We spoke of the war of Independence, in which Mr. Bulow [Footnote:  The M. Bulow of whom Savarin speaks, is none other than Lieut.  Col.  Bellows of the Connecticut Line, many of whose relations yet remain in the Valley of the Connecticut.] had served as a field officer of M. de La Fayette, who every day becomes greater in the eyes of the Americans, who always designate him as “the Marquis” of agriculture, which at that time enriched the United States, and finally of my native land, which I loved the more because I was forced to leave it.

When wearied of conversation the father would say to his eldest daughter, “Maria, give us a song.”  She without any embarrassment sung the American national airs.  The complaints of Mary Stuart and of Andre, all popular in America.  Maria had taken a few lessons, and in that remote country passed for a virtuosa; her singing though, derived its charm from the quality of her voice, which was at once clear, fresh and accentuated.

On the next day, in spite of Mr. Bulow’s persuasions, we set out.  I had duties to discharge; and while the horses were being prepared, Mr. Bulow took me aside and used these remarkable words.

“You see in me, sir, a happy man, if there be one under heaven; all that you see here is derived from my own property.  My stockings were knit by my daughters, and my cloths were furnished by my flocks.  They also, with my garden, furnish me with an abundance of healthy food.  The greatest eulogium of our government is, that in the State of Connecticut there are a thousand farmers as well satisfied as I am, the doors of whom have no locks.

“Taxes are almost nothing, and as long as they be paid any one can sleep calmly.  Congress favors national industry as much as it can, and merchants are always ready to take from us whatever we wish to sell.  I have ready money for a long time, for I have just sold at twenty-four dollars a barrel, flour I usually receive eight for.

“All this is derived from the liberty we have acquired, and established on good laws.  I am master of my own house; and you will not be astonished when you know that we never fear the sound of the drum, and, except on the 4th of July, the glorious anniversary of our Independence, neither soldiers, uniforms, nor bayonets are seen.”

On my way back I seemed absorbed by profound reflection.  Perhaps the reader may think I mused on my host’s parting words; I had very different thoughts, however, for I was studying how I should cook my turkey.  I was in some trouble, for I feared I would not find all I needed at Hartford, and wished to make a trophy of my spolia opima.

I make a painful sacrifice in suppressing the details of the profound science I exhibited in the preparation of an entertainment, to which I invited several friends.  Suffice it to say that the partridge wings were served en papillote, and the grey squirrels stewed in madeira.