Star Island, once the site of the village of Gosport, was in early days the most important of the group. Before the Revolution a settlement of from three to six hundred people carried on the fisheries of the island, catching yearly three or four thousand quintals of fish. All this business is now a thing of the past. The great shoals of mackerel and herring, from which the islands took their name, have disappeared—driven away or killed by the steam trawlers. The old families departed long since, and new ones have never come to take their places, save a few lobster fishermen, who with difficulty eke out a bare living. A quaint little church of stone is perched upon the highest rocks of Star Island, but I fear the attendance is small, even in the summer time.
We found our way back to Appledore, content to spend the remaining days of our visit on this the largest and most inviting of the group.
| “A common island, you will say; But stay a moment; only climb Up to the highest rock of the isle, Stand there alone for a little while, And with gentle approaches it grows sublime, Dilating slowly as you win A sense from the silence to take it in.” |
Lowell was right. The greatest charm of the islands is felt when you stand on “the highest rock of the isle,” looking out upon the ever sparkling sea that stretches
| “Eastward as far as the eye can see— Still Eastward, eastward, endlessly”; |
and feeling the restful quietude of the spot. I fancy Celia Thaxter stood upon this rock when she sang—
| “O Earth! thy summer song of joy may soar Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave The sad, caressing murmur of the wave That breaks in tender music on the shore.” |
| APPLEDORE |