Morning journal and courier., 1889-09-14

to which make pilerimages almost annual ly. One visit because it does an American shining olden day of April 18th, 1775, was
 fired the shot heard round the world;
 and the other, because there one gets tender ly close to the spirit of the real Hawthorne where were the cradling of his true self and the nurturing of his actual genius. The first is the famous Wright's Tavern, at Con- cord. The little, low, bleak, tumble down structure, though in existence half a century before monarchy went out and the republic came in, is still the only public house of the city which gave the world the philosophies of Aloott and Emerson. At your breakfast of eggs, bacon and luscious New England doughnuts you may look through the dimiu- utiv0 window panes along the trailing Lex ington road. You see ss in dream wraiths of the redooats as they came and went, for you are sitting in the very place where Pit cairn forgivably roystered and boasted, and through the ambush smoke of yeoman's ri- Hes that made pitiless their retreat, there ap- pear along the historic way the former homes of Emerson, Alcott and Hawthorne your thought for an instant guiding you to Thoreau's 1ifeful Walden Pond beyond. The second one of these inns no one seems to know. It is the old Smith Tavern at Ray mond Village, Maine. Quaint and sweet and prim, it is wayside inn to-day just as it was long before tha Revolution, and just as t stood, when for eight years, while "Nst Hathorn" lived at lovely, idyllio Dingley's, the human youth that he was, daily prowled about the old tavern awaiting the arrival of the Portland stage, and then, on the box with gaunt old Eliakim Maxfeld, the driver, with stage horn awoke the echoes through the murmuring pines over the quiet and shadowy road all the way to Radaux's Mill.
 Innumerable poems, comedies, tragedies and romances could be written of the an- cient hostelries of Boston. In these and all other New England inns of the pre-republic era the habitues were no less than gentlemen who moved about in their bag wigs, cooked hats and small swords, such as we oceasion- ally get glimpse of nowadays in good old English comedy. The inns were the haunts of the grand old fellows of those days. The tavern of the eighteenth century was then much more to the world of gentlemen than the club and newspaper now are; and you might be in good company for several hours, as the Irishman told Goldsmith, by merely spending twopence at a tavern. What Wills Coffee House was in Dryden's time, or the Mitre in Fleet street in Johnson's day, CT the White Hart in the Borough, where Jack Cade was wont to loiter, and Sam Weller first be- gan his luminous career, every one of these cheery old places was to the New Englanders of one and two centuries ago. The most noted of them all was the Green Dragon in Union street. Probably the ancient Marl- boro was the most famous coaching station and stageing headquarters It was vast house with lofty and spacious rooms, with wondrous balusters, wainscotting and French oval mirrors, and huge yard with vasty depths of stables behind. Then there was Cromwell's Head Tavern, on School street, near Washington, dating back to 1751, where Lieutenant Colonel George Washington nor Shirley. Of later time was the old "Ben Franklin" in Morton Place, with its famous English Bonifaee, Thomas Morgan, where Couldock, Junius Brutus Booth, the younger, John Brougham and Davenport lived, and where various legal and literary lights knew their happiest hours in Boston. There is still standing, believe, in Corn Court, another noted old-time hostelry, on whose site 1t is said the first house of enter tainment ever built in Boston once stood In its later dilapidated days it has been called the Hancock House. But little over one hundred years ago it was known as the Brai- l ser Inn. In 17S3 it housed for quite a peri | cd the most brilliant and interruptions in- | tellectual rake Europe ever produced. That 1 one was Tallyrand It was in the Bresier Inn that he conjured those epistles of diplo matic fisttery which finally gave him privi- lege to return to France and to his slimily dark career of intrigue and MephistopheliaI | triumph.
 But what a vast field tor research and sur mise these old inns furnish. The hundredtl part of the romance, happenings, good cheer grewsome and merry tales about hundredtl part of their number has never been known Delicious indeed would be that we'll told tale which would construct vigorous American ] novel around any one of thoss extinct old Boston hostelries of the colonial and revolu tionary periods, ''The Blue Anchor" the 1 "Ship Tavern" or "Noah's Ark, " "The Lion, 1 the ''Lamb Tavern" which was the origina
 "The White Horse," "The Golden Candle
 stick, "The Elephant Tavern," "The Stal
 Tavern" "The Key," "The Bunch oi
 Grapes" or even at the "Restorator," opened | in 1793 by the famous French cook, Jean Baptiste Julien, who originated the now un
 iversally noted Julienne soup. Then there I were the equally famous provincial inns, lik'
 the old Wolfe Tavern of Newburyport, who's I olden sign now creaks in front of it's modsrI l successor, the Merrimsc House; the ancien
 hostelry at lovely Ridgefeld, Connecticut, il
 whose worm eaten sides the celebrated can
 non ball is still embedded, a savage relic o the fight with the British troops that day il
 the Revolutionary war when General Woes
 ter fell; on the road from Springfield to Bos | ton, the Five Mile House, the Ten Mill
 House, the old Sedgwick at Shearer's Corner
 and that nest of rest, the old Frink Tayerl
 at Palmer Town, still standing, where thu
 redoubtable cook, "Betty" Hatch becam. &
 famous for her tempting and inimitabls food
 as ever did Julian in Boston; the old Eagl'
 Coffee House of Concord, New Hampshire
 where the annual stage drivers balls wsr
 the events of northern New England, ant
 the still more ancient Columbian Hotel o
 the came place, where was born Unite,
 States Senator William E. Chandler, who's
 father was once the Columbian's landlord
 James Wilde's cheery old Portsmouth Hotel
 where all the stage passengers between Main
 and Massachusetts took their glorious din
 ners and "thrippenuy horns;" the famou
 Shipmsn Tavern at Newport, where Colone
 Sam Colt once filled foreign buyers of arm
 with Neuve Clicquot and planked shad an
 his own money bags with gold, not stone
 throw from where rose the first Methodis
 church spire in the world, which so appalle