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happy pairfor the marriage was a fortunate oneis the fact that the
Rousselets made their home in the old Atkinson mansion； which stood
directly opposite my grandfather's house on Court Street and was torn
down in my childhood； to my great consternation。 The building had been
unoccupied for a quarter of a century； and was fast falling into decay with
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all its rich wood…carvings at cornice and lintel； but was it not full of ghosts；
and if the old barracks were demolished； would not these ghosts； or some
of them at least； take refuge in my grandfather's house just across the way？
Where else could they bestow themselves so conveniently？ While the
ancient mansion was in process of destruction； I used to peep round the
corner of our barn at the workmen； and watch the indignant phantoms go
soaring upward in spiral clouds of colonial dust。
A lady differing in many ways from Catherine Moffatt was the Mary
Atkinson （once an inmate of this same manor house） who fell to the lot of
the Rev。 William Shurtleff； pastor of the South Church between 1733 and
1747。 From the worldly standpoint； it was a fine match for the Newcastle
clergymanbeauty； of the eagle…beaked kind； wealth； her share of the
family plate； high birth； a sister to the Hon。 Theodore Atkinson。 But if the
exemplary man had cast his eyes lower； peradventure he had found more
happiness； though ill…bred persons without family plate are not necessarily
amiable。 Like Socrates； this long…suffering divine had always with him an
object on which to cultivate heavenly patience； and patience； says the
Eastern proverb； is the key to content。 The spirit of Xantippe seems to
have taken possession of Mrs。 Shurtleff immediately after her marriage。
The freakish disrespect with which she used her meek consort was a heavy
cross to bear at a period in New England when clerical dignity was at its
highest sensitive point。 Her devices for torturing the poor gentleman were
inexhaustible。 Now she lets his Sabbath ruffs go unstarched； now she
scandalizes him by some unseemly and frivolous color in her attire； now
she leaves him to cook his own dinner at the kitchen coals； and now she
locks him in his study； whither he has retired for a moment or two of
prayer； previous to setting forth to perform the morning service。 The
congregation has assembled； the sexton has tolled the bell twice as long as
is custom； and is beginning a third carillon； full of wonder that his
reverence does not appear； and there sits Mistress Shurtleff in the family
pew with a face as complacent as that of the cat that has eaten the canary。
Presently the deacons appeal to her for information touching the good
doctor。 Mistress Shurtleff sweetly tells them that the good doctor was in
his study when she left home。 There he is found； indeed； and released from
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durance； begging the deacons to keep his mortification secret； to 〃give it
an understanding； but no tongue。〃 Such was the discipline undergone by
the worthy Dr。 Shurtleff on his earthly pilgrimage。 A portrait of this patient
mannow a saint somewherehangs in the rooms of the New England
Historical and Genealogical Society in Boston。 There he can be seen in
surplice and bands； with his lamblike； apostolic face looking down upon
the heavy antiquarian labors of his busy descendants。
Whether or not a man is to be classed as eccentric who vanishes
without rhyme or reason on his wedding…night is a query left to the
reader's decision。 We seem to have struck a matrimonial vein； and must
work it out。 In 1768； Mr。 James McDonough was one of the wealthiest
men in Portsmouth； and the fortunate suitor for the hand of a daughter of
Jacob Sheafe； a town magnate。 The home of the bride was decked and
lighted for the nuptials； the banquet…table was spread； and the guests were
gathered。 The minister in his robe stood by the carven mantelpiece； book
in hand； and waited。 Then followed an awkward intervalthere was a hitch
somewhere。 A strange silence fell upon the laughing groups； the air grew
tense with expectation； in the pantry； Amos Boggs； the butler； in his
agitation split a bottle of port over his new cinnamon…colored small…
clothes。 Then a whispera whisper suppressed these twenty minutesran
through the apartments；〃The bridegroom has not come！〃。 He never came。
The mystery of that night remains a mystery after the lapse of a century
and a quarter。
What had become of James McDonough？ The assassination of so
notable a person in a community where every strange face was challenged；
where every man's antecedents were known； could not have been
accomplished without leaving some slight traces。 Not a shadow of foul
play was discovered。 That McDonough had been murdered or had
committed suicide were theories accepted at first by a few； and then by no
one。 On the other hand； he was in love with his fiancee； he had wealth；
power； positionwhy had he fled？ He was seen a moment on the public
street； and then never seen again。 It was as if he turned into air。 Meanwhile
the bewilderment of the bride was dramatically painful。 If McDonough
had been waylaid and killed； she could mourn for him。 If he had deserted
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her； she could wrap herself in her pride。 But neither course lay open to her；
then or afterward。 In one of the Twice Told Tales Hawthorne deals with a
man named Wakefield； who disappears with like suddenness； and lives
unrecognized for twenty years in a street not far from his abandoned
hearthside。 Such expunging of one's self was not possible in Portsmouth；
but I never think of McDonough without recalling Wakefield。 I have an
inexplicable conviction that for many a year James McDonough； in some
snug ambush； studied and analyzed the effect of his own startling
disappearance。
Some time in the year 1758； there dawned upon Portsmouth a