child was Rebecca, daughter of Thomas and Mary Richardson, and was born April 27th, 1679.

Captain Judd, the proprietor of this house for many years, was an officer in the French and Indian war. The captain was a decided character, and many anecdotes of him were in circulation a few years since, for the most part unknown to the present residents of Waterbury who are not "to the manor born." The old Judd House was kept as a tavern from 1773 up to the time of the captain's death in 1825.

Captain Judd was a complacent landlord when" the cap was on the right ear," and his unwavering reply to all suggestions was, "That's well, sir." Late in life, after he had become quite deaf, the son of an old friend at a distance called to pass the night. After the usual compliments the captain inquired for his old friend. "My father is dead, sir," was the reply. "That's well, sir," with unmoved composure.

Raising his voice, the man again remarked, "My father is dead, sir."

"That's well," was again the response. A third and last time the man shouted at his highest pitch, "My father is dead, sir." With stolid face the old man looked calmly on, and again reiterated, "That's well, sir," to the entire discomfiture of his guest. Whether this may be entirely attributed to deafness, or a large part to the old man's well-known obstinacy, is a question.

During the war of the Revolution Captain. Judd's inn was repeatedly occupied by detachments of the American forces. On one occasion the French troops passed through here eight thousand in number, accompanied by Lafayette and other distinguished officers. General Washington was also here, on one or more occasions. In those days there lived in a house but a few rods west of Captain Judd's upon the ground now occupied by the residence of S. M. Buckingham, Esq., a certain Judge Hopkins, who was one of the leading men of the place, a person of considerable dignity of manner, and doubtless not wanting among other qualities in self-esteem.

The judge was very hospitable, and on the occasions of Washington's and Lafayette's visits here he extended the hospitalities of his house to these distinguished guests. He took a great interest in public affairs, had a keen relish for the 66 cares

of state,” and liked, I believe, himself (as who does not?) to be of some importance in the commonwealth. On the occasion of Washington's visit he was free in his communicative suggestions, as well as interrogatories in regard to public matters. The general was not disposed to be talkative, listened well, but said little. The judge was rather annoyed; at last the general, with an air of mysterious import, said, "Judge Hopkins, can you keep a secret ?"

The judge was on tip-toe; deliberating for a moment to give weight to his assertion, and to show that he did not solicit confidence, "I think," said he, "I think, general, that I can."

"So can I," said General Washington; and here the conversation ended.

On one of

It is a singular fact that all the buildings which belonged to the "Old Judd place" were destroyed by fire. In the first place, the barn and sheds were struck by lightning and burned. the most fearful and boisterous nights of the winter of 1833, the inhabitants of the village were aroused from their slumbers by the startling cry of "fire." The wind howled pitilessly through the streets, driving the falling snow before its blast. So severe was the storm that many neigh. bors living in the immediate vicinity of the catastrophe were not awakened from their slumbers. The feeble voice of man seemed lost in the raging of the ele

ments.

At the moment of the first alarm the "Old Judd House" was discovered a mass of flame. With great difficulty a portion of the inmates made their escape, but two beautiful children of Mr. Holmes, the occupant at that time and descendant of the original proprietor, perished in the flames. A young man named John N. Tuttle made an effort to rescue the sleeping children, and lost his life in the attempt. The citizens of Waterbury erected a monument upon the spot where the three victims were interred in the old burial ground. The monument is inscribed on one side to John N. Tuttle, with the following lines from the pen of Mrs. Sigourney:

"Thou who yon sleeping babes to save
Didst sink into a fiery grave,
When the last flame with vengeance dread,
Hath on the pomp of heroes fed,

A deed like this, undimm'd and bright,
Shall stand before the Judge's sight."

The opposite side of the monument is inscribed to the lost children, with the following lines from the same gifted writer:

"The midnight fire was fierce and red,
Sweet babes, that wrapp'd your sleeping bed;
But He who oft with favoring ear
Had bow'd your early prayers to hear,
Received, beyond this mortal shore,
The sister souls to part no more."

The "Old Judd House" thus disappeared, and a more modern edifice was erected in its place, still occupied by the descendants of the original proprietor. An old elm which stood nearly in front of the house, and which had extended its shadow over the heroes of the Revolution, struggled manfully for life after the fire, notwithstanding its seared condition. Ou the one side it presented only a charred trunk, but still it continued to send forth its fresh branches and verdure, but within the last two or three years the old tree has disappeared, and with it the last vestige of "the Old Judd place."

"Samuel Hopkins, D.D., an eminent divine, was born in this town September 17, 1721. He lived with his parents, employed in the labors of agriculture, until he entered his fifteenth year; and such was the purity of manners among the youth of this place that he had never heard from them a profane expression. He entered Yale College in 1737, and was graduated in 1741."

Doctor Samuel Hopkins, a distinguished physician and poet, was also a native of Waterbury, where he was born June 19, 1750. It is said that Doctor Hopkins was led to the study of medicine from observing symptoms of pulmonary complaint in some of his young companions, being aware, at the same time, that there was a hereditary predisposition to the same disease in his own family. singular that he should at last have fallen a victim to the experiment of a new remedy in his own case for the same disease.

It is

"Doctor Hopkins was a physician of great skill and reputation. His memory was so retentive that he could quote every writer he had read, whether medical or literary, with the same readiness that a clergyman quotes the Bible. In his labors for scientific purposes he was indefatigable.

A friend of the writer, who flourished at a later period, has suggested to him that Mr. Hopkins's acquaintance must have been limited, or that he could rarely have been out evenings.

The medical society of Connecticut is indebted to him as one of its founders."

Doctor Hopkins enjoyed a considerable literary reputation; in fact, was eminent among the writers at that day. Among his associates were Trumbull, Barlow, Humphreys, Dwight, and others. The "Anarchiad" is said to have been written by Hopkins, Trumbull, and Barlow. "He also had a hand in the Echo,' the Political Green-House,' and many satirical poems of that description, in which he had for his associates Richard Alsop, Theodore Dwight, and a number of others." The following quaint epitaph upon a patient killed by a cancer quack, is from the of Doctor Hopkins :

pen

"Here lies a fool flat on his back, The victim of a cancer quack; Who lost his money and his life By plaster, caustic, and by knife. The case was this: a pimple rose Southeast a little of his nose, Which daily redden'd and grew bigger, As too much drinking gave it vigor. A score of gossips soon insure Full three score different modes of cure; But yet the full-fed pimple still Defied all petticoated skill; When fortune led him to peruse A hand-bill in the weekly news, Sign'd by six fools of different sorts, All cured of cancers made of warts; Who recommend with due submission This cancer-monger as magician. Fear wing'd his flight to find the quack, And prove his cancer-curing knack; But on his way he found another, A second advertising brother; But as much like him as an owl Is unlike every handsome fowl; Whose fame had raised him as broad a fog, And of the two the greater hog; Who used a still more magic plaster, That sweat, forsooth, and cured the faster. The doctor view'd, with mooney eyes, And scowled up face, the pimple's size; Then christen'd it in solemn answer, And cried, "This pimple's name is cancer; But courage, friend, I see you're pale, My sweating plasters never fail; I've sweated hundreds out with ease, With roots as long as maple trees, And never fail'd in all my trials— Behold these samples here in vials, Preserved, to show my wondrous merits, Just as my liver is-in spirits. For twenty joes the cure is done." The bargain struck, the plaster on, Which gnaw'd the cancer at its leisure, And pain'd his face above all measure. But still the pimple spread the faster, And swell'd like toad that meets disaster; Thus foil'd, the doctor gravely swore, It was a right rose-cancer sore; Then stuck his probe beneath the beard, And show'd him where the leaves appear'd;

made the undisguised scoffer of both them and their cause. The story of McFingal is this: the hero, a Scotchman, and justice of the peace in a town near Boston, who had two gifts by right of his birth, rebellion and the second sight,' goes to a town meeting, where he and one Honorius make speeches at each other through two whole cantos. At the end of the second canto the town meeting breaks up tumultuously, and the people gather about a liberty pole erected by the mob. Here McFingal makes a virulent speech of near two hundred lines, at the end of which he is pursued and brought back to the liberty pole, when the constable is swung aloft, and McFingal tarred and feathered. McFingal is set at liberty; he goes home, and at night makes a speech to some of his Tory friends in his cellar, extending through the rest of the poem, leaving only room to tell that the mob broke off his address in the middle, by as

PORTER'S LODGE, RIVERSIDE CEMETERY. sailing the house, and McFingal escaped to Boston. These are all the incidents and this the whole story of a poem of four cantos, and consisting of some thousand lines."

The Cemetery of Riverside is situated at the distance of about three fourths of a mile southeasterly from the central portion of Waterbury, upon the right bank of the Naugatuck River. The name which has been adopted for this beautiful spot is most happily suggestive of its situation. From various elevations within the inclosure, the river forms a beautiful feature in the landscape, winding gracefully as it does

Kettell's Specimens of American Poetry, vol. i.

through alluvial flats; beyond which on either side wooded hillsides arise, forming the line of the horizon.

From that elevation in the cemetery grounds known as Forest Hill, the view, looking in a northwesterly direction, is one of great beauty. The river is here visible for the distance of some two miles. Nothing can be more pleasing in landscape than the effect produced by the numerous curves of the stream as seen from this

point, sweeping gracefully along, its right bank precipitous and thickly wooded; upon its left bank rich alluvial flats, just sufficiently dotted with single trees to afford a proper disposition of light and shade to the landscape; beyond these arise wooded hillsides, while in the distance the view is bounded by hills relieved by cultivation and scattering farm houses. Near sunset the light is finest for this landscape. In the eastern portion of the cemetery the various glimpses obtained of the river, looking through the trees upon its placid waters, add greatly to the charm of the scene. Here the stream, restless and joyous as is the general character of its course, seems to pause for a moment, as man occasionally does in the midst of the turmoil of life, to contemplate his own mortality; silently and slowly the naturally turbulent river wends its way past the city of the dead.

Far back in Egypt's history, before the Hellenic ages, the places of sepulture selected at Thebes and other cities upon the Nile, were always upon the opposite side of the stream from the abodes of the living, the river itself furnishing the dividing line between the cities of the living and the dead. Hence we learn that the Greeks, who received the germ of civilization from the Egyptians, established in that mythol ogy which their exquisite poetry and art have adorned and transmitted to future ages, the theory of the dead crossing the River Styx, and the poetical fancy of the grim visaged ferryman, Charon. Here, certainly, we have the most ancient authority for selecting the borders of a river for the resting-place of the dead. Nothing can form a more perpetual barrier to the encroachments of the future in our still undeveloped country. And the associations of classic antiquity, too little valued in our progressive age, are thus cherished and preserved.

"The site of Riverside Cemetery was