The coach, a sort of tin-peddler's wagon in form, was full, and, quite in accordance with my inclination, I took a seat with the driver. It was a genial afternoon, and all things in nature and art combined to please and edify. We reached Bridgeport, at the mouth of the Housatonic River, fourteen miles east of Norwalk, at sunset, and a more pleasing variety of beautiful scenery can nowhere be found than charmed us during that short journey. We passed through Westport (old Saugatuck), Southport, and Fairfield, lovely villages lying upon estuaries of Long Island Sound, and all replete with historic interest. Unlike most modern villages, with their rectangular streets, and exhibiting an ambitious imitation of large cities, the neat houses, embowered in shrubbery, are thinly scattered along winding avenues shaded by venerable trees, the ground on either side left undulating as the hand of Nature fashioned it. Herein consists the great beauty of the New England villages, a beauty quite too often overlooked in other states in the process of laying out towns. Nature and art have here wrought in harmony, and village and country are beautifully and healthfully blended.
I was informed, before leaving Norwalk, that the "Buckly House," the last relic of the Revolution in Fairfield, had fallen under the stroke of public improvement, and also that no living witness of the cruelty of Governor Tryon was there. I therefore concluded to go directly through to New Haven that evening. During a detention of the coach for half an hour at the post-office, in Fairfield, I made a rough sketch of the annexed view of the village Green, which I subsequently corrected by a picture in Barber's Historical Collections of Connecticut. The view is from the eastern side of the Green, near the spacious new hotel that fronts upon it. The jail on the left, the court-house in the center, and the church on the right were erected upon the foundations of those that were burned by the British in 1779, and in the same style of architecture.. Such being the fact, the Green, from our point of view, doubtless has the same general aspect that it presented before the marauder desolated it. As the destruction of Fairfield was subsequent to the incursion of the enemy into New Haven, I shall give the record of its hard fate after noticing the movements of Tryon and his associates at the latter place
Immediately back of Fairfield village is the celebrated swamp where the warlike Pequots made their last stand against the English, in July, 1637. * There they were overthrown
* The Pequots, or Pequods, were a formidable tribe of Indians, having at least seven hundred warriors. Their principal settlements were on a hill in Groton, Connecticut. They were a terror to other tribes, and became a great annoyance to the Connecticut and Massachusetts settlements. Governor Endicott, of the former province, had tried to treat with them, but in vain, and their bold defiance of the whites increased Early in 1637 they attacked the small English fort at Saybrook, murdered several women of Weathersfield, and carried away two girls into captivity. The colonists mustered all their able men, and, being joined by portions of the Mohegans, Narragansets, and Niantic tribes, fell upon the Pequots in their retreat upon the Mystic River. A warm battle ensued, and the Pequots were beaten. They fought desperately, but were finally driven westward, and took shelter in the swamp near Fairfield. Sassacus, their chief, escaped to the Mohawks, by whom he was afterward murdered. The Indian name of Fairfield was Unguowa. Mr. Ludlow, who accompanied the English troops, and was afterward Deputy-governor of the colony of Connecticut, pleased with the country in the neighborhood of the Sasco Swamp, began, with others, a plantation there, and called it their fair field. Hence its name.
Destruction of the Pequots.—Greenfield Hill.—Dwight's Poem.—Journey to New Haven.—A Stroll to East Rock.
and annihilated, and the place has ever since been called the Pequot Swamp. They might have escaped had not one of their number, who loitered behind, been captured by Captain Mason, and compelled to disclose the retreat of his comrades. One hundred were made prisoners, the residue were destroyed. The fort at Mystic had previously been demolished, and they took refuge in this swamp.
We passed in sight of Greenfield Hill, near the village, renowned for its academy and church, wherein President Dwight, of Yale College, officiated as tutor and pastor for twelve years. The view from the hill is said to be exceedingly fine, and from the belfry of the church no less than seventeen houses of worship may be seen, in Fairfield and the adjacent villages. Dr. Dwight, while minister of Greenfield, wrote a poem called "Greenfield Hill." Referring to the view from the belfry, he exclaims,
"Heavens, what a matchless group of beauties rare
Southward expands! where, crown'd with yon tall oak,