OLD-TIME TAVERNS
By the close of the seventeenth century the word ordinary was passing into
disuse in America; public houses had multiplied vastly and had become
taverns, though a few old-fashioned folk--in letters, and doubtless in
conversation--still called them ordinaries--Judge Sewall was one. The word
inn, universal in English speech, was little heard here, and tavern was
universally adopted. Though to-day somewhat shadowed by a formless
reputation of being frequently applied to hostelries of vulgar resort and
coarse fare and ways, the word tavern is nevertheless a good one, resonant
of sound and accurate of application, since to this present time in the
commonwealth of Massachusetts and in other states such large and sumptuous
caravansaries as the Touraine and the Somerset Hotel of Boston are in the
eye and tongue of the law simply taverns, and their proprietors
inn-holders or tavern-keepers.
In the Middle colonies ordinaries and inns were just as quickly opened,
just as important, just as frequent, as in New England; but in the
Southern colonies, the modes of settlement were so different, there were
so few towns and villages, that hospitality to the traveller was shown at
each plantation, every man's home was an inn; every planter was a
landlord.
In general no charge was made for the entertainment of the chance visitor
whose stay was deemed a pleasure in the secluded life of the Virginia
tobacco planter. Indeed, unless a distinct contract had been made in
advance and terms stated, the host could not demand pay from a guest, no
matter how long the visitor remained. Rates of prices were set for the
first Virginian ordinaries; previous to 1639 six pounds of tobacco were
paid for a dinner, or about eighteen pence in coin; but as food soon grew
more abundant, the price was reduced to twelve pence, and it was enjoined
that the food must be wholesome and plentiful. Then the charges grew
exorbitant,--twenty pounds of tobacco for a meal for a master, fifteen for
a servant. Throughout the country the prices wavered up and down, but were
never low. There were apparently two causes for this: the fact that
ordinary-keepers captured so few guests, and also that the tobacco leaf
varied and depreciated in value.
By 1668 so many small tippling-houses and petty ordinaries existed in the
colony of Virginia that laws were passed restricting the number in each
county to one at the court-house, and possibly one at a wharf or ferry.
Then the magistrates tried to limit the drinks sold in these houses to
beer and cider; and private individuals were warned not to sell "any sort
of drink or liquor whatsoever, by retail under any color, pretence,
delusion, or subtle evasion whatsoever." Those conditions did not last
long. Soon the Virginia ordinaries had plentiful domestic and imported
liquors, and at very low prices. Mr. Bruce says that "Madeira, Canary,
Malaga, and Fayal wines were probably much more abundant in the Colony
than in England at this time, and were drunk by classes which in the
mother country were content with strong and small-beer."
But the ordinaries did scant business as lodging-places. Governor Harvey
complained that he could with as much justice be called the host as the
Governor of Virginia, from the great number of persons entertained by him.
This condition of affairs continued outside the cities till well into this
century. In the large towns, however, comfortable taverns were everywhere
established; and they were, as in the Northern colonies, the gathering
places of many serious and many frivolous assemblages. The best of our
American taverns were found in Southern cities; Baltimore had the Fountain
Inn built around a courtyard like an old English inn, and furnished very
handsomely.
Few of these ancient taverns still remain. The old Indian Queen Tavern is
still standing at Bladensburg, Maryland. Its picture is given opposite
page 33. This view is from a painting by Mr. Edward Lamson Henry. It shows
also an old stage-wagon such as was used in the eighteenth century,
starting out from the tavern door. Mr. Henry has made a most exhaustive
study of old-time modes of travel, as well as a fine collection of old
vehicles, harnesses, costumes, etc. The copies of his paintings, which I
am honored by using in this book, are in every detail authoritative and
invaluable records of the olden time.
[Illustration: Indian Queen Tavern, Bladensburg, Maryland.]
With the establishment of turnpikes, road houses multiplied, and for a
time prospered. But their day was short; a typical Maryland road house is
shown on page 34, far gone in a decrepit and ugly old age.
The history of Pennsylvania shows that its taverns were great in number
and good in quality, especially soon after the Revolution. This would be
the natural accompaniment of the excellent roads throughout the state.
Philadelphia had an extraordinary number of public houses, and many were
needed; for the city had a vast number of visitors, and a great current of
immigration poured into that port. In the chapter on Signs and Symbols,
many names and descriptions are given of old Philadelphia taverns.
The first Dutch directors-general of New Netherland entertained infrequent
travellers and traders at their own homes, and were probably very glad to
have these visitors. But trade was rapidly increasing, and
Director-General Kieft, "in order to accommodate the English, from whom he
suffered great annoyance, built a fine inn of stone." The chronicler De
Vries had often dined in Kieft's house, and he says dryly of the building
of this inn, "It happened well for the travellers."
The Stadt Harberg, or City Tavern, was built in where now stand the
warehouses, 71 and 73 Pearl Street. It was ordained that a well and
brew-house might be erected at the rear of the inn; right was given to
retail the East India Company's wine and brandy; and some dull records
exist of the use of the building as an inn. It had a career afterward of
years of use and honor as the Stadt Huys, or City Hall; I have told its
story at length in a paper in the _Half-Moon Series_ on Historic New York.
[Illustration: Old Maryland Road House.]
The building was certainly not needed as a tavern, for in 1648 one-fourth
of the buildings in New Amsterdam had been turned into tap-houses for the
sale of beer, brandy, and tobacco. Governor Stuyvesant placed some
restraint on these tapsters; they had to receive unanimous consent of the
Council to set up the business; they could not sell to Indians.
"Unreasonable night-tippling," that is, drinking after the curfew bell at
nine o'clock, and "intemperate drinking on the Sabbath," that is, drinking
by any one not a boarder before three o'clock on the Sabbath (when church
services were ended), were heavily fined. Untimely "sitting of clubs" was
also prohibited. These laws were evaded with as much ease as the Raines
Law provisions of later years in the same neighborhood.
In 1664 the red cross of St. George floated over the city; the English
were in power; the city of New Amsterdam was now New York. The same tavern
laws as under the Dutch obtained, however, till 1748, and under the
English, taverns multiplied as fast as under Dutch rule. They had good old
English names on their sign-boards: the Thistle and Crown, the Rose and
Thistle, the Duke of Cumberland, the Bunch of Grapes, St. George and the
Dragon, Dog's Head in the Porridge Pot, the Fighting Cocks, the White
Lion, the King's Head.
On the Boreel Building on Broadway is a bronze commemorative tablet,
placed there in 1890 by the Holland Society.
The site of this building has indeed a history of note. In 1754 Edward
Willet opened there a tavern under the sign of the Province Arms; and many
a distinguished traveller was destined to be entertained for many a year
at this Province Arms and its successors. It had been the home residence
of the De Lanceys, built about 1700 by the father of Lieutenant-Governor
James De Lancey, and was deemed a noble mansion. The Province Arms began
its career with two very brilliant public dinners: one to the new English
Governor, Sir Charles Hardy; the other upon the laying of the corner-stone
of King's College. A grand function this was, and the Province Arms had
full share of honor. All the guests, from Governor to students, assembled
at the tavern, and proceeded to the college grounds; they laid the stone
and returned to Landlord Willet's, where, says the chronicle, "the usual
loyal healths were drunk, and Prosperity to the College; and the whole was
conducted with the utmost Decency and Propriety."
In 1763 the Province Arms had a new landlord, George Burns, late of the
King's Head in the Whitehall, and ere that of the Cart and Horse. His
advertisements show his pretensions to good housekeeping, and his house
was chosen for a lottery-drawing of much importance--one for the building
of the lighthouse at Sandy Hook. This lottery was for six thousand pounds,
and lighthouse and lottery were special pets of Cadwallader Colden, then
President of his Majesty's Council. Lotteries were usually drawn at City
Hall, but just at that time repairs were being made upon that building, so
Mr. Burns's long room saw this important event. The lighthouse was built.
_The New York Magazine_ for 1790 has a picture and description of it. It
is there gravely stated that the light could be seen at a distance of ten
leagues, that is, thirty miles. As the present light at Sandy Hook is
officially registered to be seen at fifteen miles' distance, the marvel
of our ancestors must have shone with "a light that never was on land or
sea."
Troublous times were now approaching. George Burns's long room held many
famous gatherings anent the Stamp Act--at the first the famous
Non-Importation Agreement was signed by two hundred stout-hearted New York
merchants. Sons of Liberty drank and toasted and schemed within the walls
of the Province Arms. Concerts and duels alternated with suppers and
society meetings; dancing committees and governors of the college poured
in and out of the Province Arms. In 1792 Peter De Lancey sold it to the
Tontine Association; the fine old mansion was torn down, and the City
Hotel sprang up in its place.
The City Hotel filled the entire front of the block on Broadway between
Thomas and Cedar streets. Travellers said it had no equal in the United
States, but it was unpretentious in exterior, as may be seen through the
picture on the old blue and white plate (shown on page 38) which gives the
front view of the hotel with a man sawing wood on Broadway, this in about
1824. It was simply yet durably furnished, and substantial comfort was
found within. Though the dining room was simply a spacious, scrupulously
neat apartment, the waiters were numerous and well-trained. There was a
"lady's dining room" in which dances, lectures, and concerts were given.
The proprietors were two old bachelors, Jennings and Willard. It was
reported and believed that Willard never went to bed. He was never known
to be away from his post, and with ease and good nature performed his
parts of host, clerk, bookkeeper, and cashier. When Billy Niblo opened an
uptown coffee-house and garden, it was deemed a matter of courtesy that
Willard should attend the housewarming. When the hour of starting arrived,
it was found that Willard had not for years owned a hat. Two streets away
from the City Hall would have been to him a strange city, in which he
could be lost. Jennings was purveyor and attended to all matters of the
dining room, as well as relations with the external world. Both hosts had
the perfect memory of faces, names, and details, which often is an
accompaniment of the successful landlord. These two men were types of the
old-fashioned Boniface.
[Illustration: City Hotel.]
In the early half of the eighteenth century the genteel New York tavern
was that of Robert Todd, vintner. It was in Smith (now William) Street
between Pine and Cedar, near the Old Dutch Church. The house was known by
the sign of the Black Horse. Concerts, dinners, receptions, and balls took
place within its elegant walls. On the evening of January 19, 1736, a ball
was therein given in honor of the Prince of Wales's birthday. The healths
of the Royal Family, the Governor, and Council had been pledged loyally
and often at the fort through the day, and "the very great appearance of
ladies and gentlemen and an elegant entertainment" at the ball fitly ended
the celebration. The ladies were said to be "magnificent." The ball opened
with French dances and then proceeded to country dances, "upon which Mrs.
Morris led up to two new country dances made upon the occasion, the first
of which was called the Prince of Wales, the second the Princess of
Saxe-Gotha."
The Black Horse was noted for its Todd drinks, mainly composed of choice
West India rum; and by tradition it is gravely asserted that from these
delectable beverages was derived the old drinking term "toddy." (Truth
compels the accompanying note that the word "toddy," like many of our
drinking names and the drinks themselves, came from India, and the word is
found in a geographical description of India written in 1671, before
Robert Todd was born, or the Black Horse Tavern thought of.)
When Robert of toddy fame died, after nine years of successful
hospitality, his widow Margaret reigned in his stead. She had a turn for
trade, and advertised for sale, at wholesale, fine wines and playing
cards, at reasonable rates. In 1750 the Boston Post made this tavern its
headquarters, but its glory of popularity was waning and soon was wholly
gone.
At the junction of 51st and 52d streets with the post-road stood Cato's
Road House, built in 1712. Cato was a negro slave who had so mastered
various specialties in cooking that he was able to earn enough money to
buy his freedom from his South Carolina master. He kept this inn for
forty-eight years. Those who tasted his okra soup, his terrapin, fried
chicken, curried oysters, roast duck, or drank his New York brandy-punch,
his Virginia egg-nogg, or South Carolina milk-punch, wondered how any one
who owned him ever could sell him even to himself. Alongside his road
house he built a ballroom which would let thirty couple swing widely in
energetic reels and quadrilles. When Christmas sleighing set in, the
Knickerbocker braves and belles drove out there to dance; and there was
_always_ sleighing at Christmas in old New York--all octogenarians will
tell you so. Cato's egg-nogg was mixed in single relays by the barrelful.
He knew precisely the mystic time when the separated white and yolk was
beaten enough, he knew the exact modicum of sugar, he could count with
precision the grains of nutmeg that should fleck the compound, he could
top to exactness the white egg foam. A picture of this old road house,
taken from a print, is here given. It seems but a shabby building to have
held so many gay scenes.
[Illustration: Cato's House.]
The better class of old-time taverns always had a parlor. This was used as
a sitting room for women travellers, or might be hired for the exclusive
use of some wealthy person or family. It was not so jovial a room as the
taproom, though in winter a glowing fire in the open fireplace gave to the
formal furnishings that look of good cheer and warmth and welcome which is
ever present, even in the meanest apartment, when from the great logs the
flames shot up and "the old rude-furnished room burst flower-like into
rosy bloom." We are more comfortable now, with our modern ways of
house-heating, but our rooms do not look as warm as when we had open
fires. In the summer time the fireplace still was an object of interest. A
poet writes:--
"'Tis summer now; instead of blinking flames
Sweet-smelling ferns are hanging o'er the grate.
With curious eyes I pore
Upon the mantel-piece with precious wares,
Glazed Scripture prints in black lugubrious frames,
Filled with old Bible lore;
The whale is casting Jonah on the shore:
Pharaoh is drowning in the curling wave.
And to Elijah sitting at his cave
The hospitable ravens fly in pairs
Celestial food within their horny beaks."
The walls of one tavern parlor which I have seen were painted with scenes
from a tropical forest. On either side of the fireplace sprang a tall palm
tree. Coiled serpents, crouching tigers, monkeys, a white elephant, and
every form of vivid-colored bird and insect crowded each other on the
walls of this Vermont tavern. On the parlor of the Washington Tavern at
Westfield, Massachusetts, is a fine wallpaper with scenes of a fox-chase.
This tavern is shown on the opposite page; also on page 45 one of the fine
hand-wrought iron door-latches used on its doors. These were made in
England a century and a half ago.
[Illustration: Washington Tavern, Westfield, Massachusetts.]
The taproom was usually the largest room of the tavern. It had universally
a great fireplace, a bare, sanded floor, and ample seats and chairs.
Usually there was a tall, rather rude writing-desk, at which a traveller
might write a letter, or sign a contract, and where the landlord made out
his bills and kept his books. The bar was the most interesting furnishing
of this room. It was commonly made with a sort of portcullis grate, which
could be closed if necessary. But few of these bars remain; nearly all
have been removed, even if the tavern still stands. The taproom of the
Wayside Inn at Sudbury, Massachusetts, is shown on page 19. It is a
typical example of a room such as existed in hundreds of taverns a century
ago. Another taproom may still be seen in the Wadsworth Inn. This
well-built, fine old house, shown on page 47, is a good specimen of the
better class of old taverns. It is three miles from Hartford, Connecticut,
on the old Albany turnpike. It was one of twenty-one taverns within a
distance of twenty miles on that pike. It was not a staging inn for every
passing coach, but enjoyed an aristocratic patronage. The property has
been in the same family for five generations, but the present building was
erected by Elisha Wadsworth in 1828. It is not as old as the member of the
Wadsworth family who now lives in it, Miss Lucy Wadsworth, born in 1801.
Its old taproom is shown on page 51. This tavern was a public house till
the year 1862.
Some of the furnishings of the taproom of the old Mowry Inn still are
owned by Landlord Mowry's descendants, and a group of them is shown on
page 7. Two heavy glass beakers brought from Holland, decorated with
vitrifiable colors like the Bristol glass, are unusual pieces. The wooden
tankard, certainly two centuries old, has the curious ancient lid hinge.
The Bellarmine jug was brought to America filled with fine old gin from
Holland by Mayor Willet, the first Mayor of New York City. The bowl is one
of the old Indian knot bowls. It has been broken and neatly repaired by
sewing the cracks together with waxed thread. The sign-board of this old
inn is shown on page 57. The house stood on the post-road between
Woonsocket and Providence, in a little village known as Lime Rock. As it
was a relay house for coaches, it had an importance beyond the size of the
settlement around it.
Sometimes the taproom was decorated with broad hints to dilatory
customers. Such verses as this were hung over the bar:--
"I've trusted many to my sorrow.
Pay to-day. I'll trust to-morrow."
Another ran:--
"My liquor's good, my measure just;
But, honest Sirs, I will not trust."
Another showed a dead cat with this motto:--
"Care killed this Cat.
Trust kills the Landlord."
Still another:--
"If Trust,
I must,
My ale,
Will pale."
[Illustration: Door-latch of Washington Tavern.]
The old Phillips farm-house at Wickford, Rhode Island, was at one time
used as a tavern. It has a splendid chimney over twenty feet square. So
much room does this occupy that there is no central staircase, and little
winding stairs ascend at three corners of the house. On each chimney-piece
are hooks to hang firearms, and at one side curious little drawers are set
for pipes and tobacco. I have seen these tobacco drawers in several old
taverns. In some Dutch houses in New York these tobacco shelves are found
in an unusual and seemingly ill-chosen place, namely, in the entry over
the front door; and a narrow flight of three or four steps leads up to
them. Hanging on a nail alongside the tobacco drawer or shelf would
usually be seen a pipe-tongs--or smoking tongs. They were slender little
tongs, usually of iron or steel; with them the smoker lifted a coal from
the fireplace to light his pipe. Sometimes the handle of the tongs had one
end elongated, knobbed, and ingeniously bent S-shaped into convenient form
to press down the tobacco into the bowl of the pipe. Other old-time
pipe-tongs were in the form of a lazy-tongs. A companion of the pipe-tongs
on the mantel was what was known as a comfortier; a little brazier of
metal in which small coals could be handed about for pipe lighting. An
unusual luxury was a comfortier of silver, which were found among the
wealthy Dutch settlers.
Two old taverns of East Poultney, Vermont, are shown on page 59. Both
sheltered Horace Greeley in his sojourn there. The upper house, the Pine
Tree, is a "sun-line" house, facing due north, with its ends pointing east
and west. Throughout a century the other house, the Eagle Tavern, has
never lost its calling; now it is the only place in the village where the
tourist may find shelter for the night unless he takes advantage of the
kindness of some good-hearted housekeeper.
The main portion of the Eagle Tavern of Newton, New Hampshire, is still
standing and is shown with its sign-board on page 126. It was the "halfway
house" on the much-travelled stage-road between Haverhill, Massachusetts,
and Exeter, New Hampshire. The house was kept by Eliphalet Bartlett in
Revolutionary times as account-books show, though the sign-board bears the
date 1798. The tavern originally had two long wings, in one of which was
kept a country store. Five generations of Bartletts were born in it before
it was sold to the present owners. The sign-board displays on one side the
eagle which confers the name; on the other, what was termed in old
descriptions a punch-bowl, but which is evidently a disjointed teapot.
[Illustration: Wadsworth Inn, Hartford, Connecticut.]
About the time when settlements in the New World had begun to assume the
appearance of towns, and some attempt at closely following English modes
of life became apparent, there were springing up in London at every street
corner coffee-houses, which flourished through the times of Dryden,
Johnson, and Goldsmith, till the close of the eighteenth century. Tea and
coffee came into public use in close companionship. The virtues of the
Turkish beverage were first introduced to Londoners by a retired Turkey
merchant named Daniel Edwards, and his Greek servant, Pasque Rosser. The
latter opened the first coffee-house in London in 1652. The first
advertisement of this first coffee venture is preserved in the British
Museum.
The English of a certain class were always ready to turn an evil eye on
all new drinks, and coffee had to take its share of abuse. It was called
"syrup of soot," and "essence of old shoes," etc.; and the keeper of the
Rainbow Coffee-house was punished as a nuisance "for making and selling of
a drink called coffee whereby in making the same he annoyeth his
neighbours by evil smells." Soon, however, the smell of coffee was not
deemed evil, but became beloved; and every profession, trade, class, and
party had its coffee-house. The parsons met at one, "cits" at another;
soldiers did not drink coffee with lawyers, nor gamesters with
politicians. A penny was paid at the bar at entering, which covered
newspaper and lights; twopence paid for a dish of coffee. Coffee-houses
sprang up everywhere in America as in London. In 1752 in New York the New
or Royal Exchange was held to be so laudable an undertaking that L100 was
voted toward its construction by the Common Council. It was built like the
English exchanges, raised on brick arches, and was opened as a coffee-room
in 1754. The name of the Merchant's Coffee-house--on the southeast corner
of Wall and Water streets--appears in every old newspaper. It was a centre
of trade. Ships, cargoes, lands, houses, negroes, and varied merchandise
were "vendued" at this coffee-house. It also served as an insurance
office. Alexander Macraby wrote in 1768 in New York:--
"They have a vile practice here, which is peculiar to this city; I
mean that of playing back-gammon (a noise I detest) which is going
forward in the public coffee-houses from morning till night,
frequently ten or a dozen tables at a time."
From this it will be seen that the English sin of gaming with cards did
not exist in New York coffee-houses.
The London Coffee-house was famous in the history of Philadelphia. On
April 15, 1754, the printer, Bradford, put a notice in his journal for
subscribers to the coffee-house to meet at the court-house on the 19th to
choose trustees. Bradford applied for a license to the Governor and
Council thus:--
"Having been advised to keep a Coffee-House for the benefit of
merchants and traders, and as some people may be desirous at times to
be furnished with other liquors besides coffee, your petitioner
apprehends that it is necessary to have the government license."
The coffee-house was duly opened; Bradford's account for opening day was
L9 6_s._ The trustees also lent him L259 of the L350 of subscriptions,
and this coffee-house became a factor in American history. The building,
erected about 1702, stood on the corner of Front and Market streets, on
land which had been given by Penn to his daughter Letitia. Bradford was a
grandson of the first printer Bradford, and father of the Attorney-General
of the United States under Washington. His standing at once gave the house
prestige and much custom. Westcott says "it was the headquarters of life
and action, the pulsating heart of excitement, enterprise, and
patriotism." Soldiers and merchants here met; slaves here were sold;
strangers resorted for news; captains sold cargoes; sheriffs held
"vandues."
The Exchange Coffee-house of Boston was one of the most remarkable of all
these houses. It was a mammoth affair for its day, being seven stories in
height. It was completed in 1808, having been nearly three years in
building, and having cost half a million dollars. The principal floor was
an exchange. It ruined many of the workmen who helped to build it. During
the glorious days of stage-coach travel, its successor, built after it was
burnt in 1818, had a brilliant career as a staging tavern, for it had over
two hundred bedrooms, and was in the centre of the city. At this
Coffee-house Exchange was kept a register of marine news, arrivals,
departures, etc., and many distinguished naval officers were registered
there. At a sumptuous dinner given to President Monroe, who had rooms
there, in July, 1817, there were present Commodores Bainbridge, Hull, and
Perry; ex-President John Adams; Generals Swift, Dearborn, Cobb, and
Humphreys; Judges Story, Parker, Davis, Adams, and Jackson; Governor
Brooks, Governor Phillips, and many other distinguished men.
[Illustration: Taproom of Wadsworth Inn.]
It would be a curious and entertaining study to trace the evolution of our
great hotels, from the cheerful taverns and country inns, beloved of all
travellers, to more pretentious road houses, to coffee-houses, then to
great crowded hotels. We could see the growth of these vast hotels,
especially those of summer resorts, and also their decay. In many
fashionable watering-places great hotels have been torn down within a few
years to furnish space for lawns and grounds around a splendid private
residence. Many others are deserted and closed, some flourish in
exceptional localities which are in isolated or remote parts of the
country, such as southern Florida, the Virginia mountains, etc.; many have
been forced to build so-called cottages where families can have a little
retirement and privacy between meals, which are still eaten in a vast
common dining room. But the average American of means in the Northern
states, whose parents never left the city till after the 4th of July, and
then spent a few weeks in the middle of the summer in a big hotel at
Saratoga, or Niagara Falls, or Far Rockaway, or in the White Mountains,
now spends as many months in his own country home. A few extraordinary
exceptions in hotel life in America remain prosperous, however, the chief
examples on our Eastern coast being at Atlantic City and Old Point
Comfort.
The study of tavern history often brings to light much evidence of sad
domestic changes. Many a cherished and beautiful home, rich in annals of
family prosperity and private hospitality, ended its days as a tavern.
Many a stately building of historic note was turned into an inn in its
later career. The Indian Queen in Philadelphia had been at various times
the home of Sir Richard Penn, the headquarters of General Howe and of
General Benedict, the home of Robert Morris and Presidents Washington and
Adams. Benjamin Franklin's home became a tavern; so also did the splendid
Bingham mansion, which was built in 1790 by the richest man of his day.
Governor Lloyd's house became the Cross Trees Inn. Boston mansions had the
same fate. That historic building--the Province House--served its term as
a tavern.
Sometimes an old-time tavern had a special petty charm of its own, some
peculiarity of furnishing or fare. One of these was the Fountain Inn of
Medford, Massachusetts. It was built in 1725 and soon became vastly
frequented. No town could afford a better site for inns than Medford. All
the land travel to Boston from Maine, eastern New Hampshire, and
northeastern Massachusetts poured along the main road through Medford,
which was just distant enough from Boston centre to insure the halting and
patronage of every passer-by. The Fountain Inn bustled with constant
customers, and I can well believe that all wanderers gladly stopped to
board and bait at this hospitable tavern. For I know nothing more
attractive, "under the notion of an inn," than this old tavern must have
been, especially through the long summer months. It was a road house and
stood close to the country road, so was never quiet; yet it afforded
nevertheless a charming and restful retreat for weary and heated
wanderers. For on either side of the front dooryard grew vast
low-spreading trees, and in their heavy branches platforms were built and
little bridges connected tree to tree, and both to the house. Perhaps the
happy memories of hours and days of my childhood spent in a like tree nest
built in an old apple tree, endow these tree rooms of the Fountain Inn
with charms which cannot be equally endorsed and appreciated by all who
read of them; but to me they form an ideal traveller's joy. To sit there
through the long afternoon or in the early twilight, cool and half remote
among the tree branches, drinking a dish of tea; watching horsemen and
cartmen and sturdy pedestrians come and go, and the dashing mail-coach
rattle up, a flash of color and noise and life, and pour out its motley
passengers, and speedily roll away with renewed patrons and splendor--why,
it was like a scene in a light opera.
[Illustration: Fountain Inn.]
The tree abodes and the bridges fell slowly in pieces, and one great tree
died; but its companion lived till 1879, when it, too, was cut down and
the bald old commonplace building crowded on the dusty street stood bare
and ugly, without a vestige or suggestion of past glory around it. Now
that, too, is gone, and only the picture on the opposite page, of the
tavern in its dying poverty, remains to show what was once the scene of so
much bustle and good cheer.
The State House Inn of Philadelphia was built in 1693, and was long known
as Clark's Inn. It was a poor little building which stood in a yard, not
green with grass, but white with oysters and clam shells. Its proximity to
the State House gave it the custom of the members and hangers-on of the
colonial assemblies. William Penn often smoked his pipe on its porch.
Clark had a sign-board, the Coach and Horses, and he had something else
which was as common perhaps in Philadelphia as tavern sign-boards, namely,
turnspit dogs--little patient creatures, long-bodied and crook-legged,
whose lives were spent in the exquisite tantalization of helping to cook
the meat, whose appetizing odors of roasting they sniffed for hours
without any realization of tasting at the end of their labors.
Dr. Caius, founder of the college at Cambridge, England, that bears his
name, is the earliest English writer upon the dog, and he tells thus of
turnspits: "Certain dogs in kitchen service excellent. When meat is to be
roasted they go into a wheel, where, turning about with the weight of
their bodies they so diligently look to their business that no drudge or
scullion can do the feat more cunningly." The Philadelphia landlord says
in his advertisement of dogs for sale, "No clock or jack so cunningly."
The summary and inhuman mode of teaching these turnspits their humble
duties is described in a book of anecdotes published at Newcastle-on-Tyne
in 1809. The dog was put in the wheel. A burning coal was placed with him.
If he stopped, his legs were burned. That was all. He soon learned his
lesson. It was hard work, for often the great piece of beef was twice the
weight of the dog, and took at least three long hours' roasting. I am glad
to know that these hard-working turn-broches usually grew shrewd with age;
learned to vanish at the approach of the cook or the appearance of the
wheel. At one old-time tavern in New York little brown Jesse listened
daily at the kitchen doorstep while the orders were detailed to the
kitchen maids, and he could never be found till nightfall on roast-meat
days; nay, more, he, as was the custom of dogs in that day, went with his
mistress to meeting and lay at her feet in the pew. And when the parson
one Sunday chose to read and expound from the first chapter of Ezekiel,
Jesse fled with silent step and slunken tail and drooping ears at the
unpleasant verse, "And when the living creatures went, the wheels went by
them; and when the living creatures were lifted up from the earth, the
wheels were lifted up." Naturally Jesse never suspected that these
Biblical wheels were only parts of innocent allegorical chariots, but
deemed them instead a very untimely and unkind reminder on a day of rest
of his own hated turnspit wheel.
[Illustration: Sign-board of N. Mowry's Inn.]
One of the sweetest of all tales of an inn is that begun by Professor
Reichel and ended by Mr. John W. Jordan of the Historical Society of
Pennsylvania; it is called "A Red Rose from the Olden Time." It is a story
of _Der neue Gasthof_ or "The Tavern behind Nazareth," as it was modestly
called, the tavern of the Moravian settlement at Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.
It was a substantial building, "quartered, brick-nogged, and snugly
weatherboarded, with a yard looking North and a Garden looking South." In
1754, under the regency of its first ruler, one Schaub, the cooper, and
Divert Mary, his faithful wife, it bore a sign-board charged with a
full-blown rose, and was ever after known as the Rose. This was not
because the walls were coated with Spanish red; this rose bloomed with a
life derived from sentiment and history, for it was built on land released
by William Penn on an annual payment as rental of ONE RED ROSE.
There is something most restful and beautiful in the story of this old
inn. Perhaps part of the hidden charm comes from the Biblical names of the
towns. For, without our direct consciousness, there is ever something
impressive in Biblical association; there is a magical power in Biblical
comparison, a tenderness in the use of Biblical words and terms which we
feel without actively noting. So this Red Rose of Nazareth seems built on
the road to Paradise. An inventory was made of the homely contents of the
Rose in 1765, when a new landlord entered therein; and they smack of the
world, the flesh, and the devil. Ample store was there of rum, both of New
England and the West Indies, of Lisbon wine, of cider and madigolum, which
may have been metheglin. Punch-bowls, tumblers, decanters, funnels, black
bottles, and nutmeg-graters and nutmegs also. Feather-beds and pillows
were there in abundance, and blankets and coverlets, much pewter and
little china, ample kitchen supplies of all sorts. In war and peace its
record was of interest, and its solid walls stood still colored a deep red
till our own day.
[Illustration: Pine-tree Tavern and Eagle Tavern.]
The night-watch went his rounds in many of our colonial towns, and called
the hour and the weather. Stumbling along with his long staff and his dim
horn-lantern, he formed no very formidable figure either to affright
marauders or warn honest citizens that they tarried too long in the
taproom. But his voice gave a certain sense of protection to all who
chanced to wake in the night, a knowledge that a friend was near. All who
dwelt in the old towns of Bethlehem and Nazareth in Pennsylvania could
listen and be truly cheered by the sound of the beautiful verses written
for the night watchman by Count Zinzendorf. In winter the watchman began
his rounds at eight o'clock, in summer at nine. No scenes of brawling or
tippling could have prevailed at the Rose Inn when these words of peace
and piety rang out:--
Eight o'clock:
The clock is eight! To Bethlehem all is told,
How Noah and his seven were saved of old.
Nine o'clock:
Hear, Brethren, hear! The hour of nine is come;
Keep pure each heart and chasten every home.
Ten o'clock:
Hear, Brethren, hear! Now ten the hour-hand shows;
They only rest who long for night's repose.
Eleven o'clock:
The clock's eleven! And ye have heard it all,
How in that hour the mighty God did call.
Twelve o'clock:
It's midnight now! And at that hour ye know
With lamps to meet the bridegroom we must go.
One o'clock:
The hour is one! Through darkness steals the day.
Shines in your hearts the morning star's first ray?
Two o'clock:
The clock is two! Who comes to meet the day,
And to the Lord of Days his homage pay?
Three o'clock:
The clock is three! The three in one above
Let body, soul, and spirit truly love.
Four o'clock:
The clock is four! Where'er on earth are three,
The Lord has promised He the fourth will be.
Five o'clock:
The clock is five! While five away were sent,
Five other virgins to the marriage went.
Six o'clock:
The clock is six! And from the watch I'm free,
And every one may his own watchman be.