IT is not supposable that the early settlers selected the site of their on account of its . They were influenced by the lay of the land, its nearness and easy access to the sea, and the secure harbor it offered to their fishing-; yet they could not have chosen a more beautiful spot had beauty been the sole consideration. The first settlement was made at Odiorne’s Point—the Pilgrims’ Rock of New Hampshire; there the , or Mason’s Hall, was built by the Laconia Company in 1623. It was not until 1631 that the Great House was by Humphrey Chadborn on Strawberry Bank. Mr. Chadborn, consciously or unconsciously, sowed a seed from which a city has sprung.  
The town of Portsmouth stretches along the south bank of the Piscataqua, about two miles from the sea as the crow flies—three miles following the course of the river. The stream broadens suddenly at this point, and at flood tide, lying without a in a basin formed by the interlocked islands and the mainland, it looks more like an island lake than a river. To the unaccustomed eye there is no visible . on one of the at the foot of State Street or Court Street, a stranger would at first scarcely suspect the of the ocean. A little observation, however, would show him that he was in a . The rich red on the gables and roofs of ancient buildings looking seaward would tell him that. There is a fitful saline flavor in the air, and if while he gazed a white fog should come rolling in, like a line of breakers, he would no longer have any doubts.
 
It is of course the oldest part of the town that skirts the river, though few of the notable houses that remain are to be found there. Like all New England settlements, Portsmouth was built of wood, and has been subjected to extensive . You rarely come across a brick building that is not shockingly modern. The first house of the kind was erected by Richard Wibird towards the close of the seventeenth century.
 
Though many of the old have been swept away by the fateful hand of time and fire, the town impresses you as a very old town, especially as you saunter along the streets down by the river. The worm-eaten wharves, some of them covered by a , unhealthy beard of grass, and the weather-stained, unoccupied are sufficient to satisfy a moderate appetite for . These and these long rows of empty barracks, with their cranes projecting from the eaves, rather puzzle the stranger. Why this great preparation for a commercial activity that does not exist, and evidently had not for years existed? There are no ships lying at the pier-heads; there are no gangs of staggering under the heavy cases of merchandise; here and there is a down to the with coal, and here and there a square-rigged from Maine with and clapboards; an imported citizen is fishing at the end of the , a son of Drogheda, in perfect sympathy with the indolent sunshine that seems to be sole of these piles and ridiculous warehouses, from which even the ghost of prosperity has flown.
 
Once upon a time, however, Portsmouth carried on an extensive trade with the West Indies, threatening as a port to eclipse both Boston and New York. At the windows of these musty counting-rooms which overlook the river near Spring Market used to stand portly merchants, in knee breeches and silver shoe-buckles and plum-colored coats with at the wrist, waiting for their ships to come up the Narrows; the cries of stevedores and the chants of sailors at the windlass used to echo along the shore where all is silence now. For reasons not worth setting , the trade with the Indies closed, having ruined as well as enriched many a Portsmouth adventurer. This explains the empty warehouses and the unused wharves. Portsmouth the interesting widow of a once very lively commerce. I fancy that few fortunes are either made or lost in Portsmouth nowadays. it turned out the best ships, as it did the ablest ship captains, in the world. There were families in which the love for blue water was in immemorial trait. The boys were always sailors; “a grey-headed shipmaster, in each generation, retiring from the quarter-deck to the homestead, while a boy of fourteen took the place before the mast, confronting the salt spray and the , which had blasted against his sire and grandsire.” (1. Hawthorne in his introduction to The Letter.) With thousands of miles of sea-line and a score or two of the finest harbors on the globe, we have turned over our carrying trade to foreign nations.
 
In other days, as I have said, a high maritime spirit was characteristic of Portsmouth. The town did a profitable business in the war of 1812, sending out a large fleet of the small craft on record. A pleasant story is told of one of these little privateers—the Harlequin, owned and commanded by Captain Elihu Brown. The Harlequin one day gave chase to a large ship, which did not seem to have much fight aboard, and had got it into close quarters, when suddenly the shy stranger threw open her ports, and proved to be His ’s Ship-of-War , seventy-four guns. Poor Captain Brown!
 
Portsmouth has several large cotton factories and one or two corpulent ; it is a wealthy old town, with a for first mortgage bonds; but its warmest lover will not claim for it the distinction of being a great mercantile centre. The majority of her young men are forced to seek other fields to reap, and almost every city in the union, and many a city across the sea, can point to some merchant, lawyer, or what not, as “a Portsmouth boy.” Portsmouth even furnished the late king of the Sandwich Islands, Kekuanaoa, with a prime minister, and his nankeen Majesty never had a better. The affection which all these exiles cherish for their birthplace is of remark. On two occasions—in 1852 and 1873, the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the settlement of Strawberry Bank—the transplanted sons of Portsmouth were seized with an impulse to return home. and almost without concerted action, the lines of pilgrims took up their march from every quarter of the globe, and swept down with music and banners on the motherly old town.
 
To come back to the wharves. I do not know of any spot with such a fascinating air of dreams and idleness about it as the old wharf at the end of Court Street. The very fact that it was once a noisy, busy place, crowded with sailors and soldiers—in the war of 1812—gives an emphasis to the quiet that broods over it to-day. The lounger who sits of a summer afternoon on a anchor fluke in the shadow of one of the silent warehouses, and look on the lonely river as it goes murmuring past the town, cannot be too grateful to the India trade for having taken itself off elsewhere.
 
What a , , lazy place it is! The sunshine seems to lie a foot deep on the planks of the dusty wharf, which yields up to the warmth a vague perfume of the of rum, molasses, and spice that used to be p............