Boar’s Head is a promontory; its level summit of about a dozen acres, sixty feet above the highest tide, clothed in the greenest verdure.  It is in the form of a triangle, the cliffs on two sides of which are lashed by the waves of the restless ocean; while toward the main, the land falls away gently to the level of the marshes.  The hotel is situate on the crest of this incline.  From the veranda, which commands the landward view, the prospect is wide and pleasing.  To the north trends Hampton Beach in a long sweep to Little Boar’s Head and the shores of Rye and Newcastle; inland are broad stretches of salt marsh, its surface interwoven with the silver ribbon of the creek and stream; beyond are glimpses of restful rustic scenes, improved by near approach; spires pointing heavenward from all the peaceful villages, and, further away, Agamenticus and the granite hills of New England; to the south, the beach runs on toward Salisbury and Newburyport.  But the great view from Boar’s Head is from the ocean apex of the promontory.  Here, beneath the grateful shade of an awning, with the waves breaking rythmically at the foot of the cliff far beneath, one can sit and ponder on the immensity of the ocean and dream of the lands beyond the horizon.  From here the whole seaboard, from Thatcher’s Island to York and Wells, is in view; the Isles of Shoals loom up on the horizon, while the offing is dotted with coasters and yachts of every rig and construction.  Calm, indeed, must it be when no wind is felt on Boar’s Head; and during those exceptional days of the summer, when the land-breeze prevails, the broad verandas around three sides of the hotel afford the most grateful shade.  The broad acres between the house and the bluff is a lawn for the use of the guests, where croquet and tennis may be highly enjoyed in the invigorating ocean air.

During the evening, when the atmosphere is clear, there are visible from the Head thirteen lighthouses.  When the shades of night and the dew have driven the guests to seek shelter within doors, the great parlor affords to the young people ample room for the cotillion or German, while the reception-room, office, and reading-room lure the seniors to whist or magazines.  Of a Sunday, the dining-room answers for a chapel; and in years past, the voice of many an eloquent preacher has echoed through the room, and reached, through the open windows, hardy but devout fishermen on the outside.

These same fishermen bring great codfish from the outlying shoals, delicious clams from the flats, canvas-back duck, and teal, and yellow-leg plovers from the marshes, to tempt the delicate appetite of the valetudinarian.

Boar’s Head is on the seacoast of the old town of Hampton, in the State of New Hampshire.  Taking a team from Mr. Dumas’ well-stocked stable, one will find the most delightful drives, extending in all directions through the ancient borough.  The roads follow curves, like the drives in Central Park, and two centuries and a half of wear have rendered them as solid and firm as if macadamized.  Three short miles from the hotel is the station of Hampton, on the Eastern Railroad, by which many trains pass daily.