fire and in blood. Is this religion, then, a lie? Is revelation, which thus works man's redemption here on earth-to say nothing of the future-a fraud? What then is God-the infidel's God? A being who made man to live and die and perish, only as an ingenious and gifted brute! He is not the author of that religion which ennobles man, exalts his faculties, his tastes, his aspirations, and constantly seeks to make him but little lower than the angels. He is not the God of good, but of Evil-not the Author of Light, but of Darkness-not the King of Heaven, but of Hell. This is the infidel's God.

Where, in Nature, is this fearful thing written? Not in the sun or the sky or the seasons, for these tell us that God is good. Not in the human heart, for this feels that God is true. Not in the eye that loves beauty, nor the ear that loves music. Every sense whispers that God is Love. It is indeed a dreadful obliquity, which leads the mind to refuse to see God in the Bible Revelation, and to refuse to accept Christianity as his gospel of good and glorious tidings to man.

LETTER XXVII.

Hartford forty years ago-The Hartford Wits-Hartford at the present time-The Declaration of War in 1812-Baltimore Riots-Feeling in New England-Embargo-Non-intercourse, &c.-Democratic Doctrine that Opposition is Treason.

MY DEAR C******

The city of Hartford, ever noted for its fine situation, in one of the fertile and beautiful vales of the Connecticut, is now distinguished for its wealth-the fruit of extraordinary sagacity and enterprise on the part of its inhabitants as well as for its interesting institutions-literary, charitable, and philanthropic. It presented, however, a different aspect at the time of which I am speaking. It had, indeed, formerly enjoyed some reputation as a sort of literary focus— it being the residence of Trumbull, the author of McFingal, of Hopkins, the bludgeon satirist, author of the "Hypocrite's Hope," of Theodore Dwight, and some others, known in their day as the "Hartford Wits." This distinction was well deserved, for it is rare indeed that three satirical poets, of so much vig. or, are found working together. It is especially rare to find them, as in this instance, united in an amicable as well as a literary brotherhood.

In my time Hopkins was dead; Trumbull had left off poetry for a seat on the bench of the Supreme Court, and Dwight was devoted to the Connecticut

Mirror-a newspaper distinguished all over the country for its vigilant and spicy vindication of federalism. His New-Year's verses were always looked for with eagerness, for they usually contained a review of events, with dashes at the times, in which the doings of democracy were painted in the unsparing colors of Hudibrastic ridicule. Many passages of these are now worthy of being read, as well on account of their illustration of the spirit of the time, as their keen and cutting satire.

On the whole, however, Hartford was then a small commercial town, of four thousand inhabitants, dealing in lumber, and smelling of molasses and Old Jamaica-for it had still some trade with the West Indies. Though the semi-capital of the State-the yearly sessions of the legislature being held there and at New Haven, alternately-it was strongly impressed with a plodding, mercantile, and mechanical character. There was a high tone of general intelligence and social respectability about the place, but it had not a single institution, a single monument, that marked it as even a provincial metropolis of taste, in literature, art, or refinement. The leading men were thrifty mechanics, with a few merchants, and many shopkeepers, society of course taking its hue from these dominant classes. There were lawyers, judges, and public functionaries-men of mark-but their spirit did not govern the town. There were a few dainty patricians, who held themselves aloof, secure of

that amiable worship which in all ages is rendered to rank. But where are they now? The answer would be a lesson and a warning to those who build their claims to homage on pretense. Such was the state of things, at the time I arrived in this city.

Some time after, a new era began to dawn, the light of which is still visible in the very air and aspect of the place. Let me give you a few measures of this striking progress. In 1810, the population of Hartford was three thousand nine hundred and fifty-five: in 1856, it is probably about twenty thousand. The American Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb, Trinity College, the Retreat for the Insane, the Wadsworth Atheneum-all excellent institutions-have been founded since my arrival in the town. The churches -then four in number-have increased to twentyfive, and by their towering and tasteful spires, give the place, as you approach it, the aspect of a Holy City. Every creed and shade of creed is represented, from Puritan orthodoxy up and down, to Roman Catholic, Second Advent, and Synagogue worshipers. There were three weekly journals, five and forty years ago; now there are two dailies, eight weeklies, and two monthlies. The manufacture of books, machines, carpets, pianos, hardware, hats, rifles, pistols-all established within forty years-now employ a capital of five millions of dollars. Colt's pistol-factory, with its accessories, is a marvelous example of ingenious art and liberal enterprise. The aggregate Bank Capital

is about six millions. The various Insurance Companies spread their protection against fire, far and wide -reaching into almost every State in the Union. Is not this progress?

I could find gratifying themes in pursuing this general train of events, especially as the prosperity of Hartford marks the general progress of society in Connecticut. But chronological propriety impels me, for the present, in a different direction. Leaving the humble path of autobiographical gossip, I must now, hackneyed as the subject may seem, take you within the wide and sweeping vortex of national history. Here, indeed, my own story leads, and here you are bound to follow. I must tell you of the war of 1812, for in this I was a soldier, and took my turn in the tented field! And besides-though we have plenty of histories on the subject, we have, so far as I know, very few pictures of the living and moving panorama of town and village life, during those three years of national anxiety and humiliation.

About midsummer in the year 1812, the news came that Congress, with the sanction of the President, had declared war against Great Britain.

The Declaration of War was ratified by the President on the 18th of June, and the proclamation was issued the next day. The principal grounds, assigned by the President for this act, were the impressment of seamen by Great Britain, her paper blockades, unsupported by an adequate force, and various Orders in Council. Let it be remembered that peace was made by our government in 1814, without saying a word about impressment-the main ground of the war-and that the Orders in Council were repealed within four days after our declaration of