acquaintance with the pictorial features of the Atheneum was chiefly
confined to Trumbull's paintings of the Revolutionary battles. These
seemed to us at the time perfect representations of what really happened
at Bunker Hill, Princeton and Quebec. But the inevitable development of
a more catholic artistic sense led us to dwell with a growing interest
on the work of some of the great masters displayed in the art gallery.
With these the portraits of state and local worthies in the historical
society's rooms could not compete very successfully from the standpoint
of workmanship, but these local portraits acquired a new importance as
the story of the state and the old town took its place in our enlarging
appreciation of relative values. At least we could gather from them some
idea of what the people looked like who had walked the streets where we
had played as children and who had taken their parts in the building of
the city, the state and the nation.
We heard the story of Elizabeth Whitman and the portraits of her father
and mother became something more than merely faded old pictures. Oliver
Ellsworth was no longer only a name--there he was, sitting at a table
with his wife, his familiar house visible in the distance. And when
curiosity grew as to Daniel Wadsworth, the founder of the Atheneum, we
were able to satisfy this in some degree by hunting up the two portraits
of him--one as a boy, leaning on his father's shoulder, the other
Ingham's painting of him in middle life.
[Illustration: THE WATKINSON LIBRARY]
ii
It is strange that so little has been written about Daniel Wadsworth. He
was the original Maecenas of Hartford. But he had no Horace to celebrate
him and he would have abhorred the publicity which the Roman patron of
the arts and letters seems rather to have enjoyed. His modesty is well
illustrated by the fact that he requested that Dr. Hawes should at his
funeral services attempt no formal eulogy, in the fashion of the day. He
died at ten minutes past one on the morning of July 28, 1848, a few days
before his seventy-seventh birthday. Though he lived to this advanced
age his health was always frail and this fact may account, in part, for
his rather retiring disposition.
He was, however, by no means a recluse. His home, altered, but still
standing at the southwest corner of Prospect Street and Atheneum
Street--formerly "Wadsworth's Alley,"--now laboring under the
alliterative title of "Atheneum Annex," was the center of a simple and
delightful social life. In its notice of Mr. Wadsworth after his death
the "Courant" said of this home that it "has remained for half a century
a scene of cheerful hospitality, where persons of humble worth as well
as those of distinction, have been received with kindness and courtesy,
and cheered by the unclouded sunshine of Mrs. Wadsworth's benevolence
and lovely manners."
Mrs. Wadsworth was the daughter of the second Governor Trumbull. "Her
mind," says Dr. Hawes, in the funeral sermon which in his wife's case
Mr. Wadsworth did not prohibit, "was sprightly, inquisitive,
well-balanced and excellently cultivated; her temper was uncommonly
mild, affectionate and cheerful, often exhibiting a pleasant playfulness
of spirit, enlivening conversation and intercourse, but never light,
censorious or severe; her heart replete with tenderness, and alive to
every social and sympathetic feeling." She died two years before her
husband. Their married life extended over fifty-three years.
After her death a Miss Sarah McClellan, who seems to have been a
connection of Mrs. Wadsworth, appeared in the character of secretary for
Mr. Wadsworth, who was very feeble during the last two years of his
life. She kept a diary, now in the possession of the Connecticut
Historical Society, through which we get contemporary glimpses of the
kindly life of the old street, though most of the references are in the
nature of a catalogue of visits paid and received, such as,--
"Jan. 1, 1848. Received a beautiful book as a New
Year's present from Mrs. Sigourney . . . Judge
Ellsworth, Doctor Grant, Mr. Clair [Clerc?] and Mr.
Barnard called in the morning. P. M. Judge Williams,
Mr. Smith [Alfred?], Mr. Roswell and John Parsons
called. Went down to see Mrs. Hudson--found her
better."
On another occasion she records how Dr. Grant brought to the house four
children, aged from nine to thirteen, known as the "Apollonians," who
were to give a concert in the evening and who sang to Mr. Wadsworth at
his home as he was not well enough to attend the concert. After they had
left Miss McClellan went to Dr. Grant's "and took a galvanic shock for
my painful arm."
The most valuable part of the diary historically, however, relates to
the last illness of Mr. Wadsworth and his death on a night of midsummer
thunderstorms, and this is rather long and rather intimate for
quotation.
In fact most of our knowledge of the founder of the Atheneum comes more
from memories and traditions than from exact data. These legends picture
him as a fragile man with a stoop, fond of wearing even in the house, an
artist's cap and a cloak, partly to protect himself from drafts, of
which he had an exaggerated dread, partly, we fancy, to exemplify in his
person his artistic ideals.
[Illustration: DANIEL WADSWORTH
BY PERMISSION OF
THE CONNECTICUT HISTORICAL SOCIETY]
For art was his great interest in life and his wealth enabled him to
gratify his artistic inclinations and to perpetuate in the city he loved
a center for the humanities which to him seemed so far above riches. In
a way he was a cosmopolitan, for he had been educated in France and
England, accompanying his father, Jeremiah Wadsworth, there when he was
twelve years old. Many of the paintings and prints, of which he was an
inveterate collector, came from Europe--as most examples of good art
then did.
He was himself an illustrator and painter. The illustrations of his
friend's--Professor Benjamin Silliman's--"Tour From Hartford to Quebec,"
are by him and they include two views of his beautiful country seat,
"Monte Video," on Talcott Mountain. It is characteristic of Professor
Silliman's regard for what were doubtless his friend's wishes that Mr.
Wadsworth's name is not mentioned in his description of the spot. We
know of at least one home, and there are probably several, where
attractive and interesting sketches and paintings by Mr. Wadsworth
are still cherished.
As the years increased upon him the care of his health seems to have
become something of a pre-occupation. It is related that he had a series
of capes of differing colors and sizes which he superimposed one upon
another, as the weather grew colder, attracting thus considerable
attention in his walks abroad. In his big yellow coach he installed a
stove in cold weather, and a smoke-stack, which may have caused our
fellow citizens of that day to wonder whether they were beholding a
steamboat on wheels--or even a motor vehicle of the period. Into his pew
in the southwest corner of the Center Church he invariably had a foot
stove carried when attending service in winter.
Looking back through the years the life of his time seems to have had a
more friendly and neighborly element than our urgent affairs today
appear to permit. Perhaps there is something of fancy in this, but it is
not all fancy to believe that in the institution that bears his name
Daniel Wadsworth has transmitted to succeeding generations a flavor and
memory of this old life, as well as an opportunity to know the
refreshment of certain things that can not be measured in money--the
things of the mind and the spirit.
iii
On the whole, the portion of the Atheneum that was the most popular with
the children of an older day, and became through familiarity the least
mysterious, was the reading room. In retrospect this room seems to have
had a distinct quality of its own. For one thing it appears, in memory,
to have been characterized by a pervading aroma of wet umbrellas,
rubbers and damp clothing. Probably this is due to the fact that one
generally frequented it on rainy days when out-of-door pursuits were
impossible. Somebody was always opening a window to let in a little air.
At that time the room was in the northeast corner of the main building.
Its chief furnishings were the many rows of oak reading desks, shaped
like inverted V's, raised on standards to a convenient height. To these
slanting surfaces the papers were clamped by wooden contrivances which
materially interfered with a comprehensive view of all double page
pictures.
Nevertheless one rather approved of these old oak reading desks. They
gave a studious air to the room and separated the floor space into
sections that contributed a certain effect of privacy. Also they
concealed the upper portions of readers on opposite sides, or in
different sections, from one another. It was rather diverting to peek
underneath and endeavor to construct mentally from the shoes, trousers
and skirts--they were long enough in those days--thus visible, the
respectively corresponding upper sections of anatomy. After a creative
effort of this kind it was interesting to move around to the other side
and see how nearly right you were.
On the whole the English illustrated papers were the most popular of the
periodicals and sometimes in the attempt to secure exclusive possession
of these there was a good deal of squabbling which had to be terminated
by the young woman in charge, who, however, was reasonably tolerant and
far more popular than the dragon who guarded the historical museum
upstairs.
The first real war any of us remembered was then in progress and the
"Illustrated London News" and the London "Graphic" were full of
pictures of British warships bombarding Alexandria and of charging
Highlanders at Tel-el-Kebir. Though soon supplanted by our own "Life,"
"Punch," too, was something of a favorite, with its drawings by Du
Maurier of tall, wasp-waisted, beautiful ladies with remarkable
coiffures and trailing skirts, and of men with Dundreary whiskers, frock
coats, top hats and monocles--all engaged in what seemed to us
singularly inane conversation. Most of us had "St. Nicholas" at home and
of the other American publications "Harper's Young People" easily held
first place, with "Harper's Weekly" a close second. The girls were often
discovered poring over "Harper's Bazaar"--an inexplicable thing to the
masculine mind. That seemed to us a silly paper.
In time certain habitués of the reading room became familiar to us--by
sight, that is. There was, of course, the nondescript crowd of persons
out of employment, or idlers, who came in to get warm or to pass an hour
or two. These were the floating population, as it were, and the
individuals varied with the seasons. Some of them seemed to be searching
the advertising columns of the dailies for a job. Others read strange
technical papers--engineering magazines or trade journals. One has
often wondered since what perennial hopes, what latent ambitions, what
undiscovered geniuses, were concealed amid this rather drab clientele of
the reading room.
But that some definite purposes animated certain devotees could not be
doubted--though what the exact individual motives were was not always
apparent. There was, for example, the queer old man--short, stocky, with
gray beard and spectacles--whose specialty seemed to be the New York
papers and the political and economic magazines. He was generally
supposed to be a little "off" and he had Doctor Johnson's habit when
walking along the street of tapping with his stick every post and tree
he passed. If he abstractedly missed one he would go back and rap it. We
often noticed unkind urchins of our own age following him and reminding
him of any omissions, for the intense joy of seeing him invariably
return and perform this rite. Let us hope that none of us attempted
this, though it can not be asserted that the temptation was always
resisted, even if no memory of succumbing to it remains.
Then there was another frequenter of the reading room who was generally
supposed to be not quite normal mentally. He was a kindly, gentle soul,
however, and it is pleasant to remember that he was never the subject of
ridicule. Indeed his deprecating manner, his invariable courtesy, even
to children, effectually disarmed any suggestion of the sort. We all
liked him and perhaps he did not dislike us. He would come softly in,
with bent head and humble air, put his umbrella in the rack, look about
to ascertain what favorite papers of his had not been pre-empted, slide
with the effect of an apology into some empty place, put on his
spectacles, get out his note book and pencil and begin to transcribe.
During each of his visits he was continually taking notes and the
imagination is appalled at any effort to compute the number of note
books he must have filled, for he was a constant visitor. The occupation
was of course an obsession, a phase, no doubt, of various mental
vagaries he harbored. Probably as children we missed something of the
pathos of the fine mind thus clouded, but it is a comfort to remember
that we did not altogether fail in appreciation of the spirit of the
gentleman.
There comes dimly to memory the figure of a rather elderly woman who
wore an old-fashioned bonnet and rather odd clothing of a bygone style.
She was a busy person, flitting from paper to paper, forever in quest of
some apparently elusive data. It seemed to be necessary for her to hold
frequent consultations with the attendant. These were carried on, for
her part, in loud, hissing whispers that were far more penetrating and
distracting than ordinary conversation would have been and the
good-natured presiding genius of the room spent much of her time looking
up references for this curious and acquisitive visitor. What she was
seeking we never knew, but, though it was manifestly of the utmost
importance to her, one could not escape the impression of futility.
Surely a public reference or reading room is an excellent place in which
to study the caprices of the human mind.
This person's audible conferences with the attendant bring to mind the
notice that was prominently posted in various parts of the room,--
LOUD TALKING OR PROLONGED
CONVERSATION WILL NOT BE
ALLOWED IN THIS ROOM
Now that the statute of limitations has barred civil, if not criminal
proceedings, the writer will confess that some years later, when an
undergraduate of Yale College, he abstracted, after the unoriginal
fashion of his kind, one of these notices and took great pride in
displaying it in a prominent place on the wall of his room at college
where its apt and ironic message aroused great envy and admiration.
But to return to our memories of the reading room's habitués--there was
Cousin George. This vicarious relative was an unattached Congregational
minister who sojourned in the city from time to time. The nomadic
character of his ministry was due partly to principle, partly to a kind
of wanderlust. In this old bachelor there was a wandering streak--he was
not happy for long in one place. But he had a strong social instinct and
a keen interest in and affection for his friends and was greatly beloved
by them. A great purveyor of news, he was an insatiable reader of the
papers and toward the middle of the morning he invariably came into the
reading room, as into a club, to look through the news of the day. His
soft, black hat, overcoat with short shoulder cape, eyeglasses with
black ribbon and mutton-chop whiskers gave a distinct individuality to
his appearance. About his looks there was an effect of oddity--and
indeed, like most of us, he had his whimseys and peculiarities. There
was little externally to indicate his kindly sympathy, his talent for
friendship, his thoughtfulness for others, particularly for the sick.
For that reason, doubtless, it was not until maturer years that that
side of his character fully dawned on one. There was nothing to denote
this in the picture of him, seated in a good reading light, in one
corner of the room, his cape-overcoat thrown back on his shoulders, his
thin legs crossed, absorbed in last night's "New York Evening Post."
Like the others we have mentioned he will never come to the reading room
again. Did they, we wonder, surmise that certain small eyes were
observing them, that certain youthful personalities were conferring
about them, that certain immature minds were striving to grasp what
manner of men and women they were? Truly memories of us all may live
long in unsuspected places.
_XI: The Friend of Youth_
IT was announced the other day in the public prints that the Private
Coachman's Benevolent Association had filed its certificate of
dissolution. Over this laconic statement in the morning paper one
reader, at least, paused and let his thoughts wander. To him there
seemed a significant and, indeed, a rather melancholy interest in the
announcement. The incident thus briefly mentioned not only marked the
end of an ancient brotherhood; it furnished a striking commentary on
changing social conditions.
As a type the private coachman is disappearing, and with him vanish the
coaches, landeaus and victorias, the well-matched pairs of reliable
family horses with shining harnesses and jingling chains, the snappy
trotters, the buggy rides and the horse in general as a voucher of
social responsibility and standing.
The possession of a motor car and the services of a chauffeur, though
generally involving more financial outlay than a stable and coachman
necessitated, somehow do not quite confer the reflected glory in which
the employer of a coachman used to shine. Everybody has a motor and the
very prevalence and numerousness of the chauffeur, capable and loyal
soul though he be, necessarily detract from the distinction which the
rarer coachman used to give.
One usually stood rather in awe of the coachman--particularly in
boyhood, the period with which he is chiefly associated in the memories
of most of us. He was a person of strange and exalted attainments. He
held mysterious and telepathetic communication with his horses. He
understood them, and they him. He had theories about shoeing, he could
prescribe for most of their ailments, he hissed at them queerly as he
groomed them. Moreover, he had the real sporting spirit. He knew all
about the performances of Maud S. and John L. Sullivan. He called the
firemen and policemen by their first names and the fire bell would send
him running out of the stable at any hour.
If the boy wanted to acquire a puppy he got the coachman to select it
and to clip its ears (without anæsthetic) behind the stable--or, if the
coachman was wise, he persuaded a friend to do this surgical work at
some livery stable, out of earshot of the family. Probably when the
puppy was grown the coachman surreptitiously staged fights with him
against rival dogs, chaperoned by brother coachmen, late at night after
the boy and his elders were asleep, thus occasionally providing a
precarious addition to his wages if the dog came up to expectation. To
tell the truth, it was generally selected for its fighting qualities.
He had strange tales of adventure, many of them doubtless fictitious,
but showing the swift imagination of the race from which he generally
sprang. The great event of his life was his trip to Philadelphia at the
time of the Centennial when he was temporarily a soldier and had charge
of the major's horse. For years brilliant lithographs of the exhibition
buildings were tacked to the stable wall above the shelf where stood
bottles of horse liniment and harness dressing. He had seen men and
cities and out of his experience had grown a practical and homely
wisdom that was by no means lost upon his young admirers. He was the
friend of youth.
And now it seems that the guild is officially extinct. Hail and
farewell, private coachman! Though legally dissolved you are not
forgotten, but remain ever enshrined in our memories of an older and
simpler day.
In those memories the coachman assumes multiform incarnations. The
individuals varied as the years of childhood lengthened, but they all
conformed to type.
At the end of one of those dim vistas of childish recollections,
illumined by the mellow light that always plays about our earliest
remembrances, stands the figure of Patrick, the first coachman of them
all. His first appearance was so very long ago--as a life-time is
measured--that the vision, emerging from the mists in which the first
consciousness of the world is enveloped, is painted somewhat vaguely on
the retina of the mind. How much of it is real, how much an idealized
memory, can not perhaps be definitely determined. After all, it is only
a picture and a feeling.
One seems to remember being enthroned on a rug spread on the grass of
the garden, beneath the big apple tree, in the level sunlight of a late
afternoon in spring. It must have been spring for the apple tree was in
bloom. About one, seated on the grass, was grouped a circle of the maids
of the household and their visitors. No experience of later years has
ever given the slightest intimation that one could possibly be or became
such a center of interest and admiration as that microcosm of dawning
intelligence then consciously was to that laudatory audience. There was
a distinct sense of being the source of the happiness and laughter that
composed the mental atmosphere of that golden afternoon. Such an
assurance that the world was entirely good and beautiful has not since
been attained.
Then, suddenly, Patrick was added to the circle--a smooth-shaven,
apple-cheeked, merry man--having doubtless strolled over from the
neighboring stable yard. Was it partly because a masculine note of
admiration was added to the feminine chorus that the effect of general
well-being and of mirth seemed, with his arrival, to be emphasized and
confirmed? At all events there was an instinctive perception between
Patrick and the center of interest that they understood each other, and
Patrick was welcomed from the rug with evidences of the recognition of
this bond which precipitated another wave of delightful worship.
It was the beginning of a firm friendship. Patrick soon shared with the
nurse of those Elysian days the early confidences, the awakening and
absurd aspirations, of the childish mind. In the first cloud of trouble,
which after some years grew from the marriage and departure of the
nurse, he was a never failing solace. He received with serious
consideration a carefully thought-out plan to compel her return by
engaging one of the hook and ladder companies to pull down her new home,
thus presumably leaving her without any abiding place but the parental
roof. Seated on the front seat of the old carriage with his young
friend, taking the air about the city, he assisted in plotting the
details of this scheme. It was so subtly diluted by other interests, and
disappeared so gradually, that no particular disillusion resulted.
Why Patrick left and when remain a mystery. He was succeeded by a
Scotchman with reddish whiskers and for long was lost to sight. Then,
unexpectedly, he re-appeared.
One afternoon, years afterward, while calling at a friend's home and
talking over old days, it developed that Patrick was still alive--a very
old man now--that he was employed by these friends as gardener--that, as
a matter of fact, he was at the moment at work in the garden. It was,
indeed, possible to see him from the window. What was the meaning of
that instant sense of doubt as to whether it would be well to walk over
to the window? At least this hesitancy did not prevail and there, in a
far corner, raking among the shrubbery, could be discerned the figure of
a little, bowed old man in blue denim overalls and a weather-beaten felt
hat. One could not see his face--his back was toward the window. How
small he looked! Why, Patrick had been a fine figure of a young
Irishman, not tall, perhaps, but of a respectable height.
The suggestion was inevitable that it would be interesting to go over
and talk to him. Indeed a start was made, but again came that impulse of
hesitation, stronger this time and not to be gainsaid. Was Patrick
well--was he happy? On the whole the answer was in the affirmative. He
had, it appeared, touches of rheumatism, but he could still do light
work, and he liked to putter about the lawns and the flower beds. At
home he was comfortable. Generally speaking, it seemed that life had
treated him not too harshly. It was clear that he was with kindly
people--and there one left him.