IN OLD NEWBURYPORT 129 



From these sea margins where tide and river 

 mingle and meet the borders of Newburyport one 

 gets glimpses of higher hills up-river, dark with 

 pines and gorgeous with autumn scarlet and gold, 

 and among them the picturesque towers and ca- 

 denced sweep of the old chain bridge that takes 

 you across the river to Amesbury. Down river 

 to the old chain bridge the rough rocks of the New 

 Hampshire hills, wandering far, come to get a 

 taste of salt, and put their lips to the water at the 

 island home of Harriet Prescott Spofford, whose 

 sparkling verse and piquant prose has made the 

 name of Newburyport known in literary annals 

 for more than half a century. Hills and sea 

 meet there, and all the beauty of marsh, pasture 

 and woodland surround the spot. It is no wonder 

 that romance, vivid life and rich atmosphere in- 

 form her work. 



The herring gulls which go up and down with 

 the tides no longer follow the Newburyport sails 

 to sea and escort them back again to port, pen- 

 sioners on the bounty which ships always scatter 

 in their wake. Instead they have reverted to 

 their original, more noble trade of fishing. Every 



