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.

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

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.

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CHAPTER XV.