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 eight of the principal officers, in white uniforms trimmed with gold lace, have taken up their quarters at the sign of the William Pitt.  Who is this young and handsome officer now entering the door of the tavern?  It is no less a personage than the Marquis Lafayette, who has come all the way from Providence to visit the French gentlemen boarding there.  What a gallant-looking cavalier he is, with his quick eyes and coal black hair!  Forty years later he visited the spot again; his locks were gray and his step was feeble, but his heart held its young love for Liberty.

Who is this finely dressed traveler alighting from his coach-and-four, attended by servants in livery?  Do you know that sounding name, written in big valorous letters on the Declaration of Independence—­written as if by the hand of a giant?  Can you not see it now?  John Hancock.  This is he.

Three young men, with their valet, are standing on the doorstep of the William Pitt, bowing politely, and inquiring in the most courteous terms in the world if they can be accommodated.  It is the time of the French Revolution, and these are three sons of the Duke of Orleans—­Louis Philippe and his two brothers.  Louis Philippe never forgot his visit to Rivermouth.  Years afterwards, when he was seated on the throne of France, he asked an American lady, who chanced to be at his court, if the pleasant old mansion were still standing.