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.