t the
communion-plate presented by Queen Caroline should be treasured here?
That the sexton should still show you, even with a cold indifference,
the stately prayer-books which once contained prayers for the king? That
a bell, captured at Louisburg by Sir William Pepperell, should summon
to the worship of God a people long forgetful of that proud achievement?
Such are the evidences of an innate conservatism which has kept alive
the old traditions of New England.

Thus for three hundred years Portsmouth has lived the happy life of
a country town, and its historian sadly notes that until 1900 its
population did not rise to 10,000. The historian need feel no regret: it
is not by numbers that we may measure the stateliness of a city; and the
dignity of Portsmouth is still plain for all to behold in the houses,
to cite but two examples, of Governors Wentworth and Langdon, And then
after this long spell of fortunate obscurity, Portsmouth became suddenly
the centre of universal interest. By a curious irony this little,
old-fashioned town was chosen to be the meeting-place of Russia and
Japan, and the first experiment in modern diplomacy-was made in a place
which has sacrificed nothing to a love of that intoxicant known as the
spirit of the age. It was, in truth, a strange sight that Portsmouth saw
a brief two years ago. Before its troubled eyes the stern conference
of hostile nations was turned to comedy. A hundred and twenty eager
reporters publicly put up their support for sale in exchange for
information to the highest bidder. The representative of a great country
was heard boasting to the gentlemen of the press of his own prowess.
"The Japanese could not read in my face," said M. Witte, "what was
passing in my heart." Isn't it wonderful? Would not the diplomatists of
another age be ashamed of their _confrere_ could they hear him brag of a
rudimentary and long since dishonoured _finesse?_ But the mere fact that
M. Witte could make such a speech on American soil is a clear proof that
the New World is not the proper field of diplomacy. The congresses
of old were gay and secret. "Le congres," said the Prince de Ligne at
Vienna, "ne marche pas; il danse." It danced, and it kept inviolate
the obligation of silence. The Congress at Portsmouth did not talk--it
chattered; and it was an open injustice to the unbroken history of New
England that President Roosevelt should have chosen this tranquil and
ancient spot for a bold experime