ON the right bank of Oyster River, in the town of Durham, in Strafford County, the traveller will run across one of those old historic homes for which New Hampshire is so celebrated, and of which her citizens are so justly proud. The mansion is an aristocratic looking structure, having been the residence of a hero and patriot, who—in our revolution and the earlier history of our state—embalmed his name in that noble galaxy of names which no future Plutarch can ennoble, that list headed by a Franklin and a Washington; and it still bears evidence of the worldly thrift, good taste, and high standing of its former occupant. The fame of its founder, together with the interesting incidents which have occurred within its precincts, and its connection with many names of renown, renders it memorable in the annals alike of the state and the nation. Few of those who pass it, however, are aware of the interest connected with it, and fewer still are acquainted with the details which entitle it to rank among the notable spots of our State. The rapid growth of our nation, and the indisposition of our people to regard anything important save the full development of our natural resources and the acquisition of wealth, have been productive of no little degree of carelessness regarding many of the minor incidents which go so far toward cementing our national record into a homogeneous whole, and which, oftentimes, seems to furnish a key to greater events. The grave muse of history, intent upon the more paramount events of a nation's life, has neglected many articles of interest while dealing with the major facts of our national birth and development. Hence it has been left to the small literary chiffoinniers,—the "snappers up of unconsidered trifles,"—to glean and collate those lesser incidents which form the romance of history, and add so much to its zest. It is with this object in view that I present the readers of the Granite Monthly the reminiscences of a visit to the Sullivan House in the summer of 1878.
Durham village is a quiet, sleepy little place, reposing in the valley of Oyster River, at the head of tide water. It is hardly disturbed by the whistle of the locomotive, for though the Boston and Maine Railroad passes through the town, the station is somewhat more than a mile from the village. The walk from the depot to the hotel is an interesting one. The land around you is a part of the ancient Penacook demesnes, and was included in Hilton's grant, being originally a portion of the town of Dover. Down from those hills on your left, up from that stream on your right, many a time poured the red warriors in hunt and foray. A short distance from the street are the ruins of an ancient garrison-house, which the Indians laid low one hundred and eighty-six summers ago.
We reach the village at last, enter its only hotel,—a large brick building, built in the first half of the century,—pay our salute to Boniface, dispose of our traps, and while the sun is blazing in the western sky wander forth note book in hand intent upon historical investigation.
Right here we have a thought, which, whether pertinent or not, we are going to transcribe, and that is this:—There is no need of going to Europe to see beautiful scenery. We have grand scenery enough (everybody admits that); but some of the most charming idealistic scenes on this earth lie in an around our New England villages. One can see but little of these beauties by flying
