It was not against every tavern that the reproach could be brought that each person could not have a room to himself, or at least clean sheets without paying extra. Many a New England village inn could, in the opinion of the most fastidious Frenchman, well bear comparison with the best to be found in France. The neatness of the rooms, the goodness of the beds, the cleanliness of the sheets, the smallness of the reckoning, filled him with amazement. Nothing like them was to be met with in France. There the wayfarer who stopped at an ordinary overnight slept in a bug-infested bed, covered himself with ill-washed sheets, drank adulterated wine, and to the annoyance of greedy servants was added the fear of being robbed. But in New England he might with perfect safety pass night after night at an inn whose windows were destitute of shutters, and whose doors had neither locks nor keys. Save the post office it was the most frequented house in town. The great room with its low ceiling and neatly sanded floor, its bright pewter dishes and stout-backed, slat-bottomed chairs ranged along the walls, its long table, its huge fireplace, with the benches on each side, where the dogs slept at night, and where the guests sat when the dip candles were lighted, to drink mull and flip, possessed some attractions for every one. The place was at once the town hall and the assembly room, the court house and the show tent, the tavern and the exchange. There the selectmen met. There the judges sometimes held court. On its door were fastened the list of names drawn for the jury, notices of vendues, offers for reward for stray cattle, the names of tavern haunters, the advertisements of the farmers who had the best seed-potatoes and the best seed-corn for sale. It was at the "General Green," or the "United States Arms," or the "Bull's Head" that wandering showmen exhibited their automatons and musical clocks, that dancing masters gave their lessons, that singing school was held, that the caucus met, that the Colonel stopped during general training. The tavern porch was the rallying point of the town; hither all news came; here all news was discussed; hence all news was disseminated. DeWitt Clinton in his famous letters on political parties says: "In every county or village inn the barroom is the coffee room exchange, or place of intelligence, where all the quid nuncs and newsmongers and politicians of the district resort." Many were the good reasons that could be given to explain and justify attendance at an old-time tavern. One was the fact that often the only newspaper that came to town was kept therein. This dingy tavern sheet often saw hard usage, for when it went its rounds some could scarcely read it, some but pretend to read it. One old fellow in Newburyport opened it wide, gazed at it with interest, and cried out to his neighbor in much excitement: "Bad news! Terrible gales, terrible gales, ships all bottom