The Buckman Tavern, where the patriots assembled, built in 1690, still stands with its marks of bullets and flood of old associations.

These ancient hostelries—­Monroe’s, Buckman’s, Wright’s in Concord, and the Wayside Inn—­are by no means the least interesting features of this historic section.  An old tavern is as pathetic as an old hat:  it is redolent of former owners and guests, each room reeks with confused personalities, every latch is electric from many hands, every wall echoes a thousand voices; at dusk of day the clink of glasses and the resounding toast may still be heard in the deserted banquet-hall; at night a ghostly light illumines the vacant ballroom, and the rustle of silks and satins, the sound of merry laughter, and the faint far-off strains of music fall upon the ear.

We did not visit the Clarke house where Paul Revere roused Adams and Hancock; we saw it from the road.  Originally, and until 1896, the house stood on the opposite side of the street; the owner was about to demolish it to subdivide the land, when the Historical Society intervened and purchased it.

Neither did we enter the old burying-ground on Elm Street.  The automobile is no respecter of persons or places; it pants with impatience if brought to a stand for so much as a moment before a house or monument of interest, and somehow the throbbing, puffing, impatient machine gets the upper hand of those who are supposed to control it; we are hastened onward in spite of our better inclinations.

The trolley line from Lexington to Concord is by way of Bedford, but the direct road over the hill is the one the British followed.  It is nine miles by Bedford and the Old Bedford Road, and but six miles direct.

A short distance out of Lexington a tablet marks an old well; the inscription reads, “At this well, April 19, 1775, James Hayward, of Acton, met a British soldier, who, raising his gun, said, ’You are a dead man.’  ‘And so are you,’ replied Hayward.  Both fired.  The soldier was instantly killed and Hayward mortally wounded.”

Grim meeting of two thirsty souls; they sought water and found blood; they wooed life and won death.  War is epitomized in the exclamations, “You are a dead man,” “And so are you.”  Further debate would end the strife; the one query, “Why?” would bring each musket to a rest.  Poor unknown Britisher, exiled from home, what did he know about the merits of the controversy?  What did he care?  It was his business to shoot, and be shot.  He fulfilled most completely in the same moment the double mission of the soldier, to kill and be killed.  Those who do the fighting never do know very much about what they are fighting for,—­if they did, most of them would not fight at all.  In these days of common schools and newspapers it becomes ever more and more difficult to recruit armies with men who neither know nor think; the common soldier is beginning to have opinions; by and by he will not fight unless convinced he is right,—­then there will be fewer wars.