A portrait of Lyman Howe, the last landlord of the family, hangs in the little bar-room,

  “A man of ancient pedigree,
  A Justice of the Peace was he,
  Known in all Sudbury as ‘The Squire.’ 
  Proud was he of his name and race,
  Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh.”

And now as of yore

  “In the parlor, full in view,
  His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed,
  Upon the wall in colors blazed.”

The small window-panes which the poet describes as bearing

  “The jovial rhymes, that still remain,
  Writ near a century ago,
  By the great Major Molineaux,
  Whom Hawthorne has immortal made,”

are preserved in frames near the mantel in the parlor, one deeply scratched by diamond ring with name of Major Molineaux and the date, “June 24th, 1774,” the other bears this inscription,—­

  “What do you think? 
  Here is good drink,
  Perhaps you may not know it;
  If not in haste, Do stop and taste,
  You merry folk will show it.”

A worthy, though not so gifted, successor of the jolly major rendered the following “true accomp.,” which, yellow and faded, hangs on the bar-room wall: 

“Thursday, August 7, 1777”
                                                     L s. d. 
        Super & Loging . . . . . . . 0 1 4
8th.  Brakfast, Dinar and 0 1 9
        Super and half mug of tody 0 2 6
9th.  Lodging, one glass rum half 0 2 6
        & Dinar, one mes oats 0 1 4
        Super half mug flyp 0 3 0
10th Brakf.—­one dram 0 1 8
        Dinner, Lodging, horse-keeping 0 2 0
        one mug flyp, horse bating 0 3 0
11th. horse keeping 1
13th. glass rum & Diner 1 8
14th.  Horse bating 0 0 6
        Horse Jorney 28 miles 0 5 10

        A true accomp.—­total 1 14 6
                William Bradford,
        Dilivered to Capt.  Crosby 2 2 6

Alas! the major’s inscription and the foregoing “accomp.” are hollow mockeries to the thirsty traveller, for there is neither rum nor “flyp” to be had; the bar is dry as an old cork; the door of the cupboard into which the jovial Howes were wont to stick the awl with which they opened bottles still hangs, worn completely through by the countless jabs, a melancholy reminder of the convivial hours of other days.  The restrictions of more abstemious times have relegated the ancient bar to dust, the idle awl to slow-consuming rust.

It is amazing how thirsty one gets in the presence of musty associations of a convivial character.  The ghost of a spree is a most alluring fellow; it is the dust on the bottle that flavors the wine; a musty bin is the soul’s delight; we drink the vintage and not the wine.