Portsmouth Audiotour: Echo's & Legendes van het Historische Hart van Downtown

Look for a striking five-story brick building on the north side of State Street, with twin central entrances under projecting porticos, oriel windows above, and an American flag waving proudly from the rooftop-it's hard to miss! Ah, you’ve arrived at the Rockingham Hotel-a place where grandeur, gossip, and a parade of presidents have crossed paths! Step a little closer and imagine your shoes tapping the stone steps as you join a line of visitors stretching back to the 1700s. Behind these beautifully detailed red brick walls, history hums like a secret waiting to be told. It all began with Woodbury Langdon-a local merchant with political dreams-who built his impressive home right here. His house was so grand, it inspired the hotel that rose in its place, and what you see before you is a living tribute to his original style. Take a good look at that facade: twin entrances like two old friends, and those distinctive oriel window bays sprouting proudly above, as if the building wants a better view of history unfolding below. Inside, well, things get even more interesting. You can almost hear the shuffle of petticoats and the quick footsteps of gentlemen calling for a carriage outside. The Rockingham wasn’t always a hotel-it started life as Langdon’s stately home, then was converted to a hotel in 1833. But then, enter stage right: Frank Jones, a bold-talking mayor, congressman, and-my personal favorite-a brewer! He bought the place in 1870, razed it to the ground and built a new fancy hotel. But wouldn’t you know it, in 1884 a fiery disaster swept through, threatening to leave nothing but ashes and beer barrels behind. Not one to mope, ol’ Frank built the magnificent hotel you see now. And some of the oldest magic was preserved: step through those eastern doors and you’d once have found yourself standing in the "Gold Room," a parlor straight out of a fairy tale. Today, this glimmering chamber serves as a lively bar, while the former Langdon dining room-now The Library Restaurant-awaits anyone with an appetite for both good food and fine design. Mahogany pilasters, high Georgian ceilings, and intricate friezes whisper of candle-lit dinners, discreet deals, and perhaps a little gossip among friends. If you look up, you’ll see geometric panels on the ceiling, filled with painted scenes and rich linoleum, as if the past decided to paint itself onto every inch of this room. But the Rockingham’s true claim to fame might be its illustrious guest list. Presidents-Washington, Polk, Pierce, Roosevelt, Arthur, Taft, Kennedy-have all walked these halls. Imagine dodging President Taft on your way to dinner, or overhearing Roosevelt plotting a new speech by the fireplace! And watch out for the stone lions, the busts of Langdon and Frank Jones-they’re there to keep an eye on the riff-raff (and maybe tell the odd joke, if you listen closely enough). So, as you take in the Rockingham, feel the layers of Portsmouth's past settling gently on your shoulders. The old hotel isn’t just a building-it’s a living reminder that some places keep their stories close, but always invite you to listen in.

Just ahead of you, you’ll spot a low granite wall with “Portsmouth African Burying Ground” carved right into it, and a striking metal fence lined with cut-out silhouettes of people-you can’t miss it, especially with the figures standing in quiet watch behind the railing. Now, get ready-because you’re standing on ground where stories centuries old are just beginning to be told again. This memorial isn’t just a park, and it’s certainly no ordinary piece of Portsmouth. Close your eyes for a moment and picture the street as it might have looked over 200 years ago: dusty roads, the faint clatter of wagons, and the hum of a growing colonial seaport. Right here, beneath your feet, lay one of New England’s only archaeologically verified African burying grounds from the 1700s. For years, people passed by without knowing there were nearly 200 men, women, and children-both free and enslaved-resting in the earth just below. But the ground didn’t give up its secrets easily. In fact, this lost cemetery hid for centuries, buried beneath the bricks and bustle of the modern city. Maps dating as far back as 1705 showed a cemetery here, but by the 1900s, it disappeared under buildings and pavement. It wasn’t until 2003, while workers were-of all things-digging a manhole, that fate took a turn. Their shovels scraped against something unexpected. And just like that, history surfaced. Archaeologists found the remains of eight individuals, fragments of a forgotten community. DNA analysis told their story-a heritage out of Africa. Imagine the tension and mystery as bones, long silent, began to speak. Archaeologists and townsfolk alike wondered: Who were they? How did they live and love, struggle and dream? Among those eight exhumed, there were men, one woman, and a child-the rest unidentifiable. Each with their own history, far richer than the silence that shrouded them for centuries. Fast forward a year or two, and the city made a decision: Portsmouth wouldn’t let these stories fade away again. A committee was formed, suggestions rolled in, and five years of careful planning led to today’s remarkable memorial, designed by artist Jerome Meadows. The memorial doesn’t just mark the spot-it asks you to stand for a moment in the shoes of those lost, to remember. And trust me, for just a second, you might even feel the weight of history blowing through the trees. Step up to the granite entrance and you’ll see two powerful bronze statues. To the east, a man stands facing toward Africa, wearing the simple clothes worn by so many enslaved people who built the early city. His arm stretches along the granite, reaching for something just out of grasp. On the other side, a woman in a West African dress and headdress-Mother Africa herself-faces west. She, too, stretches her arm out, only inches from the man’s hand. But their fingers never touch. It’s a beautiful but haunting symbol of families torn apart and the pain of separation-one that lasted not just a moment, but for whole generations. As you make your way further in, look down for the Petition Line: words from a real 1779 petition for freedom by twenty enslaved people from Portsmouth are engraved into the ground. Imagine their voices echoing up from the stone, demanding justice. There’s more to witness-a ceremonial cover marks where the remains were reinterred in 2015, and eight luminous community figures gather, almost as if holding silent vigil for those who rest beneath. Along the fence you might notice a special pattern inspired by Kinte cloth, a West African motif calling back to the heritage of those honored here. And how about this for a twist: the site actually cost over $1.1 million to bring to life, but every dollar was raised by the people of Portsmouth, local businesses, and even the city itself. Newcastle might have a lobster boat or two, but Portsmouth’s got a memorial that brings the whole community together-past, present, and future. So, as you stand here, maybe let the quiet wrap around you for a moment. Pay a silent hello to those long gone, and remember how, thanks to a city that cared, their story isn’t hidden anymore.

To spot South Parish, look for a grand stone church on the corner with four strong granite columns in front, a tall square belfry on top, and three doors underneath a big triangular roof right at the junction of State and Church streets. Now, as you stand here in front of these weathered granite blocks, take a deep breath and imagine it’s the 1820s. This spot would’ve been alive with the sound of chisels and hammers as workers hauled massive granite blocks all the way from Rockport, Massachusetts. Folks around town whispered, “Can you believe it? A stone church! Up here in New Hampshire!” This wasn’t just any stone building-it was the first major stone structure in northern New England. Bold move, right? They wanted something lasting, something strong-a little dramatic flair never hurts, either. As you gaze up at those four chunky columns, picture Portsmouth’s citizens pouring in for the first service almost 200 years ago. The scent of fresh pine benches mixed with a hint of damp stone would have filled the air. Inside, sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows, dancing along massive timber beams that still hold the roof today. Kids might have fidgeted in their Sunday best, while parents tried to look stern, hoping no one would notice if their stomachs rumbled before lunch. But this place isn’t just about old stones. Even today, South Parish (now South Church) stands as a beacon of open-mindedness. There’s no single belief that binds everyone together here; it’s about the worth of every person and embracing ideas from many backgrounds. And-get this-they’re a Green Sanctuary, committed to caring for the earth, and an official Welcoming Congregation. Everyone, no matter who they love or how they identify, can find a place in these walls. So whether you’re here for the history, the architecture, or just a touch of human warmth, take a moment-after all, not many churches can say they started a granite trend and a welcoming revolution at the same time!

To spot the North Church, just look ahead for a striking red-brick building with bright white trim and a towering steeple featuring a large clock-it’s the tall, elegant landmark rising high above Market Square. Now, as you’re standing here in the gentle bustle of downtown Portsmouth, take a moment to look up at that steeple. Impressive, right? That tall, white spire has been called Portsmouth’s “landmark of record” for good reason-you can spot it from almost anywhere in the city, and even from across the river in Maine. It’s like Portsmouth’s very own lighthouse, except instead of boats, it guides lost tourists and locals who forgot where the coffee shops are. The North Church has been at the center of Portsmouth’s life since 1657-though back then, if you wanted a pew, you’d better bring your wallet! Members had to buy their seats, and if you owned slaves, you paid for extra ones way up in the balcony’s corners. That’s not all-the church even hired someone to keep a watchful eye on the balcony, making sure everyone was paying attention. I guess you could say they invented the original “no texting during service” policy! Through the years, the church’s records became a snapshot of the whole community, with careful notes on births, weddings, and funerals. Names like William Whipple, John Langdon, and Daniel Webster-statesmen, revolutionaries, movers, and shakers-could be heard echoing through this very space. And if you listen carefully, maybe you’ll hear a little echo from 1789, when President George Washington himself slipped into a pew for Sunday service. Halifax the horse was probably parked outside, waiting patiently. Now, imagine standing here in the mid-1700s-there’s a huge wooden building, two balconies circling above, and a clock that everyone in Portsmouth stares at when sermons run a little long. That clock and its bell weren’t just for telling time-they signaled the 9 P.M. curfew for over a century, ringing out across the dark streets like a bedtime reminder from your sternest relative. Time marches on, and by the 1830s, the town wanted something grander. In 1854, yet another new church was built-this very building you see now, with its Italianate style and elegant proportions. The congregation tried to give their old bell a new life by shipping it overseas to be recast. But, in a twist worthy of a sea shanty, the ship carrying it was lost in a wreck. Don’t worry-they got another bell (probably with a note attached: “Do not lose this one!”). Even today, the North Church is part sanctuary, part civic center. They host weddings, concerts, and offer a home to congregations without buildings. The church has weathered storms and even survived a midnight vandal’s shenanigans. Over the centuries, it evolved from strict conformity-once facing controversy for supporting abolition-to the open, community spirit of today’s United Church of Christ congregation. So, as you stand under this mighty steeple, you aren’t just looking at a church; you’re looking at the beating heart of Portsmouth’s history. Who knew bricks, bells, and a bit of balcony drama could have so much to say?

To spot the New Hampshire Bank Building, look to the east side of Market Square for two grand, side-by-side facades-one in creamy stone with strong columns and the other with elegant gray granite and broad, square windows-just south of Daniel Street. Alright, welcome to one of Market Square’s most surprising buildings! Right here where you’re standing, imagine the year is 1803. Cobblestones underfoot, carriages rumbling by, people in tall hats hurrying to get their money-because this was the home of New Hampshire’s very first bank, built after their original office literally went up in flames during the great fire of 1802. Picture builders in wool coats hammering away, turning this spot into a fortress of fortunes and security. The original brick building was sturdy, with a sheltered, recessed entrance-very fancy for its day. But like someone with a split personality, it’s changed outfits many times! In 1869, the clever owners split it into two downstairs spaces. By the turn of the 20th century, each half got a dramatic makeover: peek at the left side for classy Classical Revival details and the right side for the grandeur of granite Beaux Arts. It’s like banking in two different centuries at once! Inside, a soaring lobby used to echo with footsteps-and up above, a giant stained glass dome dazzled everyone, glowing with the New Hampshire state seal. This wasn’t just a place for paychecks and coins. The folks who worked upstairs were once some of New Hampshire’s heavy-hitters-governors, attorneys, and even a future U.S. President named Franklin Pierce walked these halls, no doubt frowning over ledgers and politicking on their lunch breaks. Banks kept calling this building home until 1977 but, like all great bank robbers, they eventually slipped away, leaving the old place for real estate agents and mortgage folk. Today, all sorts of businesses have moved in, but if you listen closely, maybe you’ll still hear the echo of coins clinking and old secrets being whispered around the vaults. Now, how’s that for a building with character-and maybe a penny or two’s worth of mystery?

To spot the MacPheadris-Warner House, look straight ahead for a grand and sturdy brick mansion with rows of white windows, thick walls, a gambrel roof with dormers, and a little cupola sitting proudly on top-the house with the old iron fence and a stately door is impossible to miss! Alright, picture yourself here in front of this remarkable brick house on Daniel Street-it’s not just old, it’s the oldest urban brick house in all of northern New England! These thick, red-brick walls, fifteen inches deep, have seen more fancy coats and powdered wigs than a costume shop on Halloween. Back in 1716, Captain Archibald Macpheadris, a Scots-Irish sea captain with pockets full of dreams (and, hopefully, no sea monsters) decided he wanted to make a splash in Portsmouth, and he wasn’t about to settle for a simple wooden house. So, he built this impressive Georgian mansion right here, with brickwork so solid, you’d think he expected pirates to attack! Now, don’t just look at the bricks-peek up at the second floor: see that stone band running across? That’s called a belt course, and believe me, this house is the only thing in town that needed a belt after all the feasts they hosted. And take in those fancy details: overhanging cornice, rows of decorative modillions (like little teeth under the roof), and the gambrel roof-a later addition to replace the original double gables. There’s even a cupola, like a ship’s lookout, perched at the top-a nod to Captain Macpheadris’s seafaring days. Imagine the parties and intrigue brewing behind these walls! Inside, the house had a classic four-room plan, plus a rear kitchen wing that always smelled of roasting and baking. The real surprise hides in the hallway: the oldest surviving Anglo-American wall murals in the country, painted long before anyone in America dreamed of WiFi-or even light bulbs! But this house isn’t just about the sea captain. When Macpheadris died, the house passed to his wife Sarah, and then things got spicy. Sarah married George Jaffrey, a wealthy merchant, and moved up the street, while her brother, Governor Benning Wentworth-yes, a real colonial governor-used this house as his official mansion. Imagine a governor living here, making big decisions, while probably forgetting to pay his sister rent and maybe even smashing a few windows before moving out. Family drama, 1700s style! And then the Warners came along-Mary Macpheadris Osborne and her new husband, Jonathan Warner, who brought his daughter Polly. Jonathan had posh tastes, so the house got a little glow-up, fitting the new fashions of the day. For more than 170 years, Warners and their descendants called this building home, sipping lemonade in summer and maybe telling ghost stories around the fireplace when the wind howled through the bricks. But here’s the plot twist: in the 1930s, an oil company wanted to bulldoze this place and plop down a gas station! Can you imagine? Quick-thinking locals-true preservation heroes-rallied, scraped together $10,000 during the Great Depression, and saved the house. Thanks to them, you’re standing here today, in front of a treasure trove of history, family secrets, early American art, and, I suspect, a few memories that still echo from room to room. So next time you hear a creak behind you, maybe it’s just Captain Macpheadris making sure his walls are still standing strong! Fascinated by the the governor's mansion, family occupancy or the warner house association? Let's chat about it

To spot St. John’s Church, look for a stately, two-story brick building with a tall, square tower peeking above the rooftops, an arched doorway, and graceful round windows-standing proudly right in front of you on Chapel Street. Now, as you stand here on this historic ground, imagine the echoes of footsteps crunching on gravel in the early 1800s. Back then, this very spot was buzzing with excitement-and maybe a little bit of panic! In 1806, Portsmouth suffered a mighty fire that swallowed up over 300 buildings, including the original wooden church right here. Ashes in the wind, hopes nearly dashed! But, as you can see, the story didn’t end there. The congregation, made of hearty souls with soot on their cheeks and determination in their hearts, rolled up their sleeves and decided: no more timber, let's build a brick church tough enough to outlast trouble. They found themselves a young architect named Alexander Parris-who, at the time, was just starting out (imagine asking a rookie for your city’s most important building…talk about a leap of faith!). Parris designed this beautiful brick church, making it the very first of its kind in New Hampshire-quite the trailblazer! Its tall tower, elegant Palladian windows, and the detailed lunette window in the top gable make it a real eye-catcher, especially on a sunny afternoon just like this. Step inside, if you get a chance, and you’ll find unusual slip pews (not your grandmother’s church seat!) and a ceiling painted to trick your eye with its illusions-created back in 1848. Now that’s heavenly mischief. But here’s the kicker: this congregation goes way, way back, all the way to 1638, when Portsmouth was just a patch of Strawbery Banke-and the first minister was shown the door by stern Puritans from Massachusetts. Clearly, perseverance runs deep here, maybe even deeper than those old brick foundations. Today, St. John’s Church stands as a reminder that Portsmouth folks have always been pretty tough - and maybe just a little stubborn about making their mark on history.

Straight ahead, you'll spot the St. John's Lodge-a grand, light-brick building with a sweeping, curved front, tall white columns, and the words "MASONIC TEMPLE" above the main doors; just look past the leafy trees and you'll see its elegant entrance inviting you in. Imagine you’re standing here in the early 1700s, long coats swishing and the air thick with the scent of wood smoke and the salty breeze of Portsmouth Harbor. You’ve arrived at the doorstep of something mysterious: St. John’s Lodge, the oldest Masonic lodge in New Hampshire and, according to a rather lively debate, quite possibly the longest continuously operating lodge in all the Americas. Now, maybe you’re wondering what a bunch of Freemasons were up to in this little coastal town almost three centuries ago. Picture six men, gathered by candlelight, sharing a secret-they call themselves the “Holy and exquisite Lodge of St. John”-and they write a letter to Boston with a humble request: “Can we make this official?” Their wish is granted, and in 1736, an emissary with a name as grand as his purpose-Robert Tomlinson-arrives wielding authority from none other than the Earl of Loundon, Grand Master of Masons in England. Just imagine the excitement and maybe even nervous laughter as Tomlinson, with parchment in hand, solemnly declares this spot as the new home of St. John’s Lodge. Back then, this was Portsmouth’s only lodge, a beacon of brotherhood in a place where news still traveled on horseback and ships. For decades, these Masons kept the flame alive, meeting in secret rooms, whispering their rituals, and probably arguing about who brought the best ale. Now, fast-forward to 1789. The American Revolution is over, the air is electric with possibilities, and representatives from five lodges-including St. John’s-gather right here in Portsmouth. Their mission: to create the Grand Lodge of New Hampshire. The room hums with tension as they declare, “There will be a Grand Lodge, built on ancient Masonic principles!” Just one brave soul from St. John’s Lodge shows up at every meeting, keeping the Portsmouth torch burning until the statewide organization finally takes shape in 1790. But this story isn’t just about secret handshakes and old documents. The Lodge has always had a playful side-hosting charity events, keeping kids smiling with donations to Toys for Tots, and even organizing the annual “Out of Hibernation 5K” each spring. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the thundering footsteps of runners charging through the city streets, racing to help others-a tradition as full of heart as the old Masons themselves. Some seriously impressive folks have walked through these doors: twelve mayors of Portsmouth, decorated military heroes, public servants, and people determined to give back to their city. In 2011, the Lodge celebrated its 275th anniversary-no big deal, just a casual two and three-quarter centuries of history-with a parade so lively that it felt like the whole city joined in. So as you take in the curved brick walls and sunlit columns, imagine the centuries of laughter, loyalty, and no small amount of mystery that have made this place a living part of Portsmouth’s soul. If these walls could talk, I suspect they’d have a secret or two they’d love to share-if you knew the right handshake!

To spot the Point of Graves Burial Ground, look for a small, sloping patch of green dotted with old gravestones, some weathered dark and others bright white, shaded beneath tall, broad trees and bordered by a low stone wall and wrought-iron fence right across from Prescott Park. Alright, adventurer, you’ve arrived at the oldest surviving cemetery in Portsmouth-yes, the Point of Graves Burial Ground, where even the trees know a good ghost story or two. Imagine you’re stepping back over 300 years, the grass whispering beneath your feet and the river breeze carrying whispers from long ago. Here lie the honored bones of Portsmouth’s most notable families: the Wentworths, the Vaughans, the Rogers, the Lears. That’s right-you’re rubbing elbows, or at least ghostly shoulders, with some VIPs of the past. Back in 1671, Captain John Pickering II let the town set aside half an acre right here for burials. But it wasn’t just a cemetery-oh no! It doubled as a cow pasture, and you can imagine that didn’t go well for many early gravestones. Cows may make great burgers, but lousy caretakers. The oldest marker you can still read today is from 1682, though many rests are even older. Glance around at the stone artwork-see the skulls, cherubs, and carved willows? Portsmouth families liked to keep up with funerary fashion, turning this little field into a museum of stone carving. Some markers were chiseled by New England’s most talented artists, showing changing ideas about life, death, and maybe… life after death. Speaking of which, you may have heard there are ghost stories here. Some say if you visit at dusk, you might hear footsteps or see misty shapes gliding past. Don’t worry-I’ve yet to be haunted by anything but my to-do list. You’ll also find the grave of Elizabeth Elatson, a victim of a tragic house fire in 1704. Her death was one of the first house fires ever reported in an American newspaper. Imagine the townsfolk gathering news as the smoke rose above the rooftops. Today, instead of cows, it’s the Mayor’s Committee and the city who keep this spot clean and serene-plus a trusty Historic Cemeteries Trust Fund for good measure. So whether you’re a history buff, an art lover, or just hoping for a friendly ghost encounter, you’re standing in a place that’s both peaceful and packed with stories waiting to be discovered.

Right in front of you is a striking metallic bridge with tall, rectangular towers rising on either end, steel beams crisscrossing like a giant’s scaffolding set against the sky-just follow the line of the road across the river and you’ll spot it! Now, let’s step into the story of the Memorial Bridge. Imagine it’s a hot summer’s day in 1923; folks in Portsmouth and Kittery are gathering alongside the river, fanning themselves with excitement, kids pulling their parents closer for a better look. Suddenly, a five-year-old girl named Helen Dondero-who’ll one day be known as Eileen Foley-stands by a broad silk ribbon, hands trembling just a bit, and snips through the ribbon to wild cheers. The very first Memorial Bridge opens, not just as a way to drive from New Hampshire to Maine, but as a living tribute: a “Memorial to the Sailors and Soldiers of New Hampshire who gave their lives in the World War 1917-1919,” as the enormous plaque overhead declares, metal letters gleaming in the sunlight. This brand-new bridge is a true marvel-no toll required, just open arms to anyone crossing the Piscataqua River. It’s a vertical-lift bridge, able to hoist its center span straight into the sky to let mighty ships and humble fishing boats pass beneath. Travelers back then probably craned their necks and gasped when the deck went rumbling upward. And there’s excitement in the air: this route will soon become US Route 1, part of the legendary Atlantic Highway, whisking drivers from coastal town to coastal town. But while the bridge’s hardware was strong, time can be even stronger. By the late 2000s, the old bridge was showing its age. Engineers eyed the rust and cracking paint and shook their heads. Restrictions dropped lower-from 20 tons down to 10. “No big trucks, sorry!” Even pedestrians and cyclists had to wait for a shuttle bus, crossing the river by road instead of the bridge. The bridge was so historic, it even made the National Trust for Historic Preservation’s list of America’s 11 Most Endangered Historic Places in 2009. People worried: “Would our beloved bridge vanish forever?” Tension grew as plans to save it stalled, millions of dollars over budget and communities on both sides biting their nails. At last, in 2011, the weary span had to be shut for good. Inspectors reported “too many problems in too many places.” One cold morning in February 2012, the center portion-where so many memories lingered-was demolished. But Portsmouth and Kittery don’t give up easily, and neither does history! New Hampshire and Maine had a mission: build a bridge worthy of the old one’s legacy. Local legend Eileen Foley, now grown and serving as beloved Mayor of Portsmouth for a whopping eight terms, tied a blue ribbon to the bridge’s plaque at its closing-and then, as if by magic, she was back on August 8, 2013, to dedicate its grand replacement. Ninety years after her childhood ribbon-cutting, she celebrated the clang and rattle of a brand-new vertical-lift bridge-one that honors the fallen, connects communities, and stands tall above the river. If you squint just right, you can almost see the past replay beneath your feet: silent parades of Model Ts following US Route 1, cyclists grinning in the wind, and every sort of traveler grateful for a safe crossing. Today, the Memorial Bridge isn’t just a road. It welcomes pedestrians, bikers, and anyone who wants to stroll out over the Piscataqua, wind whipping your hair and the river swirling below. It’s the only one of the three bridges here with a sidewalk-meaning you can march right into Maine (just don’t forget to wave)! Oh, and did you know this bridge is part of the East Coast Greenway? You could, in theory, walk or pedal your way from Maine all the way to Florida, starting right here! Every summer, its mighty gears and cables lift the roadway high to let boats pass, the sound echoing along the water. Even today, the Memorial Bridge stands as a symbol. On the night of February 25, 2022, its steel beams lit up in blue and yellow for Ukraine, shining hope across the water. Like all good stories, there’s a bit more to tell-the bridge is always under watchful care, ever at the heart of the community. So here you are: where the river meets the sea, history meets the present, and every traveler-on bike, foot, or car-becomes part of the Memorial Bridge’s living tale. Enjoy the view, listen to the river, and remember: some bridges aren’t just for crossing; they’re for connecting us-across time, space, and memory!