I DOUBT if any New England town ever turned out so many eccentric characters as Portsmouth. From 1640 down to about 1848 there must have been something in the air of the place that generated . In another chapter I shall explain why the conditions have not been favorable to the development of individual singularity during the latter half of the present century. It is easier to do that than to account for the numerous queer human types which have existed from time to time previous to that period.  
In recently turning over the pages of Mr. Brewster’s entertaining collection of Portsmouth , I have been struck by the number and variety of the odd men and women who appear incidentally on the scene. They are, in the author’s intention, secondary figures in the background of his landscape, but they stand very much in the foreground of one’s memory after the book is laid aside. One finds one’s self thinking quite as often of that squalid old hut-dweller up by Sagamore as of General Washington, who visited the town in 1789. Conservatism and respectability have their values, certainly; but has not the unconventional its values also? If we render unto that old hut-dweller the things which are that old hut-dweller’s, we must concede him his . He was dirty, and he was not respectable; but he is picturesque—now that he is dead.
 
If the reader has five or ten minutes to waste, I invite him to glance at a few old profiles of persons who, however substantial they once were, are now leading a life of outlines. I would like to give them a less faded expression, but the past is very of yielding up anything more than its shadows.
 
The first who presents himself is the already mentioned—a species of uninspired Thoreau. His name was Benjamin Lear. So far as his craziness went, he might have been a lineal descendant of that ancient king of Britain who figures on Shakespeare’s page. Family dissensions made a of King Lear; but in the case of Benjamin there were no circumstances. He had no family to trouble him, and his realm remained undivided. He owned an excellent farm on the south side of Sagamore Creek, a little to the west of the bridge, and might have lived at ease, if personal comfort had not been distasteful to him. Personal comfort entered into no part of Lear’s. To be alone filled the little pint-measure of his desire. He ensconced himself in a wretched , and barred the door, figuratively, against all the world. Wealth—what would have been wealth to him—lay within his reach, but he thrust it aside; he luxury as he disdained idleness, and made no compromise with convention. When a man cuts himself absolutely adrift from custom, what an astonishingly light spar floats him! How few his wants are, after all! Lear was of a cheerful , and seems to have been wholly inoffensive—at a distance. He fabricated his own clothes, and chiefly on milk and potatoes, the product of his realm. He needed nothing but an island to be a Robinson Crusoe. At rare he flitted like a frost-bitten through the main street of Portsmouth, which he always designated as “the Bank,” a name that had become fifty or a hundred years before. Thus, for nearly a quarter of a century, Benjamin Lear stood from human . In his old age some of the neighbors offered him shelter during the winter months; but he would have none of it—he defied wind and weather. There he lay in his dilapidated hovel in his last illness, refusing to allow any one to remain with him overnight—and the mercury four degrees below zero. Lear was born in 1720, and eighty-two years.
 
I take it that Timothy Winn, of whom we have only a glimpse, would like to have more, was a person better worth knowing. His name reads like the title of some old-fashioned novel—“Timothy Winn, or the of a Bashful Gentleman.” He came to Portsmouth from Woburn at the close of the last century, and set up in the old museum-building on Mulberry Street what was called “a piece goods store.” He was the third Timothy in his family, and in order to himself he on the sign over his shop door, “Timothy Winn, 3d,” and was ever after called “Three-Penny Winn.” That he enjoyed the pleasantry, and clung to his sign, goes to show that he was a person who would on further acquaintance, were further acquaintance now practicable. His next-door neighbor, Mr. Leonard Serat, who kept a modest tailoring establishment, also us a little with a dim intimation of . He plainly was without literary prejudices, for on one face of his swinging sign was painted the word Taylor, and on the other Tailor. This may have been a delicate to that part of the community—the greater part, probably—which would have spelled it with a y.
 
The building in which Messrs. Winn and Serat had their shops was the property of Nicholas Rousselet, a French gentleman of Demerara, the story of whose unconventional courtship of Miss Catherine Moffatt is pretty enough to bear retelling, and entitles him to a place in our limited collection of etchings. M. Rousselet had doubtless already mad excursions into the pays de tendre, and given Miss Catherine previous notice of the state of his heart, but it was not until one day during the hour of service at the Episcopal church that he brought matters to a crisis by handing to Miss Moffatt a small Bible, on the fly-leaf of which he had penciled the fifth verse of the Second Epistle of John—
 
     “And now I thee, lady, not as though I
     wrote a new commandment unto thee, but that
     which we had from the beginning, that we love one another.”
 
This was not to be resisted, at lease not by Miss Catherine, who handed the volume back to him with a page turned down at the sixteenth verse in the first chapter of Ruth—
 
     “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I
     will : thy people shall be my people, and thy God my
     God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be
     buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but
     death part thee and me.”
 
Aside from this touch of romance, what attaches me to the happy pair—for the marriage was a fortunate one—is the fact that the Rousselets made their home in the old Atkinson , which stood directly opposite my grandfather’s house on Court Street and was torn down in my childhood, to my great . The building had been unoccupied for a quarter of a century, and was fast falling into decay with all its rich wood-carvings at cornice and lintel; but was it not full of ghosts, and if the old barracks were , 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 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 go soaring upward in spiral clouds of colonial dust.
 
A lady differing in many ways from Catherine Moffatt was the Mary Atkinson (once an of this same house) who fell to the lot of the . William Shurtleff, of the South Church between 1733 and 1747. From the worldly standpoint, it was a fine match for the Newcastle clergyman—beauty, 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 . 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 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 color in her ; now she leaves him to cook his own dinner at the kitchen coals; and now she locks him in his study, whither he has for a moment or two of prayer, previous to setting to perform the morning service. The congregation has assembled; the sexton has the bell twice as long as is custom, and is beginning a third carillon, full of wonder that his does not appear; and there sits Mistress Shurtleff in the family pew with a face as as that of the cat that has eaten the canary. Presently the deacons appeal to her for information 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 durance, begging the deacons to keep his secret, to “give it an understanding, but no tongue.” Such was the discipline undergone by the Dr. Shurtleff on his earthly pilgrimage. A portrait of this patient man—now a saint somewhere—hangs 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 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 left to the reader’s decision. We seem to have struck a matrimonial , 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 , 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 interval—there was a somewhere. A strange silence fell upon the laughing groups; the air grew tense with expectation; in the pantry, Amos Boggs, the butler, in his split a bottle of port over his new cinnamon-colored small-clothes. Then a whisper—a whisper suppressed these twenty minutes—ran through the apartments,—“The bridegroom has not come!”. He never came. The mystery of that night a mystery after the of a century and a quarter.
 
What had become of James McDonough? The 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 without leaving some slight traces. Not a shadow of 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, position—why had he fled? He was seen............