There once was a
time in America when
the year was marked
by two eagerly
awaited high
festivals --
Christmas and
Independence Day.
Asked to pick which
was best, even
children might have
chosen the Fourth.
From country to city
it was a day of
fluttering flags,
passionate emotions,
and bombastic
pleasures
commemorating a
freedom so recently
won it was not yet
taken for granted.
A first description
of how this
anniversary of our
nation's birth was
to be honored came
in a July 4, 1777,
notice from Thomas
Wharton of the
Philadelphia
Committee of Safety
to the city
Justices. The true
friends of Liberty,
he told them, had
expressed a desire
to hold public
rejoicings and
illuminations. A
fireworks,
therefore, had been
ordered for the town
common and the aid
of two hundred
soldiers was being
requested to
restrain the ardor
of those who imbibed
a bit too
patriotically.
After the war, the
average American
found the cost of
imported European
fireworks much too
high. Not until
after 1816 and the
start of a home
industry would
fireworks once more
become a common
feature of the
celebration. But
towering bonfires
were lit the night
before and bells,
guns, and cannons
broke the morning.
Liberty poles were
raised and capped.
Children hung
Benedict Arnold in
effigy until the
memory of his
treachery faded.
Graying veterans
reminisced while
overseeing heroic
reenactments of
their town's great
battles, and, as it
was said, made the
eagle scream.
The 1820s became a
time of huge
Independence Day
banquets accompanied
by orations and a
multitude of toasts.
Thirty-two were
proposed at the 1828
gathering of the
Armstrong Guards in
Kittanning,
Pennsylvania: The
day we celebrate.
Sacred to liberty
and the rights of
man. Four cheers!
... The surviving
officers and
soldiers of the Army
of the Revolution.
Three cheers! ...
The President... The
Governor... The Fair
Sex... . The
Pennsylvania canal!
One German immigrant
was moved by the
fervor of the
movement to call out
his own toast --
Freuheit und JS! our
genuge! a mix of
German and English
that translated as
"Liberty and plenty
of flour!" It was
roundly applauded.
Also drawing
applause was a final
toast to the
Jacksonites on the
other side of the
river! Partisan
politics had found
its way into the
country's great
anniversary, and the
divisions of an
election year had
sent the "Jacksonites"
of Kittanning to
hold their
celebration on the
opposite side of the
Allegheny River from
the "Adamites."
Large-scale public
spectacle was added
to city festivities
in the 1830s. A
typical Fourth of
July in New York
City began with the
roar of cannons and
the unfurling of
flags, pennants, and
streamers from the
masts of hundreds of
ships around the
harbor. Banners
waved as far as the
eye could see in
streets thronged
with people.
Children in plumed
hats flourished tin
swords and pranced
happily to marching
music punctuated by
blasts of artillery
fire from the
military exhibition
park.
With darkness came
the glimmer of a
thousand lamps along
avenues of booths
selling gimcracks,
ginger beer, and
nearly every
digestion-threatening
delicacy known to
man. Clusters of
small explosions
from strings of
firecrackers
heightened
anticipation that
turned to cheers
when an illuminated
balloon rose
gleaming gold in the
sky and a rocket
exploded in silver
above it. Fiery
serpents followed,
twisting through the
air, fountains of
fire showered down;
and streams of light
eclipsed the stars
until, with a
shuddering
bombardment of
sound, the show
ended for another
year.
Though their
celebration would be
far less
spectacular, country
folk of the time
looked forward just
as fervently to
Independence Day as
their sophisticated
city cousins. Spring
and summer had been
spent plowing,
planting, and
hoeing, and soon
there would be
haying. But for one
glorious festival
day there was the
Fourth, when
families from all
the neighboring
farms gathered at a
favorite picnic
grove to enjoy a
holiday from
wearying
responsibility.
Children had their
popcorn and
firecrackers.
Grownups had their
catching-up to do
after long weeks or
months of isolation.
Speeches made up in
patriotic zeal for
what they lacked in
polish. There were
food and whiskey and
games and dancing to
the tunes of a
fiddle. After dark
there would be a
bonfire and maybe a
skyrocket or two
before the drowsy
ride home.
Those who lived in a
village or town in
the 1830s could
expect a day of
dizzying activity
that from a child's
point of view was
nearly magic. Every
boy with gunpowder
in his veins got up
before dawn to hear
the chorus of
ordnance, bells, and
voices that greeted
the sun. He fretted
his way through a
breakfast he was too
excited to eat, then
drilled his younger
brothers and sisters
in military
maneuvers until it
was time to leave.
The entire town soon
emptied into the
streets that had
been watered the
night before to keep
down the dust. Women
set out a feast on
tables under massive
tents. Men busily
checked
arrangements, donned
uniforms, and tuned
musical instruments.
The children ran
wildly back and
forth until shooed
off to watch the
militia form up on
the green. There
they stood in
open-mouthed awe or
wheeled noisily in
disjointed regiments
of their own until
the bugle sounded,
the drums rattled
their irresistible
rhythm, and the
procession to the
church began.
Once inside they
settled down.
Militia and honored
guests took up the
front rows. Young
folks claimed the
balcony where they
could look down on
the sea of white
muslin dresses and
waving fans and miss
nothing. The pastor
rose first to
commend the country,
the company, and
their fate to God
while boys stared in
envy at former
playmates grown old
enough to stand at
proud attention in
new Guard uniforms.
Suddenly the silence
was shattered by the
martial clash of the
band. "Hail
Columbia" sent
everyone into a
foot-stamping
ecstasy that even
trumpet and bass
drum couldn't drown
out. Hearts
thrilled, eyes
turned to the flag,
expectation soared
as the orator
stepped forward.
He might be the son
of a man who had
known the strife of
battle, seen
Lexington and
Concord, heard the
exaltation of
freedom's first hymn
in the peals of
Philadelphia's great
bell. He might be a
townsman who had
distinguished
himself in law or
politics, flushed
with the enthusiasm
of a generation born
to the rights of
citizenship in a
young nation. But
whoever he was, he
would speak in
ringing tones of
sacrifice, courage,
the nobly won past,
and the shining
future until the
crowd believed and
shared his vision of
an America yet
unrealized. When the
long speech ended in
an explosion of
applause and tears
there would be
heartfelt songs, a
final benediction,
and an exodus back
out to the sunshine
of a day of picnics,
excursions, races,
games, and laughter.
The night would end
in a child's fantasy
of fireworks put
together by the men
-- Roman candles,
torpedoes, and
wheels and stars of
flashing fancy.
It was a magnificent
way to spend a
birthday, and closer
to the manner in
which John Adams
once predicted the
Fourth of July would
always be celebrated
than we would ever
see again. In
another twenty years
the meaning of the
day had diminished,
"flown away in
villainous
saltpeter, exploded
in firecrackers, and
whizzed to the
empyrean in
skyrockets," the
editor of Harper's
Monthly complained.
The patriotic orator
now competed with a
sideshow of
peddlers, circus
acts, and crackling
disruptions. Young
men no longer
scrambled to top a
pole with a liberty
cap, and no one
remembered the old,
old songs once sung
throughout thirteen
colonies longing for
self-determination.
"In Freedom we're
born, and, like Sons
of the brave, Will
never surrender, But
swear to defend her,
And scorn to survive
if unable to save."
Now adults dreaded
the noise and
confusion of the
day. Yet even in the
midst of the chaos,
philosophers found
hope in the very
exuberance that made
it all so trying,
"Not all the money
of all national
treasuries could buy
the youth, the
health, the hope,
the carelessness,
that makes our
festival so fair,"
Harper's editor
wrote. After all,
something must be
pardoned to the
spirit of Liberty.
And somewhere in the
distant reaches of a
clear sky, far
beyond the smoke and
furor, he believed
he could still hear
an eagle scream.