CHAPTER IX
THE TAVERN PANORAMA
We have to-day scores of places of amusement, and means of amusement, where in earlier days all diversions centred at the tavern. The furnishing of food and shelter to travellers and to horses, and of liquid comfort to neighbors, was not the only function of the tavern, nor the meeting for cheerful interchange of news and sentiment. Whatever there was of novelty in entertainment or instruction, was delivered at the tavern, and it served as the gathering place for folk on scores of duties or pleasures bent. There was in fact a constant panorama passing within the walls and before the doors of an old tavern, not only in the shape of distinguished, picturesque, and unwonted guests, but through the variety of uses to which the tavern was put. It would be impossible to enumerate them all. Many of the chapters of this book indicate some of them. We can simply glance at a few more of the most common and of the most interesting ones.
Though guests of colonial days are often named as having visited the old taverns which still linger intact, the names of importance which are most frequently heard are those of Revolutionary heroes and visitors, those of Franklin, Washington, and Lafayette being most proudly enumerated. Franklin was a great local traveller. His post-office affairs took him frequently along the road. He was fond of visiting, and people were naturally fond of having him visit them. He was such a welcome guest that he need not have entered a tavern from Maine to Georgia. Washington made several trips through the states, one of much ceremony. He gives the names of the taverns at which he stopped.
I have been in tavern-rooms honored a century ago by the sleeping presence of Washington, but I have never slept in them. I would rather look at them than sleep in them; and I have moralized over the simplicity and lack of luxury which was the best that the tavern could offer, even to that great man.
Lafayette was made welcome in many private houses in his tour in 1824, but he also was a tavern guest. His journal is preserved in Paris, untranslated. In it he tells of seeing the well-known Landing of Lafayette plates and dishes for the first time at a tavern in a small town in western New York.
All the statesmen of the South stopped at taverns on the old National road: Harrison, Houston, Taylor, Polk, and Allen. Homespun Davy Crockett, popular General Jackson, stately Henry Clay, furnished a show for the country by-standers to gape at. In the Northern states Daniel Webster was the god whose coming was adored. A halo of glory shed by his presence still hangs round many a tavern room, and well it may, for he was a giant among men.
To show the variety of the tavern panorama let me quote what Edwin Lasseter Bynner wrote of the inns of Boston: —
“They were the centres of so much of its life and affairs, the resort at once of judge and jury, of the clergy and the laity, of the politician and the merchant; where the selectmen came to talk over the affairs of the town, and higher officials to discuss the higher interests of the province; where royal governors and distinguished strangers were entertained alike with the humblest wayfarer and the meanest citizen; where were held the carousals of roistering red-coat officers, and the midnight plottings of muttering stern-lipped patriots; where, in fine, the swaggering ensign of the royal army, the frowning Puritan, the obnoxious Quaker, the Huguenot refugee, and the savage Indian chief from the neighboring forest might perchance jostle each other in the common taproom.”
Naturally the tavern proved the exhibition place and temporary lodging-place of all secular shows which could not be housed in the meeting-house. It contained the second assembly room in size, and often the only other large room in town save that devoted to religious gatherings. Hence, when in Salem in 1781 “the Sentimentalists and all Volontiers who are pleased to encourage the extensive Propogation of Polite Literature” were invited to attend a book auction by a “Provedore and Professor of Auctioneering,” this sale of books was held at Mr. Goodhue’s tavern. At the American Coffee-house in Boston the firm that vendued books within doors also sold jackasses on the street.
“Monstrous Sights” found at the tavern a congenial temporary home, where discussion of their appearance was held before the tavern bar, while the tavern barn restrained and confined the monster if he chanced to be a wild beast. A moose, a walrus, a camel, a lion, a leopard, appeared in succession in Salem taverns, chiefly at the Black Horse. Then came a wonder of natural history, a Pygarg, said to be from Russia. We have a description of it: it had “the likeness of a camel, bear, mule, goat, and common bullock”; it is spoken of in the book of Deuteronomy, Chapter XIV. I am not sure that we would recognize our native American moose if he were not called by name, in the creature advertised as having “a face like a mouse, ears like an ass, neck and back like a camel, hind-parts like a horse, tail like a rabbit, and feet like a heifer.” Cassowaries, learned pigs, learned horses, and rabbits were shown for petty sums. Deformed beasts and persons were exhibited. Pictures, “prospects,” statues, elaborate clocks, moving puppets, and many mechanical contrivances could be viewed in the tavern parlor.
“Electrical machines” were the wonder of their day. Solemn professors and gay “fakirs” exhibited them from tavern to tavern. The first lightning-rods also made a great show. Shortly after the invention of balloons, came their advent as popular shows in many towns. They often ascended from the green in front of the tavern. They bore many pompous names, – “Archimedial Phaetons,” “Vertical Aerial Coaches,” “Patent Fœderal Balloons.” The public was assured that “persons of timid nature” would find nothing to terrify them in the ascent. They were not only recommended as engines of amusement and wonder, but were urged upon “Invaletudinarians” as hygienic factors, in that they caused in the ascent the “sudden revulsion of the blood and humours” of aeronautic travellers.
The Bunch of Grapes housed Mr. Douglas when he delivered his famous lecture on “Heads, Coats of Arms, Wigs, Ladies’ Head Dresses,” etc.; it was an office for John Hurd, an early insurance broker, chiefly for marine risks. Nearly all the first insurance offices were in taverns.
One intelligent chronicler relates: —
“The taverns of Boston were the original business Exchanges; they combined the Counting House, the Exchange-office, the Reading-room, and the Bank: each represented a locality. To the Lamb Tavern, called by the sailors ‘sheep’s baby,’ people went ‘to see a man from Dedham’ – it was the resort of all from Norfolk County. The old Eastern Stage House in Ann Street was frequented by ‘down Easters,’ captains of vessels, formerly from the Penobscot and Kennebec; there were to be seen groups of sturdy men seated round an enormous fire-place, chalking down the price of bark and lumber, and shippers bringing in a vagrant tarpaulin to ‘sign the articles.’ To the Exchange Coffee-House resorted the nabobs of Essex County; here those aristocratic eastern towns, Newburyport and Portsmouth, were represented by ship owners and ship builders, merchants of the first class.”
The first attempt at the production of plays in New England was a signal for prompt and vital opposition. Little plays called drolls were exhibited in the taverns and coffee-houses; such plays as Pickle Herring, Taylor riding to Brentford, Harlequin and Scaramouch. About 1750 two young English strollers produced what must have been a mightily bald rendering of Otway’s Orphans in a Boston coffee-house; this was a step too far in frivolity, and stern Boston magistrates took rigid care there were no more similar offences. Many ingenious ruses were invented and presented to the public to avoid the hated term and conceal the hated fact of play acting. “Histrionic academies” were a sneaking introduction of plays. In 1762 a clever but sanctimonious manager succeeded in crowding his company and his play into a Newport tavern. Here is his truckling play-bill: —
“KINGS ARMS TAVERN NEWPORT RHODE ISLAND
On Monday, June 10th, at the Public Room of the Above Inn will be delivered a series of
Moral DialoguesIn Five Parts
Depicting the evil effects of jealousy and other bad passions and Proving that happiness can only spring from the pursuit of Virtue.
Mr. Douglass – Will represent a noble magnanimous Moor called Othello, who loves a young lady named Desdemona, and, after he marries her, harbours (as in too many cases) the dreadful passion of jealousy.
Of jealousy, our being’s bane
Mark the small cause and the most dreadful pain.
Mr. Allyn – Will depict the character of a specious villain, in the regiment of Othello, who is so base as to hate his commander on mere suspicion and to impose on his best friend. Of such characters, it is to be feared, there are thousands in the world, and the one in question may present to us a salutary warning.
The man that wrongs his master and his friend
What can he come to but a shameful end?
Mr. Hallam – Will delineate a young and thoughtless officer who is traduced by Mr. Allyn and, getting drunk, loses his situation and his general’s esteem. All young men whatsoever take example from Cassio.
The ill effects of drinking would you see?
Be warned and fly from evil company.
Mr. Morris – Will represent an old gentleman, the father of Desdemona, who is not cruel or covetous, but is foolish enough to dislike the noble Moor, his son-in-law, because his face is not white, forgetting that we all spring from one root. Such prejudices are very numerous and very wrong.
Fathers beware what sense and love ye lack!’
Tis crime, not colour, that makes the being black.
Mr. Quelch – Will depict a fool who wishes to become a knave, and, trusting to one, gets killed by one. Such is the friendship of rogues! Take heed!
Where fools would become, how often you’ll
Perceive the knave not wiser than the fool.
Mrs. Morris – Will represent a young and virtuous wife, who being wrongfully suspected, gets smothered (in an adjoining room) by her husband.
Reader, attend, and ere thou goest hence
Let fall a tear to helpless innocence.
Mrs. Douglass – Will be her faithful attendant who will hold out a good example to all servants male and female, and to all people in subjection.
Obedience and gratitude
Are things as rare as they are good.
Various other Dialogues, too numerous to mention here, will be delivered at night, all adapted to the mind and manners. The whole will be repeated on Wednesday and on Saturday. Tickets, six shillings each, to be had within. Commencement at 7. Conclusion at half-past ten: in order that every Spectator may go home at a sober hour and reflect upon what he has seen, before he retired to rest.
God save the King
Long may he sway.
East, north, and south
And fair America.”
We can see the little public room of the tavern with its rows of chairs and benches at one end and the group of starveling actors at the other, who never played a greater farce than when they set up as being solely ministers of piety and virtue.
“Consorts” of music were given in the taverns, and, most exciting of all, lotteries were drawn there. This licensed and highly approved form of gambling had the sanction of the law and the participation of every community. Churches had lotteries “for promoting public worship and the advancement of religion.” Colleges and schools thus increased their endowments. Towns and states raised money to pay the public debt by means of lotteries.
It was asserted that “the interests of literature and learning were supported, the arts and sciences were encouraged, religion was extended, the wastes of war were repaired, inundation prevented, travel increased, and the burthen of taxes lessened by lotteries.” Many private lotteries were drawn at the taverns, which were thronged at that time with excited ticket-owners.
Lodges of Freemasons in America, following the custom which prevailed in England, met at the taverns. In Philadelphia they met at Peg Mullen’s Beefsteak House. The lodges were often known by the names of the taverns at which the meetings were held. One Boston lodge met at the Royal Exchange Tavern, and hence was known by its name. That hostelry was, however, so popular with the visiting public that sometimes the brethren had to suspend their meetings for want of room. In December, 1749, the Masons of Boston celebrated the feast of St. John, and appeared in procession on the streets. This excited the greatest curiosity and ridicule. Joseph Green wrote a poem in which the chief object of his wit was Luke Vardy, the keeper of the Royal Exchange: —
“Where’s honest Luke, that cook from London?
For without Luke the Lodge is undone.
’Twas he who oft dispell’d their sadness,
And filled the Brethren’s hearts with gladness.
Luke in return is made a brother
As good and true as any other.
And still, though broke with age and wine,
Preserves the token and the sign.”
Massachusetts Grand Lodge organized at Green Dragon, and the first lodge of all, St. John’s Lodge, met in 1733 at the Bunch of Grapes in King (now State) Street. One of the three bunches of grapes that formed the original tavern sign still hangs in front of the lodge room of St. John’s Lodge in Masonic Temple, Boston. This tavern had an early and lasting reputation as “the best punch-house in Boston.” In Revolutionary days it became the headquarters of High Whigs, and a scarlet coat was an inflammatory signal in that taproom. The “Whig Tavern” was a proper centre for popular gatherings after the evacuation of Boston; General Stark’s victory at Bennington was celebrated there “to high taste,” says a participant. The firing of cannon, discharge of rockets, playing of fifes and drums, made satisfactory noise. The gentlemen had ample liquor within doors, and two barrels of grog were distributed to outsiders on the streets – all “with the greatest propriety.” When General Stark arrived, a few weeks later, there was equal rejoicing. The glories of the entertainment of Washington and a series of gallant soldiers and distinguished travellers do not, perhaps, reflect the honor upon the old tavern that comes from its having been the scene of a most significant fact in our history. It was the gathering place and place of organization of the Ohio Company – the first concerted movement of New England toward the Great West.
The famous Craft’s Tavern in the little town of Walpole, New Hampshire, kept by Major Asa Bullard, was the gathering place in 1796 of one of the most brilliant groups of writers ever engaged in a literary undertaking in this country. It was called the Literary Club of Walpole, and is a landmark in the literary life of New England. In this rustic New Hampshire tavern this Club might repeat Beaumont’s lines to Jonson beginning: —
“What things have we seen
Done at the Mermaid, heard words that have been
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame.”
The head of this Yankee collection of wits was the Lay Preacher, Joseph Dennie, who, at the death of the novelist, Charles Brockden Brown, was the only man in the United States who made a profession of literature. He was born in Boston, studied law in Charlestown, New Hampshire, then an important and bustling town, went to Walpole, and became conductor of the New Hampshire Journal and Farmer’s Museum. For this newspaper and in this Craft’s Tavern he wrote his famous Lay Sermons which were read from Maine to Georgia. In the talented tavern circle was Royall Tyler, author of the play The Contrast and the novel The Algerine Captive. He became Chief Justice of Vermont. Another contributor was David Everett, author of the well-known juvenile spouting-piece, beginning: —
“You’d scarce expect one of my age
To speak in public on the stage.”
Still another, Thomas G. Fessenden, wrote Terrible Tractoration. It was a day of pseudonyms; Fessenden wrote as Simon Spunky and Christopher Caustic; Everett called himself Peter Peveril; Isaac Story was Peter Quinn; Dennie was Oliver Old-school; Tyler was Colon and Spondee.
A day of great sport at the tavern was when there was a turkey-shoot; these often took place on Thanksgiving Day. Notices such as this were frequently found in the autumnal newspapers: —
“SHARP-SHOOTING
“Thos. D. Ponsland informs his Friends and the Friends of Sport that he will on Friday, 7th day of December next, set up for Shooting a number
Fine Fat Turkeys
of and invites all Gunners and others who would wish to recreate themselves to call on the day after Thanksgiving at the Old Bakers’ Tavern, Upp. Parish Beverly, where every accommodation would be afforded.”
In the Boston Evening Post of January 11, 1773, notice was given that “a Bear and Number of Turkeys” would be set up as a mark at the Punch Bowl Tavern in Brookline.
Captain Basil Hall, travelling in America in 1827, was much surprised at the account of one of these turkey-shoots, which he thus fully describes: —
“At a country inn bearing the English name of Andover, close to the Indian river Shawsheen, I observed the following printed bill stuck up in the bar.
SPORTSMEN ATTEND300 Fowls
will be set up for the sportsmen at the Subscriber’s Hotel in Tewksbury, on Friday the 12 October, inst. at 8 A.M.
Gentlemen of Tewksbury,
Lowell and vicinity are invited to attend.
William Hardy.
“This placard was utterly unintelligible to me; and the Landlord laughed at my curiosity but good humouredly enlightened my ignorance by explaining that these shooting matches were so common in America, that he had no doubt I would fall in with them often. I regretted very much having passed one day too late for this transatlantic battle. It appears that these birds were literally barn door fowls, placed at certain distances, and fired at by any one who chooses to pay the allotted sum for a shot. If he kills the bird, he is allowed to carry it off; otherwise, like a true sportsman, he has the amusement for his money. Cocks and hens being small birds, are placed at the distance of 165 feet; and for every shot with ball the sportsman has to pay four cents. Turkeys are placed at twice the distance, or 110 yards, if a common musket be used; but at 165 yards if the weapon be a rifle. In both those cases the price per shot is from six to ten cents.”
There were other sports offered at the taverns, as shown by an advertisement in the Essex Register of June, 1806: —
“SPORTSMEN ATTEND
The Gentlemen Sportsmen of this town and Vicinity are informed that a Grand Combat will take place between the Urus Zebu and Spanish Bull on 4th of July if fair weather. If not the next fair day at the Half Way House on the Salem Turnpike. No danger need be apprehended during the performance, as the Circus is very convenient. After the performance there will be a Grand Fox Chase on the Marshes near the Circus to start precisely at 6 o’clock.”
A woman tavern-keeper on Boston Neck, Sally Barton, of the George, also had bull-baiting as one of the attractions of her home. In 1763, the keeper of the DeLancey Arms in New York had a bull-baiting. The English officers stationed in America brought over this fashion. In the year 1774, there was a bull-baiting held every day for many months on what is now a quiet street near my home. Landlord Loosely, – most appropriately named, – of the King’s Head Tavern, took charge of these bull-baitings and advertised for good active bulls and strong dogs. One advertisement, in rhyme, begins: —
“This notice gives to all who covet
Baiting the bull, and dearly love it.”
Fox-hunting, too, was beloved of the British visitors, and of Southern planters as well. The Middle and Southern states saw frequent meets of mounted gentlemen with hounds, usually at the tavern, to which they returned after the day’s run to end with suitable jollity.
The old English “drift of the forest” became in America a wolf-rout or wolf-drive. Then circles of men and boys were formed to drive in toward the centre of the ring and kill squirrels and hares which pestered the farmers. Then came shooting matches in which every living wild creature was a prey. The extent to which these devastating hunting parties could be carried is shown by an article in a Bedford County (Pennsylvania) newspaper. On Friday, December 4, 1818, about seven hundred men from neighboring townships formed such a party. The signal was first given on French Town Mountain, and the circle of forty miles of horn blowing to horn was completed in fifteen minutes. The hunters progressed to a centre in Wysox township, using guns as long as they could with safety, then bayonets, clubs, poles, pitchforks, etc. Five bears, nine wolves, and fourteen foxes were killed, and three hundred deer – it makes one’s heart ache. It was estimated that more than double the number escaped. The expedition closed with great mirth at the tavern.
I find through many legal reports and accounts of trials and arrests, that upper rooms in the taverns were frequently used as lockups or temporary jails. Mr. S. L. Frey, of Palatine Bridge, in his charming account of olden days in that town, tells an amusing episode of tavern life connected with this custom. Near the village schoolhouse lived a man named Fisk – a quiet citizen, friendly to the boys, but given, however, to frequent disappearances, and a profound reticence as to his means of livelihood which was naturally a distinct grievance and indeed an injustice to every respectably inquisitive neighbor. The boys noted that he was a great lover of horses, and seemed to have a constant succession of new ones in his stable, and that these newcomers vanished in as silent and unaccountable a manner as they had arrived.
One morning the scholars were excited and delighted to learn that the band of horse thieves that had for years ravaged the valley had at last been ferreted out, the two leaders captured and safely lodged during the night in the village jail, namely, a doubly locked and outside bolted room in Uncle Jesse Vincent’s tavern. And the climax of all the excitement and pleasure was the fact that Neighbor Fisk was the leader of the gang.
Court was called in the tavern parlor at noon. The sheriff and his officers, lawyers from neighboring towns, all importance and pomposity, all the men and all the boys from miles around were waiting eagerly to see once more the mysterious Fisk, when a loud shout came from the men who had gone to lead forth the prisoners that both had escaped. Of course they had! An open window, a leanto roof, a trellis and a high fence, – no decent prisoner could help escaping.
But they had been startled in their plans, and hurried while exchanging clothes, and it was plain from the garments left behind that one man had vanished clad only in his shirt, stockings, and shoes. The dire confusion of the first mortifying discovery soon changed to organized plans of pursuit, and the chase turned to a great piece of woodland behind the tavern. Oak and hickory with undergrowth of witchhazel – a prime place for partridges and gray squirrels – led back from the river to the hills and a deep gorge filled with solemn pines and hemlocks.
The rampant boys were snubbed early in the day by the sheriff and told to keep back; and one tall boy – “mad” at the insult – conceived the plan of personating the thief. He was a famous runner, the best in the school. He hid his coat in a hollow log, pulled his shirt over his trousers, Chinaman fashion, worked his way around on the edge of the hunting party, and was soon “discovered” by his boy friends, whose shouts of “Stop thief!” “Here he is!” brought the whole army of searchers after him. Oh! what a hunt followed. All were on foot, for no horses could pass through the heavy undergrowth; the white flag of the pursued fluttered in and out far in front into the swamp, under the bushes. Talk of hare and hounds! no game was ever run like that. The fleet young horse thief in front easily distanced the puffing sheriffs in the rear, and at last the pursuit was given over. Fisk escaped, thanks to his friends the boys, but the story of the wrath that was visited on the conspirators when their fun was discovered the next day at the tavern is “another story.”
Sittings of courts were often held in the public room of taverns, not only in small towns where assembly rooms were few, but in large cities. From the settlement of Philadelphia till 1759, justices of peace heard and decided causes in the public inns of Philadelphia, and the Common Council had frequent sittings there. In Boston the courts were held in suburban taverns when the smallpox scourged the town. In Postlethwaite’s Tavern (shown on page 214) the first courts of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, were held in 1729, and propositions were made to make it the county seat; but the present site of the city of Lancaster was finally chosen, though Landlord Postlethwaite made strenuous endeavors to retain his tavern as a centre.
Our ancestors found in criminals and all the accompaniments of crime their chief source of diversion. They did not believe in lonely captivity but in public obloquy for criminals. The only exciting and stirring emotions which entered their lives came through the recounting of crimes and offences, and the sight of the punishment of these crimes and offences; rising of course to the highest point of excitement in witnessing the public executions of criminals. The bilboes were the first engine of punishment in Boston, and were used until 1639, and perhaps much later. The drinkers of a cup of sack at the Boston ordinary had much diversion in seeing James Woodward, who had had too much sack at the Cambridge ordinary, “laid by the heels” on the ground with a great bar of iron fastened and locked to his legs with sliding shackles and a bolt. Still more satisfaction had all honest Puritans when Thomas Morton, of Merrymount, that amusing old debauchee and roisterer, was “clapt into the bilbowes,” where “the harmless salvages” gathered around and stared at him like “poor silly lambes.”
The stocks soon superseded the bilboes and were near neighbors and amusement purveyors to the tavern. Towns were forced by law to set up “good sufficient stocks.” Warwick, Rhode Island, ordered that “John Lowe should erect the public stocks and whipping-post near David Arnold’s Tavern, and procure iron and timber for the same.” The stocks were simple to make; a heavy timber or plank had on the upper edge two half-circle holes which met two similar notches or holes in a movable upper timber. When this was in place these notches formed round holes to enclose the legs of the prisoner, who could then be locked in.
The whipping-post, a good sound British institution, was promptly set up in every town, and the sound of the cat often entered the tavern windows. I can imagine all the young folk thronging to witness the whipping of some ardent young swain who had dared to make love to some fair damsel without the consent of her parents. There was no room for the escape of any man who thus “inveagled” a girl; the New Haven colony specified that any tempting without the parents’ sanction could not be done by “speech, writing, message, company-keeping, unnecessary familiarity, disorderly night meetings, sinful dalliance, gifts, or (as a wholesale blow to lovers’ inventions) in any other way.”
But sly Puritan maids found that even the “any other way” of Puritan law-makers could be circumvented. Jacob Murline, in Hartford, on May-day in 1660, without asking any permission of Goodman Tuttle, had some very boisterous love-making with Sarah Tuttle, his daughter. It began by Jacob’s seizing Sarah’s gloves and demanding the mediæval forfeit – a kiss. “Whereupon,” writes the scandalized Puritan chronicler, “they sat down together, his arm being about her, and her arm upon his shoulder or about his neck, and hee kissed her and shee kissed him, or they kissed one another, continuing in this posture about half an hour.” The angry father, on hearing of this, haled Jacob into court and sued him for damages in “inveagling” his daughter’s affections. There were plenty of witnesses of the kissing, and Jacob seemed doomed to heavy fines and the cat-o’-nine-tails, when crafty Sarah informed the Court that Jacob did not inveigle her, that she wished him to kiss her – in fact, that she enticed him. The baffled Court therefore had to fine Sarah, and of course Sarah’s father had to pay the fine; but the magistrate called her justly a “Bould Virgin,” and lectured her severely. To all this she gave the demure answer “that she hoped God would help her to Carry it Better for time to come,” which would seem to be somewhat superfluous, since she had, without any help, seemed to do about as well for herself as any girl could wish to under the circumstances.
For some years the Quakers never were absent from the whipping-post. They were trying enough, preaching everywhere, and on all occasions, yet never willing to keep silent when the Puritan preacher held forth; not willing, even, to keep away from the Puritan meeting. They interrupted these meetings in most offensive ways, and were promptly whipped. One poor Quakeress, Lydia Wardwell, “a young tender chaste person,” but almost demented with religious excitement, was taken forcibly from the Ipswich meeting-house and “tyed to the fence-post of the Tavern,” and then sorely lashed.
The pillory sometimes took the place of the stocks. In enduring this punishment the culprit stood on a sort of bench, and his head and hands were confined in holes cut in a hinged or divisible board. Lecture day was often chosen as the day of punishment; as Hawthorne said, “it was a day of public shame, the day on which transgressors received their reward of ignominy.” Thus Nicholas Olmstead, sentenced to the pillory in Hartford “next Lecture day,” was “sett on a lytle before the beginning and to stay on a lytle after the end.” In Maryland offenders were “nayled by both eares to the Pillory, 3 Nailes in each Eare, and the Nailes to be slit out.” Samuel Breck says that in 1771, in Boston, men and women were constantly seen pilloried, exposed to insults and jeers, and pelted with filth and garbage.