HARTFORD.
The City of Publishers.--Its Geographical Location.--The New
State House.--Mark Twain and the "None Such."--The "Heathen
Chinee."--Wadsworth Atheneum.--Charter Oak.--George H. Clark's
Poem.--Putnam's Hotel.--Asylum for Deaf Mutes.--The Sign
Language.--A Fragment of Witchcraftism.--Hartford _Courant_.--
The Connecticut River.
Having decided to pitch our tents in Hartford, we moved from New Haven
by rail, on the afternoon of September eighth, 1874. A hot, dusty day it
was, indeed, with mercury at ninety-two in the shade, and dust enough to
enable passengers of the rollicking order to inscribe monograms on the
backs of their unsuspecting neighbors.
The distance, according to recent time tables, is one dollar, or an hour
and fifteen minutes. The scenery encountered on this route is less
varied than that from New York to New Haven, and yet there is much to
interest the careful observer. The only town of any importance between
these rival cities is Meriden, an enterprising city of twenty thousand
souls, standing midway between them.
Hartford, the capital of nutmegdom, is the second city of Connecticut,
having, as shown by the last census, a population of thirty-seven
thousand. Pleasantly situated on the Connecticut River, and enjoying now
the advantage of exclusive legislation for the State, Hartford is
destined to become one of the most important cities of New England.
Authors, artists and publishers have ever found Hartford a fruitful
field for the development of brains and enterprise. It is, perhaps, not
exaggeration to say that in no other city of the United States of the
same size is there so large a proportion of the population devoted to
literature. The American and Hartford Publishing Companies, the firms of
Burr, Scranton, Worthington, Dustin, Gilman and Company, and many others
of less note, are located here.
The new State House, now in process of erection, is destined to be one
of the finest buildings in the country. The site commands a view of the
city and its surroundings for many miles. Among the objects of interest
to be found here are the residence of "Mark Twain" and the State Insane
Asylum. "Mark's" house is at the end of Farmington avenue, on a little
eminence, at the foot of which flows a nameless stream.
Its style of construction is so unlike the average house that it has won
for itself the characteristic title of "The None Such."
It is still in the hands of the architect, and will probably not be
ready for occupancy before November. If this building is not regarded as
a marvel, then I will confess that, after nearly twenty years of travel,
I have yet to learn the meaning of that term as applied to architecture.
The plat of ground on which the house and adjacent buildings stand was
selected and purchased by Mrs. "Twain"--so said the gentlemanly
architect who replied to our inquiries. As the genial "Mark" desires the
maximum quantity of light, his apartments are so arranged as to give him
the sun all day. The bricks of the outer walls of the house are painted
in three colors, making the general effect decidedly fantastic.
Taking it all in all, I have nowhere seen a more curious study in
architecture, and hope, for the satisfaction of its eccentric owner,
that it will quite meet his expectations.
The Celestials, or representatives from China, are now so often seen,
from California eastward to New England, that they have ceased to be
considered objects of special interest in any part of the United States.
I have met them more or less in my journeyings during the last two
years, and have often wondered if others see their strange
characteristics from the same standpoint that I do. To me, Ah Sin is
ingenious, enterprising, economical, and the essence of quiet good
humor.
Opposite my quarters here in Hartford are two of these odd-looking
Chinamen, whom I will, for convenience, name Ching Wing Shing and Chang
Boomerang.
My rooms being directly opposite the store of Boomerang and Company, an
excellent opportunity is afforded me for witnessing their varied devices
to invite trade and entertain their customers. Although only tea and
coffee are advertised, Chang's store will be found, on close inspection,
to strongly resemble the "Old Curiosity Shop," described by Dickens,
there being a small assortment of everything in their line, from tea and
coffee to watermelons.
Chang and Ching invariably wear a smile upon their "childlike and bland"
features. School children passing that way seem to take pleasure in
teasing these mild-mannered China merchants, and unfortunate indeed is
the firm of Boomerang and Company, if their backs are turned on their
youthful tormenters; for these mischievous urchins seem to think it no
crime to pilfer anything owned or presided over by their pig-tailed
neighbors. Should Chang or Ching discover their sportive enemies gliding
away with the tempting fruits of their stands, it is useless to pursue,
for a troop of juvenile confederates will rush into the store the moment
it is vacated and help themselves to whatever may please their fancy.
THE WADSWORTH ATHENEUM.
While taking a stroll down Main street the other day my attention was
arrested by a three-story brownstone building, standing on the east side
and back some distance from the street. I had only to glance at the
large, bold lettering across its front to be told that it was the
Wadsworth Atheneum. Deciding to take a look at the interior of this
receptacle of antiquities, I soon made the acquaintance of W. J.
Fletcher, the gentlemanly assistant librarian of the Watkins Library,
who seemed to take an especial pleasure in showing me everything of
interest, and who spared no pains in explaining everything about which I
had a question to ask.
There were so many curiosities of ancient as well as modern pattern,
that it would be impossible to notice all in a work of this magnitude,
and hence I shall content myself with presenting a few subjects which,
to me at least, were of striking interest. Stepping into the Historical
Rooms my attention was first called to the stump of the famous Charter
Oak, which will ever form an interesting chapter in Connecticut history.
A very comfortable seat or arm-chair has been moulded from this aged
relic, and while sitting within its venerable arms, I copied the
following poem by George H. Clark, the manuscript of which is framed and
hung up over the chair. I cannot endorse the sentiment of the poet, but
will record his lines.
September 10th, 1858.
DEAR SIR:--You seem to take so much interest in my lines on the
destruction of the old oak, that I have thought you might be pleased
with a copy in the author's handwriting, and accordingly inclose one.
Yours,
GEO. H. CLARK.
THE OAK.
1. "Yes--blot the last sad vestige out--
Burn all the useless wood;
Root up the stump, that none may know
Where the dead monarch stood.
Let traffic's inauspicious din
Here run its daily round,
And break the solemn memories
Of this once holy ground.
2. "Your fathers, long the hallowed spot
Have kept with jealous care,
That worshippers from many lands
Might pay their homage there;
You spurn the loved memento now,
Forget the tyrant's yoke,
And lend Oblivion aid to gorge
Our cherished Charter Oak.
3. "'Tis well, when all our household gods
For paltry gain are sold,
That e'en their altars should be razed
And sacrificed for gold.
Then tear the strong, tenacious roots,
With vandal hands, away,
And pour within that sacred crypt
The garish light of day.
4. "Let crowds unconscious tread the soil
By Wordsworth sanctified,
Let Mammon bring, to crown the hill,
Its retinue of pride,
Destroy the patriot pilgrim's shrine,
His idols overthrow,
Till o'er the ruin grimly stalks
The ghost of long ago.
5. "So may the muse of coming time
Indignant speak of them
Who Freedom's brightest jewel rent
From her proud diadem,--
And lash with her contemptuous scorn
The man who gave the stroke
That desecrates the place where stood
The brave old Charter Oak."
It appears to me that no more sensible thing could have been done after
the tree fell to the ground, August twenty-first, 1859, than to preserve
it here, where it will outlive, by centuries, its rapid decay in an open
field, exposed to sun and storm. Thousands may now see the famous oak
that otherwise might never know its location or history. It stood on the
grounds formerly owned by Samuel Wordsworth, near Charter Oak Avenue,
and its top having been blown down and broken during a violent storm, it
was afterwards dug up and taken to the Historical Rooms of the Wadsworth
Atheneum.
After occupying two hours in looking through the Historical Department,
we came to a corner of the room devoted to an exhibition of the relics
identified with the history of General Israel Putnam, the Revolutionary
patriot, who was commander-in-chief of the American forces engaged at
the battle of Bunker Hill.
Connecticut takes a lively interest in anything that pertains to her
favorite hero, and we were engaged not less than half an hour in an
examination of the various articles impersonating "Old Put." Most
Americans are familiar with the story of his early life and adventures,
but I think few are aware of the fact that at one time he was a country
landlord. Here at the Atheneum they have the very sign-board that
attracted the traveler to "Putnam's Hotel." A life-size portrait of the
gallant General Wolfe, who was slain while leading his army against
Quebec, is painted on the board, which is three feet long by two and a
half wide. Imagine now, the hero of a hundred battles and adventures,
performing the duties of "mine host"--at once hostler, bartender and
perhaps table girl in the dining room.
The character of the man who had the ability to rise from the position
of an humble farmer and inn-keeper to that of Senior Major-General of
the United States armies, is an index to the character of the American
people. Often on the battle-field were the titled nobility of Great
Britain compelled to fly before the crushing blows of this sturdy
yeoman, who, leaving his plow in the furrow, rushed to the field of
danger and glory. Casting aside the habiliments of the farmer, he
buckled on his armor and dared to lead where the bravest dared to
follow. Israel Putman
"Sleeps the sleep that knows not breaking,"
but his glorious deeds will never be forgotten while the blessings of
liberty are appreciated by the descendants of that galaxy of devoted
patriots who rallied around the standard of George Washington.
The Deaf and Dumb Institute, situated on Asylum Hill, is the oldest
institution of the kind in the United States, having been established in
1817, by Rev. F. H. Gallaudet, a noble and generous philanthropist, who
devoted his life and fortune to the elevation and enlightenment of the
afflicted. A monument recently erected to his memory, in front of the
Institute, attests the regard in which he is still held by those who
revere him as their benefactor.
It was my pleasure, while in Hartford, to attend a lecture in the sign
language, by Professor D. E. Bartlett, who is reputed to be the oldest
teacher living, and who commenced work at this institute forty years
ago. I shall never forget my emotions as I eagerly watched sign and
gesture, and at the same time noted its effect upon the features of each
face in his attentive audience. What a noble mission, to thus lead these
children of silence from the prison darkness of ignorance into the
beautiful light of knowledge? May those who devote their lives to such a
cause reap the rich reward which their benevolence deserves!
In 1652 Hartford had the _honor_ of executing the first witch ever heard
of in America. Her name was Mrs. Greensmith. She was accused in the
indictment of practicing evil things on the body of Ann Cole, which did
not appear to be true; but a certain Rev. Mr. Stone and other ministers
swore that Greensmith had confessed to them that the devil possessed
her, and the righteous court hung her on their indictment.
What would that court have done with the spiritual manifestations rife
in these parts to-day? It is a bitter sarcasm on our Plymouth Rock
progenitors that, having fled from the old country on account of
religious persecution, they should inaugurate their freedom to worship
God on the shores of the new world by hanging witches!
The leading paper of the city is the Hartford _Courant_, which is ably
edited by General Joseph R. Hawley, and is a powerful political organ
throughout New England. General Hawley distinguished himself during the
late war as a brave officer, entering the army as captain and rising to
the rank of brigadier general. The _Courant_, like its soldier-editor,
may always be found fighting in the van.
The Connecticut River at Hartford is about a quarter of a mile wide, and
sweeps onward in a swift current, through sinuous banks, until it
mingles with the waters of the Sound at Saybrook. The valley through
which this river seeks a passage to the sea is one of the loveliest to
be found anywhere, and gazing down upon it from the surrounding heights,
as it lies veiled in blue distance, is like looking upon a dream of
Arcadia.