It is a square wooden edifice, with gambrel roof and deep-set
window-frames. Over the windows and doors there used to be heavy
carvings--oak-leaves and acorns, and angels' heads with wings spreading
from the ears, oddly jumbled together; but these ornaments and other
outward signs of grandeur have long since disappeared. A peculiar
interest attaches itself to this house, not because of its age, for
it has not been standing quite a century; nor on account of its
architecture, which is not striking--but because of the illustrious men
who at various periods have occupied its spacious chambers.

In 1770 it was an aristocratic hotel. At the left side of the entrance
stood a high post, from which swung the sign of the Earl of Halifax. The
landlord was a stanch loyalist--that is to say, he believed in the king,
and when the overtaxed colonies determined to throw off the British
yoke, the adherents to the Crown held private meetings in one of the
back rooms of the tavern. This irritated the rebels, as they were
called; and one night they made an attack on the Earl of Halifax, tore
down the signboard, broke in the window-sashes, and gave the landlord
hardly time to make himself invisible over a fence in the rear.

For several months the shattered tavern remained deserted. At last the
exiled innkeeper, on promising to do better, was allowed to return; a
new sign, bearing the name of William Pitt, the friend of America, swung
proudly from the door-post, and the patriots were appeased. Here it was
that the mail-coach from Boston twice a week, for many a year, set
down its load of travelers and gossip. For some of the details in this
sketch, I am indebted to a recently published chronicle of those times.

It is 1782. The French fleet is lying in the harbor of Rivermouth, and