12 ; No@ te oH 
the Governor to the minis- 
ter when the feast was spread, 
“T want you to marry me to- 
night.” 
And the grayhaired old man 
looked very dapper and impos- 
ing in black velvet and white 
frills. Almost before the as- 
tonished minister could ask 
“To whom?” in tripped a 
charming little slip of a girl— 
Martha Hilton, the Governor’s 
housemaid. 
“To this lady,” said the 
Governor, in dictatorial tones, 
and the Rev. Arthur did as 
he was bid. Isn’t it rather a 
_ pretty picture,—the pompous 
old man and the graceful mai- 
den, promising the age-old ‘“‘to 
love and to cherish,’’ while the 
firelight gleams on the carved 
oaken mantel in that spacious 
old council chamber by the 
sea. 
Or come back to town, and 
take the street that leads to 
the Navy Yard ferry. On 
your left is an old tan-colored 
brick house whose low door- 
way arises abruptly from the 
sidewalk. It is a square old 
mansion, a bit forbidding now 
SHORE BREEZE and Reminder 
ed old host standing in black 
satin small clothes and silver 
buckles welcoming his guests 
under that very portico? 
Fine old man and fine old 
patriot! He it was who ex- 
claimed: 
“TI have a thousand dollars 
in hard money; I will pledge 
my plate for three thousand 
more; 1 have seventy hogs- 
heads of Tobago rum, which 
will be sold for the most they 
can bring. They are at the 
service of the state—we will 
check the progress of Bur- 
goyne!” 
The old gentleman, in fis 
immaculate dress, may have 
been in the Market Square 
on November 1, 1765, his face 
alive with excitement. For 
that was the day the Stamp 
Act was to go into effect. 
Bells were tolled, buildings 
were draped in mourning, all 
Portsmouth was in Market 
Square in funeral attire, and 
into a grave, dug iin the 
Square a coffin was being 
lowered,— a coffin inscribed, 
“Liberty, aged 145 years.” 
There was heard a clatter of 
that it is boarded up, and yet 
when the afternoon sun comes 
glinting across its big white 
doorway it seems to unbend, 
and its squareness bespeaks spaciousness and lofty ceil- 
ings within. 
I know of no particular romance connected with this 
house, but its owners must have been men of a progressive 
spirit. In 1762 their lightning rod was put up by the 
hands of Benjamin Franklin. I was recounting the charms 
of Portsmouth to a literal-minded woman some time ago. 
“And this,” I said, “is the Warner house where Frank- 
lin ran up the lightning rod.” “Oh,” was her answer, 
“isn’t that interesting. JI didn’t know that he was ac- 
customed to doing acrobatic feats of that sort.” And now 
never pass the house without an inward vision of -stout 
Benjamin “shinning up the lightning rod, his wig askew 
and his cheeks scarlet with the exertion. 
But a few blocks from the Warner house there is a 
lovely white mansion which you must see. In the spring, 
especially, it is a delight to the eye. From the bridal 
wreath and snowdrops near the ground a cloud of snowy 
whiteness and fragrance seems to ascend, through masses 
of lilac clusters at a higher level and the wonderful riotous 
bursts of apple and peach bloom that New England lavishes 
in spring time, up to the magnificent horse chestnuts in the 
rear. It is indeed a charming old place. Its pure Colo- 
nial portico with the Corinthian pillars, the pleasant 
spaciousness of its aspect promising an equally pleasant 
hospitality, the old Langdon mansion stands, much as it 
stood in 1784. 
It belonged to fine old Governor Langdon, first presi- 
dent of the United States Senate, and five times Governor 
of New Hampshire. Both Louis Philippe and our own 
George Washington, among many other famous person- 
ages have gone up those three low steps and into that cool 
and spacious hall. Can you not see that exquisitely dress- 
DOOR OF LANGDON HOUSE 
WASHINGTON AND LOUIS PHILLIPE MOUNTED 
THESE STEPS 
hoofs and a post boy dashed 
up with news—news of the 
Boston Tea Party. The atms- 
phere changed, the bells 
rang out, drums beat, men shouted—the elderly miss of 
one hundred and forty-five was resurrected, and the 
Stamp Act buried in her place. 
The Rice doorway is a staid old specimen. Yet, 
1814, behind this doorway, a thrilling party was held. 
Bales and bales of calico had been captured from English 
merchantmen on the high seas by William Rice’s priva- 
teers, and brought home to their master in Portsmouth. 
And so one evening there was a great scurrying in the old 
house while candles, gleaming in burnished brass, threw 
their flickerings over the huge bales of colored prints. 
For the jocose old soul had given a “Calico” party, and all 
the dames of Portsmouth had responded to his invitation 
to bring their shears and take home as much as they could 
carry. 
Dear me, I am so taken up with the story side, that I 
have overlooked the notables who lived or stopped in the 
old houses. I might mention Aldrich and Daniel Web- 
ster and James T” Field—to say nothing of Washington, 
Hancock and Lafayette. Being’a woman, there is one 
character I cannot pass by—the widow Atkinson. Her 
first husband was “a mild. obliging and devout man,” and 
apparently she was confident that his ghost would con- 
tinue these admirable qualities, as she fearlessly married 
again just ten days after the funeral. It was a beautiful 
wedding and her husband paid one pound eighteen shillings 
for a pair of white silk breeches and sported three whole 
yards of queue ribbon! 
And so these old doorways stand to-day, hiding their 
secrets behind them. Every line of their straight, Colo- 
nial quaintness suggests that some old memory is buried 
there. They are visited every summer by hundreds of 
resorters—some of whom go back to their western homes 
” 
