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In one of the little villages sprinkled along the
delicious valley of the Connecticut, there stood, not
many years ago, a little tavern called the Bald Eagle.
It was an old-fashioned building, with a small, antique
portico in front, where, of a lazy summer afternoon,

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the wise men of the village assembled to read newspapers,
talk politics, and drink beer. Before the door
stood a tall, yellow sign-post, from which hung a white
sign, emblazoned with a fierce bald-headed eagle,
holding an olive branch in one claw, and a flash of
forked lightning in the other. Underneath was written,
in large, black letters, “The Bald Eagle; Good
Entertainment for Man and Beast; by Jonathan Dewlap,
Esq.”

One calm, sultry, summer evening, the knot of village
politicians had assembled, according to custom,
at the tavern door. At the entrance sat the landlord,
Justice of the Peace and Quorum, lolling in a rocking
chair, and dozing over the columns of an electioneering
handbill. Along the benches of the portico were
seated the village attorney, the schoolmaster, the tailor,
and other personages of less note, but not less
idle, nor less devoted to the affairs of the nation.

To this worthy assembly of patriotic citizens, the
schoolmaster was drowsily doling forth the contents
of the latest Gazette. It was at that memorable epoch
of our national history, when Lafayette returned to
visit, in the evening of his days, the land that owed so
much to his youthful enthusiasm; and to see, in the
soft decline of life, the consummation of his singular
glory, in the bosom of that country where it first
began. His approach was every where hailed with
heart-stirring joy. There was but one voice throughout
the land; and every village through which he
passed, hailed him with rural festivities, addresses,
odes, and a dinner at the tavern.

Every step of his journey was regularly and minutely
recorded in those voluminous chronicles of our
country, the newspapers; and column after column
was filled with long notices of the dinners he had
eaten, and of the toasts drank, and of the songs sung
on the occasion.

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As the schoolmaster detailed to the group around
him an account of these busy festivals, which were so
rapidly succeeding each other all over the country,
the little soul he possessed kindled up within him.
With true oratorical emphasis he repeated a long list
of toasts, drank on a recent celebration of the kind—
“the American Eagle,”—“the day we celebrate,”—
“the New England Fair,”—“the Heroes who fought,
bled, and died at Bunker Hill, of which I am one!”—
and a thousand others equally patriotic. He was
interrupted by the merry notes of the stage-horn,
twanging in long-drawn blasts over the blue hills that
skirted the village; and shortly after a cloud of dust
came rolling its light volume along the road, and the
stage-coach wheeled up to the door.

It was driven by a stout, thickest young fellow,
with a glowing red face, that peeped out from under
the wide brim of a white hat, like the setting sun from
beneath a summer cloud. He was dressed in a wrentailed
gingham coat, with pocket-holes outside, and a
pair of gray linen pantaloons, buttoned down each leg
with a row of yellow bell buttons. His vest was
striped with red and blue; and around his neck he
wore a colored silk handkerchief, tied in a loose
knot before, and tucked in at the waistband. Beside
him on his coach-box sat two dusty travellers in riding-caps,
and the group within presented an uncomfortable
picture of the miseries of travelling in a stage-coach
in the month of June.

In an instant all was noise and confusion in the bar-room
of the inn. Travellers, that had just arrived,
and those about to set off in the evening coach, came
crowding in with their baggage; some eager to secure
places, and others lodgings. A noisy group was gathered
at the bar, within which the landlady was bouncing
to and fro in a huff, and jingling a great bunch of

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keys, like some wild animal at a raree-show, stalking
about its cage, whisking its tail, and jingling its iron
chain.

The fireplace was filled with pine boughs and asparagus
tops; and over it the wall was covered with
advertisements of new-invented machines, patent medicines,
tollgate and turnpike companies, and coarse
prints of steamboats, stage-coaches, opposition lines,
and Fortune's home forever. In one corner stood an
old-fashioned oaken settee, with high back and crooked
elbows, which served as a seat by day, and a bed
by night: in another was a pile of trunks and different
articles of a traveller's equipage: travelling-coats
hung here and there about the room, and the atmosphere
was thick with the smoke of tobacco and the
fumes of brandy.

At length the sound of wheels was heard at the
door. “Stage ready!” shouted the coachman, putting
his head in at the door; there was a hurry and bustle
about the room; the travellers crowded out; a short
pause succeeded; the carriage door was slammed to
in haste; and the coach wheeled away, and disappeared
in the dusk of evening.

The sound of its wheels had hardly ceased to be
heard, when the tailor entered the bar-room with a
newspaper in his hand, and strutted up to the squire and
the schoolmaster, who sat talking together upon the
settee, with a step that would have done honor to the
tragedy hero of a strolling theatre. He had just received
the tidings that Lafayette was on his way north.
The stage-driver had brought the news; the passengers
confirmed it; it was in the newspapers; and of
course there could be no doubt upon the subject. It
now became a general topic of conversation in the bar-room.
The villagers came in one by one; all were on
tiptoe; all talked together—Lafayette, the Marquis,

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the Gin'ral! He would pass through the village in
two days from then. What was to be done? The
town authorities were at their wits' end, and were
quite as anxious to know how they should receive
their venerable guest, as they were to receive him.

In the mean time, the news took wing. There was
a crowd at the door of the post-office talking with
becoming zeal upon the subject; the boys in the street
gave three cheers, and shouted, “Lafayette forever!”
and in less than ten minutes the approaching jubilee
was known and talked of in every nook and corner
of the village. The town authorities assembled in the
little back parlor of the inn, to discuss the subject
more at leisure over a mug of cider, and conclude
upon the necessary arrangements for the occasion.
Here they continued with closed doors until a late
hour, and, after much debate, finally resolved to decorate
the tavern hall, prepare a great dinner, order
out the militia, and take the general by surprise.
The lawyer was appointed to write an oration, and
the schoolmaster an ode, for the occasion.

As night advanced, the crowd gradually dispersed
from the street. Silence succeeded to the hum of rejoicing,
and nothing was heard throughout the village
but the occasional bark of a dog, the creaking of the
tavern sign, and the no less musical accents of the one-keyed
flute of the schoolmaster, who, perched at his
chamber window in nightgown and slippers, serenaded
the neighborhood with “Fire on the Mountains,” and
half of “Washington's March;” whilst the grocer,
who lived next door, roused from sweet dreams of
treacle and brown sugar, lay tossing in his bed, and
wishing the deuce would take the schoolmaster, with
his Latin and his one-keyed flute.

As day began to peep next morning, the tailor was
seen to issue out of the inn yard in the landlord's

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yellow wagon, with the negro hostler Cæsar mounted
behind, thumping about in the tail of the vehicle, and
grinning with huge delight. As the gray of morning
mellowed, life began its course again in the little
village. The cock hailed the daylight cheerly; the
sheep bleated from the hills; the sky grew softer
and clearer; the blue mountains caught the rising
sun; and the mass of white vapor, that filled the
valley, began to toss and roll itself away, like ebb of
a feathery sea. Then the bustle of advancing day
began; doors and windows were thrown open; the
gate creaked on its hinge; carts rattled by; villagers
were moving in the streets; and the little world began
to go, like some ponderous machine, that, wheel after
wheel, is gradually put in motion.

In a short time the tailor was seen slowly returning
along the road, with a wagon-load of pine boughs and
evergreens. The wagon was unloaded at the tavern
door, and its precious cargo carried up into the hall,
where the tailor, in his shirt sleeves, danced and
capered about the room, with a hatchet in one hand,
and a long knife in the other, like an Indian warrior
before going to battle. In a moment the walls were
stripped of the faded emblems of former holidays;
garlands of withered roses were trampled under foot;
old stars, that had lost their lustre, were seen to fall;
and the white pine chandelier was robbed of its yellow
coat, and dangled from the ceiling, quite woe-begone
and emaciated. But erelong the whole room was
again filled with arches, and garlands, and festoons,
and stars, and all kinds of singular devices in green
leaves and asparagus tops. Over the chimney-piece
were suspended two American flags, with a portrait
of General Washington beneath them; and the names
of Trenton, Yorktown, Bunker Hill, &c., peeped out
from between the evergreens, cut in red morocco, and

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fastened to the wall with a profusion of brass nails.
Every part of the room was liberally decorated with
paper eagles; and in a corner hung a little black ship,
rigged with twine, and armed with a whole broadside
of umbrella tips.

It were in vain to attempt a description of all the
wonders that started up beneath the tailor's hand, as
from the touch of a magician's wand. In a word,
before night, every thing was in readiness. Travellers
that arrived in the evening brought information
that the general would pass through the village at
noon the next day; but without the slightest expectation
of the jubilee that awaited him. The tailor was
beside himself with joy at the news, and pictured to
himself with good-natured self-complacency the surprise
and delight of the venerable patriot, when he
should receive the public honors prepared for him,
and the new blue coat, with bright buttons and velvet
collar, which was then making at his shop.

In the mean time the landlady had been busy in
making preparations for a sumptuous dinner; the
lawyer had been locked up all day, hard at work upon
his oration; and the pedagogue was hard ridden by
the phantom of a poetic eulogy, that bestrode his
imagination like the nightmare. Nothing was heard
in the village but the bustle of preparation, and the
martial music of drums and fifes. For a while the
ponderous wheel of labor seemed to stand still. The
clatter of the cooper's mallet was silent, the painter
left his brush, the cobbler his awl, and the blacksmith's
bellows lay sound asleep, with its nose buried in the
ashes.

The next morning at day-break the whole military
force of the town was marshalled forth in front of the
tavern, “armed and equipped as the law directs.”
Conspicuous among this multitude stood the tailor,

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arrayed in a coat of his own making, all Iace and
buttons, and a pair of buff pantaloons, drawn up so
tight, that he could hardly touch his feet to the ground.
He wore a military hat, shaped like a clam-shell, with
little white goose feathers stuck all round the edge.
By his side stood the gigantic figure of the blacksmith,
in rusty regimentals. At length the roll of the drum
announced the order for forming the ranks, and the
valiant host displayed itself in a long, wavering line.
Here stood a tall lantern-jawed fellow, all legs, furbished
up with a red waistcoat, and shining-green
coat, a little round wool hat perched on the back of
his head, and downward tapering off in a pair of yellow
nankeens, twisted and wrinkled about the knees,
as if his legs had been screwed into them. Beside
him stood a long-waisted being, with a head like a
hurra's nest, set off with a willow hat, and a face that
looked as if it were made of sole-leather, and a gash
cut in the middle of it for a mouth. Next came a
little man with fierce black whiskers, and sugar-loaf
hat, equipped with a long fowling-piece, a powder-horn,
and a white canvass knapsack, with a red star on the
back of it. Then a country bumpkin standing bolt
upright, his head elevated, his toes turned out, holding
fast to his gun with one hand, and keeping the
other spread out upon his right thigh. Then figured
the descendant of some revolutionary veteran, arrayed
in the uniform, and bearing the arms and accoutrements
of his ancestor, a cocked hat on his head, a
heavy musket on his shoulder, and on his back a large
knapsack, marked U. S. Here was a man in straw
hat and gingham jacket; and there a pale, nervous
fellow, buttoned up to the chin in a drab great-coat,
to guard him against the morning air, and keep out
the fever and ague.

“Attention the whole! Front face! Eyes right!

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Eyes left! Steady! Attention to the roll-call!”
shouted the blacksmith, in a voice like a volcano.

“Peleg Popgun!”

“Here.”

“Tribulation Sheepshanks!”

“He—e—e—re.”

“Return Jonathan Babcock!”

“Here.”

And so on through a whole catalogue of long, hard
names.

“Attention! Shoulder—arms! Very well. Fall
back there on the extreme left! No talking in the
ranks! Present—arms! Squire Wiggins, you're not
in the line—if you please, a little farther in—a little
farther out—there, I guess that will do. Carry—
arms! Very well done. Quick time, upon your
post—march!”

The little red-coated drummer flourished his drum-sticks;
the bandy-legged fifer struck up Yankee-doodle;
Cæsar showed his flat face over the horizon of a
great bass drum, like the moon in an eclipse; the tailor
brandished his sword; and the whole company, wheeling
with some confusion round the tavern sign-post,
streamed down the road, covered with dust, and followed
by a troop of draggle-tailed boys.

As soon as this company had disappeared, and the
dub of its drum ceased to be heard, the too-too of a
shrill trumpet sounded across the plains, and a troop
of horse came riding up. The leader was a jolly,
round-faced butcher, with a red fox tail nodding over
his head, and came spurring on, with his elbows flapping
up and down, like a pair of wings. As he approached
the tavern, he ordered the troop to wheel,
and form a line in front—a manœuvre, which, though
somewhat arduous, was nevertheless executed with
wonderful skill and precision.

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This body of light-horse was the pride of the whole
country round; and was mounted and caparisoned in
a style of splendor, that dazzled the eyes of all the
village. Each horseman wore a cap of bear-skin,
crested with a fox tail, a short blue jacket, faced with
yellow, and profusely ornamented with red morocco
and quality binding. The pantaloons were of the
same color as the jackets, and were trimmed with yellow
cord. Some rode with long stirrups, some with
short stirrups, and some with no stirrups at all; some
sat perpendicular upon their saddles, some at an obtuse
angle, and others at an angle of forty-five. One
was mounted on a tall, one-eyed bone-setter, with his
tail and ears cropped; another on a little red nag, with
shaggy mane, and long switch tail, and as vicious as
if the very devil were in him. Here was a great fellow,
with long, curly whiskers, looking as fierce as
Mars himself; there, a little, hooked-nose creature,
with red crest, short spurs, elbows stuck out, and jacket
cocked up behind, looking like a barn-door “rooster,”
with his tail clipped, just preparing to crow.

When this formidable troop was formed to the satisfaction
of their leader, the word of command was
given, and they went through the sword exercise,
hewing and cutting the air in all directions, with the
most cool and deliberate courage. The order was
then given to draw pistols. Ready!—aim!—fire.
Pop—pop—poo, went the pistols. Too—too—too,
went the trumpet. The horses took fright at the
sound; some plunged, others reared and kicked,
and others started out of the line, and capered up and
down, “like mad.” The captain being satisfied with
this display of the military discipline of his troop, they
wheeled off in sections, and rode gallantly into the
tavern-yard, to recruit from the fatigues of the
morning.

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Crowds of country people now came driving in from
all directions, to see the fun and the general. The
honest farmer, in broad-brimmed hat and broad-skirted
coat, jogged slowly on, with his wife and half a
dozen blooming daughters, in a square-top chaise;
and country beaux, in all their Sunday finery, came
racing along in wagons, or parading round on horse-back,
to win a sidelong look from some fair country
lass in gypsy hat and blue ribbons.

In the meantime the schoolmaster was far from
being idle. His scholars had been assembled at an
early hour, and after a deal of drilling and good
advice, were arranged in a line in front of the school-house,
to bask in the sun, and wait for the general.
The little girls had wreaths of roses upon their heads,
and baskets of flowers in their hands; and the boys
carried Bibles, and wore papers on their hats, inscribed,
“Welcome, Lafayette.” The schoolmaster
walked up and down before them, with a ratan in his
hand, repeating to himself his poetic eulogy; stopping
now and then to rap some unlucky little rogue over the
knuckles for misdemeanor; shaking one, to make him
turn out his toes; and pulling another's ear, to make
him hold up his head and look like a man.

In this manner the morning wore away, and the
hour, at which it had been rumored that the general
was to arrive, drew near. The whole military force,
both foot and horse, was then summoned together in
front of the tavern, and formed into a hollow square,
and the colonel, a swarthy knight of the forge, by the
aid of a scrawl, written by the squire and placed in
the crown of his hat, made a most eloquent and patriotic
harangue, in which he called the soldiers his
“brothers in arms, the hope of their country, the terror
of their enemies, the bulwark of liberty, and the

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safeguard of the fair sex.” They were then wheeled
back again into a line, and dismissed for ten minutes.

An hour or two previous, an honest old black,
named Boaz, had been stationed upon the high-road,
not far from the entrance of the village, equipped with
a loaded gun, which he was ordered to discharge by
way of signal, as soon as the general should appear.
Full of the importance and dignity of his office, Boaz
marched to and fro across the dusty road, with his
musket ready cocked, and his finger on the trigger.
This manœuvring in the sun, however, diminished the
temperature of his enthusiasm, in proportion as it
increased that of his body; till at length he sat down
on a stump in the shade, and leaning his musket
against the trunk of a tree, took a short-stemmed pipe
out of his pocket, and began to smoke. As noon-day
drew near, he grew hungry and homesick; his heart
sunk into his stomach. His African philosophy dwindled
apace into a mere theory. Overpowered by the
heat of the weather, he grew drowsy, his pipe fell
from his mouth, his head lost its equipoise, and
dropped, like a poppy, upon his breast, and sliding
gently from his seat, he fell asleep at the root of the
tree. He was aroused from his slumber by the noise
of an empty wagon, that came rattling along a cross-road
near him. Thus suddenly awakened, the thought
of the general's approach, the idea of being caught
sleeping at his post, and the shame of having given
the signal too late, flashed together across his bewildered
mind, and springing upon his feet, he caught
his musket, shut both eyes, and fired, to the utter
consternation of the wagoner, whose horses took
fright at the sound, and became unmanageable. Poor
Boaz, when he saw the mistake he had made, and the
mischief he had done, did not wait long to deliberate,

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but throwing his musket over his shoulder, bounded
into the woods, and was out of sight in the twinkling
of an eye.

The sharp report of the gun rang far and wide
through the hush of noontide, awakening many a
drowsy echo that grumbled in the distance, like a
man aroused untimely from his rest. At the sound
of the long-expected signal-gun, the whole village was
put in motion. The drum beat to order, the ranks
were formed in haste, and the whole military force
moved off to escort the general in, amid the waving
of banners, the roll of drums, the scream of fifes, and
the twang of the horse trumpet.

All was now anxious expectation at the village.
The moments passed like hours. The lawyer appeared
at the tavern door, with his speech in his
hand; the schoolmaster and his scholars stood broiling
in the sun; and many a searching look was cast
along the dusty highway to descry some indication of
their guest's approach. Sometimes a little cloud of
dust, rolling along the distant road, would cheat them
with a vain illusion. Then the report of musketry,
and the roll of drums, rattling among the hills, and
dying on the breeze, would inspire the fugitive hope,
that he had at length arrived, and a murmur of eager
expectation would run from mouth to mouth. “There
he comes!—that's he;” and the people would crowd
into the street to be again disappointed.

One o'clock arrived; two, three, but no general!
The dinner was overdone, the landlady in great tribulation,
the cook in a great passion. The gloom of
disappointment began to settle on many a countenance.
The people looked doubtingly at each other,
and guessed. The sky, too, began to lower. Volumes
of black clouds piled themselves up in the west,
and threatened a storm. The ducks were unusually
noisy and quarrelsome around the green pool in the

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stable yard; and a flock of ill-boding crows were
holding ominous consultation round the top of a tall
pine. Every thing gave indication of an approaching
thunder-gust. A distant, irregular peal rattled along
the sky, like a volley of musketry. They thought it
was a salute to the general. Soon after the air grew
damp and misty; it began to drizzle; a few scattered
drops pattered on the roofs, and it set in to rain.

A scene of confusion ensued. The pedagogue and
his disciples took shelter in the school-house; the
crowd dispersed in all directions, with handkerchiefs
thrown over their heads, and their gowns tucked up,
and every thing looked dismal and disheartening. The
bar-room was full of disconsolate faces. Some tried
to keep their spirits up by drinking; others wished to
laugh the matter off; and others stood, with their
hands in their pockets, looking out of the window, to
see it rain, and making wry faces.

Night drew on apace, and the rain continued. Still
nothing was to be heard of the general. Some were
for despatching a messenger to ascertain the cause of
this delay; but who would go out in such a storm!
At length the monotonous too-too of the horse trumpet
was heard; there was a great clattering and splashing
of hoofs at the door; and the troop reined up,
spattered with mud, drenched through and through,
and completely crest-fallen. Not long after, the foot
company came straggling in, dripping wet, and diminished
to one half its number by desertions. The tailor
entered the bar-room reeking and disconsolate, a
complete epitome of the miseries of human life written
in his face. The feathers were torn out of his clam-shell
hat, his coat was thoroughly sponged, his boots
full of water, and his buff pantaloons clung tighter than
ever to his little legs. He trembled like a leaf; one
might have taken him for Fever and Ague personified.
The blacksmith, on the contrary, seemed to dread the

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

water as little as if it were his element. The rain did
not penetrate him, and he rolled into the bar-room
like a great sea-calf, that, after sporting about in the
waves, tumbles himself out upon the sand to dry.

A thousand questions were asked at once about the
general, but there was nobody to answer them. They
had seen nothing of him, they had heard nothing of
him, they knew nothing of him! Their spirit and
patience were completely soaked out of them; no
patriotism was proof against such torrents of rain.

Every heart seemed now to sink in despair. Every
hope had given way, when the twang of the stage-horn
was heard, sending forth its long-drawn cadences, and
enlivening the gloom of a rainy twilight. The coach
dashed up to the door. It was empty—not a solitary
passenger. The coachman came in without a dry
thread about him. A little stream of water trickled
down his back from the rim of his hat. There was
something dismally ominous in his look; he seemed
to be a messenger of bad news.

“The gin'ral!—the gin'ral!—where's the gin'ral?”

“He's gone on by another road. So much for the
opposition line and the new turnpike!” said the
coachman, as he tossed off a glass of New England.

“He has lost a speech!” said the lawyer.

“He has lost a coat!” said the tailor.

“He has lost a dinner!” said the landlord.

It was a gloomy night at the Bald Eagle. A few
boon companions sat late over their bottle, drank hard,
and tried to be merry; but it would not do. Good-humor
flagged, the jokes were bad, the laughter
forced, and one after another slunk away to bed, full
of bad liquor, and reeling with the fumes of brandy
and beer.