble descent, identified with early history at Kittery; and the boat-ride around the point and along the shores to Spruce creek, which leads up to York, is a delightful experience for the student of colonial annals.
Of one little incident whose sequel we have already learned (Chapter V.), a word ought to be said. In September, 1775, two British ships of war, the Scarborough and the Canceaux, were in Portsmouth harbor, and ready to carry away Gov. John Wentworth. They were also ready to burn the city; but "the fascinating Mary Sparhawk, the Tory belle of Kittery, captivated the heart of the Canceaux' commander, Captain Mowatt, and changed his fell purpose." She thought Portland would do just as well to sack as Portsmouth; and so he sailed away to that port, and burned 400 houses. Thus Mr. Albee tells the story; and it is very likely that the gallant captain wanted pretty Polly Sparhawk to believe her influence so effective; but in reality, the memory of his insult on Munjoy hill, must have been more potent than regard for either Portsmouth or the belle of Kittery.
From Jaffrey point and other headlands of the shore at Portsmouth, the Isles of Shoals, only six miles away, show plainly their low outline. "Often, however," remarks Mr. Albee, "the mirage elevates them, and then they resemble the chalk cliff's of the English channel; sometimes changing to the battlements and towers of a feudal city, then ​fading away, as if raised and dispelled by enchantment. Every day brings some change in their appearance. Though anchored, they seem to have the mobility of the sky and the water. One day they are on the farthest horizon-line; another they are but a step.…They are our weather-glass; and we judge of the day or the morrow, whether to fish or plant, according to their monitions."
It is not until you are close to it that any landing is visible upon Appledore, and then the steamer turns into a miniature harbor and lands at a little wharf in front of a big hotel and a group of cottages, where a confidential jollity reigns as the sentiment of the place, due to the close way in which everybody is thrown together on this lonely island. The northern part of Appledore, Charles Dudley Warner describes as an interesting place to wander. "There are no trees, but the plateau is far from barren. The gray rocks crop out among the bayberry and huckleberry bushes, and the wild rose, very large and brilliant in color, fairly illuminates the landscape, massing its great bushes. Amid the chaotic desert of broken rocks further south are little valleys of deep green grass, gay with roses. On the savage precipices at the end, one may sit in view of an extensive sweep of coast with a few hills, and of other rocky islands, sails, and ocean-going steamers. Here are many nooks and hidden corners to dream in and make love in, the soft air being favorable to that soft-hearted occupation."
A little steamboat does the duty of ferry-boat between the islands, and is always available for a short excursion. By it you go to Star island where there is a bigger hotel, even, than that on Appledore. It was from a ledge at the southern end of this island that Miss Underhill was swept away in 1848 by an unexpected wave; and the hotel is surrounded by relics of Gosport.
A certain bright morning found us back from the Isles of Shoals and resuming our trip.
The first station south of Portsmouth is Greenland,—a small, fruit-raising centre, near which stands Breakfast hill, where a terrific battle with the Indians once occured.
"I reckon it was because of that icy mountain that Greenland was given its name," is Baily's somewhat ambiguous observation.
"Why?—What icy mountain?" ​"Breakfast hill.”
"Why icy? I persist."
"'Cold day when they got left.' Cold—icy mountain. See?"
"No, I don't. That's miserable, my friend. Try again."
"By the way," Prue interrupts, "who 'got left'—Indians or whites?"
Baily is disgusted and declines to answer. The questioner turns to me.
"I don't know, I forget," she forces me to acknowledge.
"Strikes me you're as weak in your facts as Mr. Baily is feeble in his wit."
This crushing retort enforces silence until the Hamptons come into view. Through this town runs that stream of which Whittier wrote his stirring poem The Wreck of Rivermouth. This river, or inlet, separates Salisbury beach, south of it, from Hampton beach. The latter beach is divided by Boar's Head, a noble bluff some seventy feet high, jutting far out into the ocean. To the north, beyond Little Boar's Head, a lesser bluff, lies the far-famed Rye beach, for many years the most frequented of all the beaches on the eastern shore. Its attractions, in addition to the bathing and the sea-views, consist principally of the pine-woods lining the shore and the beautiful country inland. The upper limit of this beach is Straw's point, which is near Portsmouth. From these headlands, on which cottages have been built and roads laid out, remarkably fine pictures up and down the coast are revealed:—
Stages run from Greenland and North Hampton stations to Rye beach, connecting with principal trains. Hampton "is now a quiet and pleasant land of peace and plenty, abounding in gray old colonial mansions and traversed by broad level roads." Hampton Falls is an ancient village, north of the station, in which lived the venerable Dr. Langdon, and here, in 1737, the governors and legislatures of Massachusetts and New Hampshire met, surrounded by military guards and all the pomp and circumstance possible, to confer upon the question of the boundary. They failed to agree and referred the matter to the king. His orders were intended to be carried out; but, in fact, it is only within two or three years that the precise limits of Massachusetts in this region have been settled. In early times Hampton river saw much West Indian and local commerce, ship-building and cod-fishing.
centuries to gather in August for a picnic on Salisbury beach, whose six miles of sand is skirted with cottages and hotels, and where is the scene of Whittier's Tent on The Beach. This gathering has of late years assumed enormous proportions, as many as 25,000 persons sometimes coming together and listening to speeches,—chiefly political. A branch-railway from Salisbury runs north to the busy, yet graceful, ​factory village of Amesbury, ensconced in hills overlooking the Merrimac, where Mr. Whittier lives, and to which there are many allusions in the poet's verses. It has been well said that his poems might serve as a guide to Essex county; and the best commentary upon them from this point of view will be found in an illustrated article by George M. White in Harper's Magazine for February, 1883.
Crossing the long and lofty bridge that spans the Merrimac, we find ourselves at Newburyport, and once more in Massachusetts.
"The pleasantest and easiest way to see Newburyport, and its parent town, Newbury, is to take a carriage, as many of the points of interest are some distance from the centre of the city. High street, which runs for about six miles on the ridge along the river, parallel with the shore, impresses one from the first by the noble trees which shade it, its great width, and the succession of old houses which line it on each side for a great part of the way. There is very little variety in the architecture. They are generally three stories high, the upper being lower-studded than the others, with the door in the middle, opening into a wide hall which runs through the centre of the house. The prevailing color is white; and they are all set back some distance from the sidewalk, with well kept door-yards." The size of these old houses is amazing. Each one would do for a hotel, if the spacious rooms were each cut up into suites; and the difference between the means and cost of building in those days and this, as well as the changed sentiment in regard to home-life and domestic economy generally, are suggested to every visitor.
Passing the Lower Green, the burying-ground of the first settlers above can be seen in a field on the right, where a few stones are still visible above the grass.
Up the river, one should visit the old ship-yards, now deserted and grass-grown, furnishing picture-subjects that an etcher would love to try his hand at. A mile further the quaint and beautiful chain-bridge is reached. This, the first bridge of the kind in the United States, was built in 1792, and crosses to Deer island, where is the summer residence of the novelist, Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford. Mr. Parton, the histo​rian, and his wife, "Fanny Fern," live not far away; the castle-like farmhouse of Sir Edward Thornton is in sight; while Ben: Perley Poore has the quaintest old "chateau," in the country, a short distance farther on. I think nothing could be more entertaining in the way of river scenery than the drive up the bank of the Merrimac, even as far as to Haverhill.
Another part of the city of great interest to the sight-seer, is the suburb Belleville, where the eccentric Lord Timothy Dexter used to live: the same who wrote the book in which all the punctuation marks were put in a lump at the end, to be distributed by the reader as he pleased.
These are all scenes and memorials of a peaceful history. The first settlers came in 1635, led by a minister named Parker, who had won fame at Oxford by his writings. They sailed up Parker river, and landed near where the bridge now crosses. This became the farming centre of Newbury, but at once there began to grow up, near the mouth of the Merrimac, a settlement devoted to fishing and maritime industries, which in 1764 was separately organized as Newburyport. It soon became one of the most important of New England's seaports, and built so many ships that in 1792 alone, ninety vessels left its stocks. From here sailed the first privateer commissioned by the American republic, fitted out by that great merchant, Nathaniel Tracy, in whose quandam mansion the Public Library is now domiciled. During the Revolutionary struggle Mr. Tracy sent out at his own cost no less than 47 ships of the same character, mounting 340 guns, and manned by 4,418 men. A thousand citizens, at least, were lost or captured at sea, and the town's war-expenses amounted to $2,500,000. With natural pride the citizens boast that their grandfathers destroyed tea in the Market square before the Mohawks threw it into Boston harbor.
"But the Revolution, and the drain of men for the Essex County regiments, checked the prosperity of the place, and in 1788 only three vessels were built. President Dwight says of the village in 1796, 'Indeed, an air of wealth, taste, and elegance is spread over this beautiful spot, with a cheerfulness and brilliancy to which I know no rival.' Washington, Lafayette, Talleyrand, Louis Philippe of France, and other famous men were entertained here by the aristocratic families. An extensive foreign commerce was firmly established, and in 1807 the tonnage of the port was over 30,000. The Embargo fell with crushing force upon this maritime industry, and the great fire of 1811, which swept away sixteen acres from the most densely built quarter, checked the prosperity of the town, and reduced its population to 6,388. Its valuation in 1810 was about the same as in 1870. The town grew slowly, and its Merrimac-built ships were famous throughout the world for fleetness, strength, and symmetry, and were made in large numbers until the decline of American commerce." (Sweetzer.) Of late years the cotton-mills, the shoe-manufactories, and the ship-yards (now, however, closed) have restored to the town something of its ancient activity.
​We greatly enjoyed driving about Newburyport, and spent two days in doing so very pleasantly, for we had a letter of introduction which furnished us with the most amiable of guides and companions. But to Baily the town wore an especially joyous look, for here he met,—whom do you think? The lady from Washington who had been the bright particular star of our little rainy-day party at Phillips, away down in Maine. I had felt—though I had pooh-poohed Prue's voluble assertions to the same effect—that our bachelor had been hard hit, as the saying is, by that young lady. I knew he had written to her, and that the letter cost him nearly a whole day's thought and pretty nearly a whole night's work, which was an entirely new manifestation of unreadiness in him; and I knew he had had at least one letter in return, which fact he begged me to conceal from Prue,—another novel development in his give-and-take good humor. And when we accidentally learned that she was here in Newburyport, and, a few moments afterward, by pure chance, met her in the street, discovering an acquaintance between her and our guide so that we were all thrown together, I no longer doubted my friend's sentiments.
That evening he detained me, as we were about to say good-night, and begged me to take a stroll with him and a cigar—you may be sure it was a good one!—before going to bed. I let him talk to suit himself, and it was not long before he came round to the subject nearest his heart and made a clean breast of the matter. I didn't attempt to discourage him,—had no wish nor any reason to dissipate by a word the sweet delusions with which he was pleasing himself in regard to this young lady, who was a fine girl to be sure, but yet, to my eyes, was not superhuman in qualities nor wholly unique in loveliness. Nor did he know, what I had happened to learn (but kept to myself), that the young lady had been the recipient of a legacy which placed her far above any need for service in the Treasury, or any where else, for pay, hereafter; so that his love was as instinctive and unselfish as that of Pyramus and Thisbe, or of any other fond pair, who ever yearned and dreamed, and came out of the clouds at last to find a firm footing together upon a smiling earth, and so "were happy ever afterward."
Well, Prue and I prolonged our stay a whole day more on Baily's account, and helped his courtship (unspoken, of course, as yet) all we could. I suppose Prue would have liked nothing better than to play mock-dueña for a month. But one day was all I could stand, and so the next morning we set off again on our travels homeward.
Newburyport left behind, the train carries us out across immense salt-marshes, whose hundreds—perhaps thousands—of haystacks, perched upon small piles, lifting them just out of reach of the tide, stand like an enormous encampment of Indians upon a prairie. The varying colors which at every season, but especially in the autumn, overspread these spacious grassy flatlands, are always changing and ​beautifully relieve the monotony which might otherwise condemn them. These marshes are in Rowley and are traversed by the winding and sluggish currents of the Rowley and Parker rivers. The people who settled the uplands along their borders happened to include several fullers, and they soon set up a small mill in which was made the first cloth manufactured on this continent by English people, or perhaps, by any European.
Next comes Ipswich, the ancient Agawam of which colonial history has so much to say, and where now is a village packed with reminiscences. All the early voyagers were greatly pleased with the place, which the Indians had selected before them as a favorite farming ground. "This place," says John Smith in 1614, "might content a right curious judgment. Heere are many rising hilles; and on their tops and descents many corne fields and delightfull groues."
It very narrowly escaped being the first landing place of the Mayflower, which sailed to Plymouth instead, only because there happened to be rough water on the bar. The first settlement was therefore deferred until 1633, when John Winthrop, Jr., bought the whole township of the Indians. The next year the Rev. Nathaniel Ward went there as pastor, and soon after wrote that famous tract called The Simple Cobler of Agawam in America, which was one of the earliest real estate advertisements issued in this country. Several of the men who succeeded to his pulpit were noted for authorship,—among the rest, William Hubbard. Near the station stands, perhaps, the oldest house in town. It is said to have been the garrison house, and also to have been, for a short time, the residence of Governor Endicott. It is well worth a visit. Passing up Market street the first object of interest is the house in the cellar of which the three regicide judges were hid from British officers. The church on the Green is built on the site of the one where Whitefield had his famous encounter with the devil, whom the stalwart preacher chased from corner to corner of the church, into the belfry and out upon the steeple, from which Satan was obliged at last to take a flying leap. Ascending Town hill at the head of the street, whence a very remarkable view of sea, dune-marked shore and rolling meadows is obtained, and passing along the ridge, the ancient grave-yard is reached, where an hour can be whiled away among the crumbling and curious stones that marked the dead-and-gone celebrities of Agawam. One stone goes back to 1647. Crossing Choate's bridge,—anybody will tell you the story of its building a century ago, and how the people meant to hang Choate if it fell down—you reach the Baker house, reputed the oldest in town; and then may climb the hill where an Indian maiden sat so long that her ghost is thought to be there still, awaiting the return of her lost sailor-lover.
Essex and Wenham stations are parts of old Agawam, and in each there is material enough for a whole book of pleasant reminiscences. Then comes Beverly, with a more modern air, and a little later we dodge into a short tunnel and out again under the roof of the Salem station.
"I suppose no one ever comes to Salem for the first time," Prue observes, as we saunter down the crooked main street, "without thinking, first of all, of the witchcraft; and that is unfortunate, because that panic lasted only a little while, and did not begin in Salem, but up in Danvers, and a great many people outside of this one town were engaged in it."
"Very true. Why, even down in Virginia they treated some old people abominably—even put them to death—on the same charge."
"For that matter half the world believes in witchcraft still," Baily adds. "But are we going to Gallows hill, where they hanged some of the poor wretches in 1692, and out to old Salem Village to see the houses and other relics of the panic?"
"Not I, for one!" exclaimed our lady. "The sooner it is forgotten the better. Let's walk about the town—it is really a beautiful and busy old place, they say—and then run down to Marblehead."
"Agreed."
To this harbor, in September of 1628, came the vessel bringing Governor John Endicott and his company, to join the few families under Roger Conant who had retreated to Naumkeag, as the locality was called, from the inhospitable shores of Cape Ann. (The Pilgrims seem to have had the most singular success in hitting for their first residences upon precisely the worst situations to be found along the whole coast). The next summer a large number of colonists arrived, the best known of whom was Francis Higginson; and the year following came Governor Winthrop. The town grew steadily and spread peacefully into the neighboring country, but little of startling incident belongs to its story up to those fatal days of 1692, which have lent to it such sad celebrity. Almost the only notable circumstance earlier than the witchcraft frenzy, was the expulsion of Roger Williams. The tiny church in which he preached during his brief ministry can still be seen behind Plummer Hall; and the house where he lived stands on the corner of Essex and North streets. As some of the official proceedings in the witch trials of 1692 took place before Judge Jonathan Carver, who was its occupant at that time, it has since been known as "the witch-house." Leaving these gruesome times, and that darkened locality, we seek along the water-front traces of Salem's subsequent prosperity, for it was as a ​maritime place that she steadily grew in numbers and importance. All that she saw of war was one Sunday morning in February, 1775, when General Leslie marched over North bridge in his unsuccessful attempt to seize some cannon belonging to the citizens. She sent many men into the Continental ranks, however, while her fishermen and sailors became the flower of the navy.
At the close of the war, the East India trade was opened, and Salem flourished exceedingly until the ruin of 1812 overtook her commerce. It was during this time of great fleets and fabulous profits, when her merchants were princes, in truth, and Salem captains were swaggering in every port of the world, advertising Yankee shrewdness, pluck, and ingenuity, it was then that these fine large houses were built, and these elegant gardens were planted that are the admiration of visitors to-day. To go down to Derby wharf and wander about the warehouses and the old custom house, recalling the scenes with which the century was ushered in there, is to get as near to the romance of commerce as is possible in this country; and perhaps, in general, there is more romance to the acre, in and about "peaceful" Salem, than anywhere else on the continent. Fortunately, too, so many books and magazine articles and stories have been written dealing with the old town and its history, that no one need burrow in the dust of mouldering buildings or records to acquaint himself with either of them.
"How natural it is, then," remarks Prue, "that the greatest romancer of our country should have been bred here." She was speaking, of course, of Nathaniel Hawthorne, whose birthplace on Union street we saw, and whose nook in the custom house, where he wrote The Scarlet Letter and so much more, was shown to us. But scores of other novelists and historians, warriors, politicians, and great teachers, have been sons of Salem, and its society now is singularly intellectual and aristocratic. Such institutions as Plummer Hall and its libraries; the Peabody Institute and Academy; the East India Marine Hall and Museum—the latter especially interesting—and the various schools of high degree, are testimonials to this regard for learning and refinement, past and present.
Salem, though likely to be thought of chiefly in connection with its past, is by no means dead. It has some 30,000 inhabitants and active business interests. These are mainly in the line of leather production and shoemaking, and have drawn into the outskirts of the city a large population of foreigners.
After we got through with our glance at Salem—and it was merely a glance—Madame Prue was in haste to go to Marblehead; but I, on the contrary, desired the party to follow me on a run down to Cape Ann and back. This Prue agreed to do if I would go with her to Marblehead later; but when Baily was consulted, he told us with a timid air, quite different from his ordinary self-assurance, that he must beg to be excused, as he had engaged to go to Newburyport that evening and stay through the next day.
​"There's some sort of a party on hand for this evening, you know, and tomorrow,—well—I believe there's to be a boating-picnic; and Miss—"
Yes, yes. "And Miss—" That would be all the tune now.
"Good-by, good-by,—old fellow," I said, and seized his hand, wrung it for an instant and turned aside with something that sounded like a sob.
"Farewell, farewell, dear friend. We'll never see thee more. Heaven bless you—ah!" And pressing her handkerchief to her o'erflowing eyes the gentle Prue drooped silently away.
"Well, of all the idiots I know," cried Baily, "you stand at the head. What do you mean by this infernal nonsense! Can't a man go to see his girl without being cried over as if he were going to be hanged?"
"Of course he can," Prue retorts, whirling round, her face sparkling with merriment, "if he will be above-board about it, and not sneak off as though he were ashamed of himself. Do you suppose that young lady, or any other, would feel flattered at hearing you apologize for wishing to spend some hours in her society? You're a goose!"
"I suppose I must be, as I am the next thing to a perfect duck," is Baily's repartee, as he boldly stands beside the little lady.
Thus we raised his spirits and sent him off rejoicing to his lady-love, while we took the train to Gloucester and Rockport.
This road branches from the main line at Beverly, an eastern suburb of Salem, devoted to leather and shoemaking on land and yachting on the water; in winter you may see dozens of crack sailing and steam-yachts hibernating alongside the railroad bridge. Turning seaward the road follows the coast, giving frequent views of the sea, for about seventeen miles, a little north of cast, to the barren, surf-beaten rocks at the end of Cape Ann. For the first half of this distance the shore is indented by numberless small coves, whose out-jutting promontories, each crowned with one or more red-roofed cottages, give it a singular attractiveness. But beyond the mouth of Gloucester harbor its character suddenly changes; and there are few places more suggestive of storm, shipwreck and death, than the rock-bound desolate shore from Eastern point to the end of the cape. A range of hills, rising often sheer from the water's edge, extends from Beverly to Rockport, the foot of the last, Pigeon hill, being washed by the ocean. At first these hills are densely wooded; but on the cape itself they are strewn for the most part with huge bowlders, between which, here and there, a stray pine finds scant room to grow, giving a sense of barrenness and desolation quite in harmony with the savage, storm-beaten shore. A turnpike, built through this rocky wilderness with great ingenuity and solidity, runs close to the water the whole way, affording, now glimpses of the sea, now wide panoramas in which water and land are mingled, until at length, at the uppermost point, the sea in all its magnificence holds undisputed sway over every sense.
​A little way beyond Beverly is the station Beverly Farms, which is justly regarded as one of the most attractive spots for a summer residence upon the whole coast. It is never overrun by a promiscuous swarm of visitors, as the land is almost entirely held by a few wealthy proprietors, who are constantly adding to the beauty of the shore by cultivation of its natural advantages and the building of most inviting looking houses. The beach is somewhat sheltered by Great Misery island, over which can be seen Baker's twin light-houses. Manchester-by-the-Sea, a little way beyond, is of the same character. William Black was entertained there during his American visit, and has incorporated an account of the place in his Green Pastures and Piccadilly. He speaks of it, in one reference, as "a small, scattered, picturesque watering-place, overlooking Massachusetts bay, the Swiss-looking cottages of wood dotted down anywhere on the high rocks above the strand," with many more words lending a romantic color to the place, such as we are accustomed to hear bestowed upon scenes of beauty in foreign lands, but that sound unreal, though none the less true, when applied to a home-locality. Beverly Farms, Manchester and Magnolia, the next community beyond, are the summer residence of many people of wealth in New England, not only, but boast among them a great many names of national repute; and it is not too much to say that no other piece of coast approaches this in the double charm of natural beauty and artistic cultivation. An indication of the kind of people who dwell there appears in the fact that the railway finds it profitable to run several fast trains a day, each way, to which are attached parlor cars, each seat in which is rented by the season to a regular passenger.
Magnolia takes its name from the abundance of magnolia trees in the woods,—a plant very uncommon elsewhere in New England. This part of the shore is growing in favor with the public, and is less exclusive than its southward neighbors. There are several hotels on the Point, which is some two miles from the station. Kettle and Knowlton's coves are pretty nooks in the granite coast-wall; and just beyond the latter is that remarkable break in the rocks called Rafe's chasm, where the surf makes a magnificent display in stormy weather.
As these woods and rocks are full of poets and painters, verses and pictures innumerable have been made in their glorification. "How charming the Manchester shore is, and how the people who own all these pretty houses," exclaims one enthusiast, "must hate to leave their perches on the rocks above the sea! Magnolia point used to be, once upon a time, the nearest approach to a French sketching town of which this shore could boast. Our easels by the roadside blew over as often as if we had been in Normandy, and, to my mind, the sea was much bluer and the sun brighter. I never can enter the wood by the little station without remembering the kind friends, the clever set, who used to sit on the platform here in October, with bundles of canvas, waiting regretfully for the Boston train."
​Picturesque in many ways, and especially about its wharves, yet expressing a wholly different sentiment, is Gloucester,—a city of 25,000 people at the head of a noble harbor, and the foremost fishing-port in the world. Whatever else it may do or appear to be, Gloucester, first and last, is fish: cod, halibut, mackerel,—mackerel, halibut, cod,—fresh, salted, dried, and smoked. Her fleets haunt the distant sea-banks, and her men serve in navies and the merchant-marine all round the world. If I should begin to tell such stories as you may hear upon her wharves, or on the decks of her beautiful schooners, or within the comfortable homes of her innumerable captains, there would be no ending. I must just say, therefore, to every and any inlander, that he Old wharves at Gloucester. will never regret a visit to Gloucester, nor find dull the reading of her annals and the study of her adventurous trade.
Beyond Gloucester the railroad climbs over a dreadful stretch of almost naked rocks to the odd little seaport of Rockport, whose tiny harbor is one of the most sketchable on all this picturesque coast. Rockport is famous for its quarries of granite which are a little outside of the village, and reached by a branch of the railway. How well-worth seeing these quarries are, to anyone with artistic appreciation, you can judge from the illustrations accompanying a brightly descriptive article upon them in Harper's Magazine for March, 1885.
​A little north of Rockport, beyond the great quarries, is Pigeon Cove, at the foot of Pigeon hill, whose green slopes are in striking contrast to the other rock-strewn hills of the cape. About fifty acres of land lying between this village and the northeastern end of the cape have been laid with streets and avenues in every direction. Many summer cottages and boarding-houses have been built, and the place attracts crowds of visitors and summer residents. The woods afford fine opportunities for rambling, while the ocean views are superb. Standing on the extremity of Halibut point, one could almost fancy himself on the deck of a ship far out at sea, but for the enormous waves, that, even on a calm summer's day, break at his feet. This is the very end of Cape Ann, thrust boldly out against the ocean; and it is covered thick with historical incidents belonging to the time of the earliest voyagers and colonists, to whom it was a landmark. Fine old traditions are rooted in the crevices of its rocks, and many a poem has been inspired there,—Whittier's Swan Song of Parson Avery, for one.
Following the wagon road around to the northern shore of the cape, and passing under the beautiful willow arch, the pedestrian reaches Lanesville, a part of Gloucester, and the home of fishermen and stone workers. Bay View is the bluff near by, where there are some noble summer residences and whence a fine and extensive view oceanward is given. The next point of interest is Annisquam, a quaint village built around the coves that form its harbors. To students it has lately become well known as the seat of a seaside school of natural history, which grew out of the fact that the United States Fish Commission made Gloucester its summer station for several years, a matter of great value not only to the town, but to the fisheries-interest of the whole country.
Of all the suburbs of Salem, none is more interesting than antique Marblehead, which once was the second settlement in New England in wealth and extent of its commerce. It was hard for us to realize this fact, as we wandered about the charmingly irregular streets of this most picturesque of all our sea-shore places; though every few steps brought us in sight of some stately relic of the fortunate past. Save for yachts and a few coasters, the spacious harbor is now deserted; yet a century ago it was always crowded with merchantmen and fishing vessels, the wharves and water front were thronged with buyers and sellers, and noisy with seamen in foreign garb and "full of strange oaths."
In its history and in its antiquated appearance lies the attraction of Marblehead to the traveller,—and no one who has ever heard the name can lack curiosity to visit the place, or, having gone there, can fail to feel abundantly rewarded. I have time here for only a hint of this history and picturesqueness, culled from that bright pamphlet ​by an anonymous writer, entitled Eastern Ramblings, from which I have freely quoted in this chapter. Anyone can easily find more detailed information.
The first thing which strikes the stranger is the utter unsuitableness of the locality as a town-site,—a mere mass of granite knolls and ledges. But the town grew there accidentally, with reference to the fine harbor. "From the very beginning of the settlement of Massachusetts bay these rocks had been a place where fishermen had been accustomed to land and dry their fish; but it was not till the beginning of the last century, that, under the influence of their pastor, John Barnard, the townspeople began the business of exporting fish. From this time the commerce grew rapidly, until the fleet of merchant-men and fishermen numbered several hundred vessels. Then the wealthy merchants built those houses, of which the Hooper and Lee mansions are the finest specimens left. The latter, now occupied by two banks, with its noble hall and grand staircase, its wainscotted parlor and richly carved chimney-piece, enables one to catch a glimpse, as it were, of the state in which the merchant princes of those old colonial days lived. In the events leading to the Revolution, Marblehead took a prominent part. Her townsmen, under the lead of Elbridge Gerry, to whose wise counsels and ready pen some of the most important of the early Revolutionary measures were due, were eager and defiant in their determination to resist British tyranny to the bitter end. Nor should Boston ever forget, that, in the time of her greatest trial, it was from Marblehead that she received the most sympathy and aid. A Marblehead captain, John Manly, first hoisted the American flag; and, according to John Adams, a mortar taken by him, drove the British out of Boston. Another, Commodore Tucker, 'captured more British vessels, guns, and seamen than any other captain in the service.' One of the bravest exploits of the whole war was that of James Mugford, who, just released from a British ship by the entreaties of his newly married wife, captured a powder-ship and carried her to Boston at the critical moment when the ammunition of our army was nearly exhausted. On his return in his fishing smack he was beset by boats from the British fleet, and fell, mortally wounded, after successfully repelling their attacks. A monument has lately been erected to his memory. Colonel Glover's regiment, composed wholly of Marblehead men and known as the Marine regiment, was no less effective on land. Had they not manned the boats on the night of the eventful retreat from Long Island, it is doubtful if Washington could have saved his army, nor would he have won the battle of Trenton had not the same brave men ferried the troops across the half-frozen Delaware on that bitter cold December night. In the war of 1812 nearly one fifth of her whole population were serving either in the army or in the navy. Possibly some of the oldest inhabitants may still remember the day when the rocks were covered with those anx​ious men and women watching the fight between the Chesapeake and the Shannon.…In the war of the Rebellion the same spirit was shown, the three Marblehead companies being the first to report in Boston on the call for troops, after that signal gun was fired at Fort Sumpter, and she is said to have furnished more men, in proportion to her size, than any other place in the north.
"To-day, the chief business carried on in the town is shoemaking, the fisheries being almost wholly abandoned. Though one misses the active bustle and strange sights of a thriving seaport, yet a ramble through these quiet streets will give one much to enjoy. The irregularity of the ledges on which the old town is built, lends even to ordinary houses a peculiar quaintness; and the streets are picturesque in a degree unusual in a New England town. Add to this an unrivalled sea-view from almost every point, and you will understand the charm which Marblehead has for all who know it. Not far from the entrance to the little harbor is the old well,—all that is now left of the Fountain Inn, with which is connected the one romance of this matter-of-fact old town.…
"A short distance from the site of the inn is the house where 'poor Floyd Ireson,' the hero of Marblehead's tragicomedy, ended his blighted life. Whittier's ballad tells his sad story, with a poetic license which is now resented by his former townsmen; and it is doubtful if the visitor to Oakum bay will get a civil answer if he asks a neighbor to point out the injured skipper's cottage.
"A pebbly beach—the scene of Hawthorne's essay, Footprints on the Seashore, and Longfellow's poem A Fire of Driftwood—connects Marblehead neck to the mainland. This part of the town was for many years a resort for summer visitors, who lived in camps or rude huts; now, red-roofed cottages and summer hotels have almost wholly taken their place, and the holiday camping parties will soon be seen no more. A walk or a ride around The Neck gives many fine views, together with the sight of some grand rocks.…The Eastern Yacht Club have their club-house on The Neck, and on Thursday evenings throughout the summer, music and dancing enliven the scene.
"The oldest church in the places is St. Michael's, built in 1714, and remaining substantially unchanged to this day. Its curious roof and the brass chandelier, presented to the church in 1732, are worthy of note."
From Marblehead we did not return to Salem, but went by that line of railroad which runs along the shore through the pretty summering hamlets, Devereux, Clifton, Beach Bluff and Phillips Beach, where natty modern cottages line the shore and solid old farmhouses are seen inland. This road rejoins the main line at Swampscott, which is a large and flourishing community in summer, and in winter, when the almost numberless boarding houses are closed, a very quiet one. Down ​at Blaney's beach, however, which is the shore-front of Swampscott, there remains a great deal of the primitive and quaint appearance acquired before the locality became fashionable; and this, to many persons, is the most entertaining part of the whole gay region. "The boats come in, the fishermen jump into the water and draw them up on the beach, just as their fathers and grandfathers did, day after day, for generations back. In the cottage doors stand the women, whilst the children play about their feet and watch for the return of the boats, as they stood when the first boats went out. Behind this hamlet the hill rises quite precipitously; and after somewhat of a scramble, you find yourself in pine woods, from beneath whose branches you look across the bay to Nahant."
In 1629, five colonists of Salem struck out for themselves and chose the plain which we enter upon as soon as we pass Swampscott. The Saugus river makes its way to the sea here, and the settlement was called after it until 1637, when it was formally named Lynn, after Lynn Regis, in England. (An ancient village, still called Saugus, lies a few miles inland, and is reached by the roundabout "Saugus Branch" of the railroad). Lynn was distinguished at an early day for two things—its historian, William Wood, and its iron foundry (started about 1642), where were made the dies for the pine-tree shillings; where in 1654 was built the first fire-engine for Boston; and where the scythe was invented and first manufactured. The origin of the shoe-trade, which is now Lynn's almost exclusive industry, was the coming to the town in 1750 of a Welshman named John Dagyr, whose enterprise and skill were such that he speedily attained to wide celebrity. "Rising from the heart of the city, to the height of 185 feet, is High Rock. The view from the top can hardly be surpassed in beauty by any upon the coast. On the right lie Boston, Chelsea, and the harbor, made, as Wood says, 'by a great company of islands whose high cliff's shoulder out the boisterous seas.' Directly in front is Nahant, with its ribbon of sand connecting it with the mainland, and far beyond on the horizon can be seen the low line of the south shore. Farther to the north is the pretty village of Swampscott, half hidden amid the trees; and over the pines lies Marblehead, Salem and the Gloucester shore bound the view in that direction. Inland, the eye sweeps over an almost boundless extent of city and country, field and forest, Mts. Wachuset and Monadnoc and other lesser hills being visible.…At the foot of this hill lived, for half a century, the once famous fortune-teller, Moll Pitcher. Her cabin, which is still standing, though removed from its original place, was the resort chiefly of sailors, most of whom followed her advice implicitly. Many a time, it is said, ships have been unable to obtain crews on account of her warnings. Besides climbing this rock, the visitor to Lynn should not fail to go through Ocean street to Swampscott,—a street lined with pleasant residences, across the lawns of which can be obtained most inviting glimpses of the ocean."
​Lynn is the last station on our long list. Already Bunker Hill monument and the State House dome are within sight. We rush like the sea-wind across the Mystic meadows, and through the back-yards of Chelsea and Somerville. Then, while we gather up our packages, and look at one another with glances which try to tell how grand an excursion we have had and yet (so contradictory is human nature) how good it will seem to get home, we rattle noisily over the Charles River bridges and come to a standstill in the railroad station on Causeway street, in dear old Boston.
We had telegraphed the time of our intended arrival, and Patrick was waiting at the depot when the punctual train drew up. He had a carriage ready, and, keeping Baily with us for one more day, at least, we were soon jarring noisily over the paving stones,—how different from the yanking lurch of the buckboard in the Maine woods, or the easy swing of the Glen coach, or the smooth roll of wheels around Lancaster and Conway, Portsmouth or Lynn!
"You oughtn't to complain!" growled Baily; "you're in Boston—what more can you ask, short of Paradise!"
We very properly paid no attention to such a remark as that. New Yorkers can sometimes make themselves intensely unpleasant, and nothing is more disagreeable than an exhibition of envy. No person born and bred in Boston, and expecting to go to heaven by a special rapid transit from this most Christian city, need pay the slightest attention to such wrong-headed insinuations. Besides, we had just turned the corner and were in our own familiar street. Prue leaned forward and uttered a little ejaculation of surprise.
"One would think we were giving a party,—just look at the house!"
Evidently a fire had been built in every grate, and the gas lighted in every burner of all the rooms.
"I was thinkin' ye'd like to see it lookin' cheerful-like when yez came home," says Bridget, her honest face welcoming us in a blaze of red hall-light, and with a smile as expansive as her white apron.
"Well, I am glad to get back!" cried Prue, taking a little run through the parlors before darting up stairs to lay aside her wraps.
Then Bridget disappeared, giving me a chance to extinguish a dozen or so of her kindly but wasteful burners, while Baily, tossing aside his overcoat, sang jauntily,—
But it seemed to me, as his tone lingered and softened on the last word, that he had more in his mind than simply a bit of badinage.
Then Prue came down, and, with happy eyes, led the way to our bright dining-room, where, when we had sat down, Baily must first of ​250 all command us to fill our glasses to the brim; and next, rising, he must make a little speech, giving unheard-of credit to Prue for all our pleasure and its happy outcome. This done, with a gallant bow he leaned forward and touched the rim of her glass and mine with his. "Health and happinss to you, dear Madame Prue—and to you, sir—and next year may you come to be my guest!"
"Can you not say ours," ventured my wife, pausing an instant with an arch glance across the sparkling wine.
"I certainly mean to try!" Baily retorted bravely, and so we drank a double toast all round,—yea, a triple one, for you, dear reader, were not forgotten.