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 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 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 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 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 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