Category Archives: Tours and Teaching

Adjusting the Literary Lens in Hartford: A Region Full of Intonings

by Trudie Goodlitt-Ustanny

Trudie Goodlitt-Ustanny is a Jamaican-born resident of Hartford with a love for learning and writing. Trudie wrote this exploration piece for Professor Jeffrey Partridge’s literature class at CT State Community College Capital in spring 2026.

When I first visited Hartford in July 2022, I remember feeling more confused than impressed. Staying downtown, I expected noise, crowds, traffic, and the constant movement associated with most cities. Instead, everything felt strangely quiet. The streets seemed almost too clean, and there were only a few people walking around. At certain times of the day, it even felt as though everyone disappeared at once. I kept wondering what it would be like to actually live there. At the time, I thought Hartford lacked energy and personality. It felt like a city hiding from itself.

Over the course of the Hartford Literary Journey, however, that perception gradually changed. Through literature, historical spaces, museums, performances, archival materials, and conversations, Hartford began unfolding before me in layers. Writers such as Mark Twain, Lydia Huntley Sigourney, Ann Plato, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Isabella Beecher Hooker, Mary-Ann Tirone Smith, and Wallace Stevens became guides through the city. Their works taught me that Hartford could not be understood through appearances alone. It required patience, attention, and a willingness to observe beyond the surface. As I adjusted my literary lens throughout the semester, I came to understand Hartford not as an empty or uneventful city, but as a place shaped by imagination, activism, grief, resilience, and artistic expression. The physical journey through Hartford and the textual journey through its literature continuously intersected, transforming both the city itself and my understanding of it.

Exploring Twain, Sigourney, and Stevens at The Wadsworth

My first shift in perspective came through the writings of Mark Twain, Lydia Huntley Sigourney, and Wallace Stevens. What stood out to me immediately was how much I related to Twain’s reaction to Hartford. He describes the city by emphasizing what is absent: “no smoking, no drinking saloons, no swearing, no chewing of tobacco, nobody drunk” (Twain). Those details resonated with me because they mirrored my own expectations of what a downtown city should feel like. Like Twain, I initially viewed Hartford through the lens of what it lacked rather than what it contained. His humor, especially when discussing the Charter Oak, also reflected a certain distance from Hartford’s historical weight, a feeling I understood because I had not yet connected emotionally to the city myself.

Sigourney’s “Fall of the Charter Oak,” however, shifted the mood entirely. Referring to the tree as the “pilgrim fathers’ pride” (Sigourney), she transforms it into a symbol of memory and collective identity. What struck me most was the way she showed the Charter Oak carrying meaning across generations and communities. She writes not only of settlers, but also of “the roaming Indian who prized its canopy of shade” (Sigourney). Even children mourned its fall without fully understanding why. Reading this made me realize that history often survives emotionally before it survives intellectually. People can feel the weight of a place without always being able to explain it.

Wallace Stevens’ “Of Hartford in a Purple Light” ultimately had the greatest impact on my perception of the city. Stevens suggests that Hartford possesses as much beauty and significance as anywhere else in the world because the same light that reaches distant places also reaches Hartford. The poem elevates the ordinary, transforming the city from something provincial into something layered and interconnected. Stevens made me reconsider the possibility that Hartford was never truly boring; perhaps its beauty simply required patience and attention to recognize. Looking back, I realized that my first impression of Hartford had been shallow because I was only seeing its surface.

Twain and Warner at Hartford’s Nook Farm Neighborhood

That changing perspective deepened when I visited the Mark Twain House & Museum. Walking through the home felt less like entering a museum and more like stepping into a warm and loving household. It felt lived in rather than staged, filled with traces of family life and creativity. I especially loved the library. The dark green walls, the rich furniture, and the adjoining conservatory created an atmosphere that seemed warm in every season. I could imagine snow falling outside while the family gathered by the fire, or summer light pouring through the windows while the children played nearby. The room balanced intimacy with imagination. Knowing that Twain told his daughters bedtime stories there made the space feel deeply personal.

The visit also reshaped how I understood Twain himself. Reading excerpts from A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, I began noticing similarities between Twain and Hank Morgan. Both possess confidence and ambition before eventually discovering how fragile success can be. Merlin’s declaration, “Ye were conquerors; ye are conquered!” (Twain), captures how quickly power can reverse itself. Twain’s own failed investments mirrored Hank Morgan’s downfall through his inventions. This connection revealed Twain’s humanity. His work no longer seemed detached from his life; instead, it reflected his ambitions, disappointments, and anxieties.

Twain’s humor also remained surprisingly relatable. In “A Literary Nightmare,” when he describes his “tongue… doomed to wag forever to the jingle of that remorseless rhyme” (Twain), I immediately understood the irritation of being trapped by a catchy phrase or song. Yet Twain could also weaponize humor to expose absurdity. In “Speech in Honor of Cornelius Walford,” his comment that there is “a charm about a railway collision that is unspeakable” (Twain) transforms tragedy into satire, revealing society’s strange fascination with danger and spectacle.

Before learning about Nook Farm, I had no idea that it existed. What I discovered was that it was not just a location connected to Mark Twain, but a community where writers, reformers, and thinkers lived close to one another and exchanged ideas regularly. What struck me most was how personal those conversations must have been. People gathered in physical spaces, often by fireplaces, and spoke through disagreements and ideas in real time. Charles Dudley Warner writes that “one never knows exactly what he does believe until he is warmed into conviction by the heat of attack and defense” (Warner). That idea stood out to me because it feels very different from how communication works now. Online, conversations often feel more fixed, like people arrive already decided to support one side of the conflict. In contrast, Nook Farm seemed like a space where thinking was still happening out loud, in front of other people.

More Nook Farm Neighbors: Stowe, Gilman, and Hooker

Hartford’s literary culture, however, extended beyond intellectual conversation into political activism and social reform. The more I explored Hartford’s literary history, the more I realized that many of its writers were not simply storytellers, but activists using literature to challenge injustice and reshape public thought.

Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin confronts readers with the cruelty and moral contradictions of slavery through emotional storytelling. Eliza’s escape across the icy river, where “with one wild cry and flying leap, she jumped right over the turbid current” (Stowe), forces readers to experience the terror and desperation of a mother trying to save her child. Meanwhile, Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper” reveals the psychological consequences of denying women autonomy and self-expression. When the narrator confesses, “There comes John, and I must put this away, he hates to have me write a word” (Gilman), the act of writing itself becomes an act of resistance.

Isabella Beecher Hooker approached activism differently, relying on legal and constitutional reasoning to argue for women’s voting rights. Together, these writers revealed Hartford not only as a literary city, but also as a city deeply connected to reform, resistance, and social transformation. Their works forced me to see literature as something capable of influencing both individual consciousness and public life.

Watkinson Library Archives: Sigourney and Ann Plato

The workshop on Lydia Sigourney and Ann Plato deepened my understanding of how literature preserves voices across generations. Although the event took place inside our campus library, it felt as though I was walking directly through historical Hartford alongside my classmates. The archival materials spread across the tables no longer looked like fragile, pristine documents; instead, I began to see them as physical traces of people’s lives. They were contracts, handwritten letters and records that pointed back to real decisions and lived experiences. The experience reinforced the idea that literature is not simply entertainment or academic study, but also a form of legacy.

Before the workshop, I had little knowledge of Lydia Sigourney and therefore no real impression of her work or her role in Hartford’s literary history. Learning about her became a process of discovery rather than reevaluation. Seeing her archives, contracts, and personal materials for the first time made it clear that she was both a literary figure and a woman actively shaping her professional life within the constraints of her time. Her professional negotiations revealed someone who clearly understood her own value. In a society that restricted women to domestic roles, Sigourney insisted upon professional recognition and financial compensation for her work. That discovery changed the way I read her poetry because it revealed intentionality behind her public image. She was not merely passive or emotional; she was strategic.

Learning about Sigourney’s connection to Augustus Washington also added another layer to my understanding of Hartford’s literary and social history. Her decision to sit for a portrait by a Black photographer felt significant, especially during a period shaped by racial hierarchy and exclusion. Whether intentionally political or not, the photograph suggested a quiet challenge to social expectations by recognizing Washington’s artistic legitimacy and professional skill.

At the same time, the workshop revealed a deeply personal side of Sigourney through her consolation poetry. Knowing that she endured the deaths of several children transformed the emotional weight of poems such as “Death of an Infant.” When Sigourney describes “the murmuring sound / With which the babe would claim its mother’s ear” (Sigourney), grief becomes lingering and inescapable. Yet she also frames loss through spiritual comfort, emphasizing the child’s final “holy” smile. Her poetry therefore acknowledges both suffering and emotional endurance. Rather than abstract sentimentality, her writing emerged from lived experience.

Ann Plato’s presence within the workshop felt quieter but equally powerful. In many ways, the absence of extensive archival material surrounding her life emphasized the larger issue of whose histories are visibly preserved and whose gradually fade. Despite these gaps, Plato’s writing continues speaking clearly across time. I was especially struck by the fact that she published her work while still a teenager despite the racial and social barriers surrounding her. Her persistence reflected remarkable intellectual confidence.

Her poem “The Natives of America” particularly stayed with me because of how dramatically its tone evolves. The poem begins with harmony and collective identity before shifting into displacement, violence, and grief. Plato allows readers to witness colonization emotionally rather than simply describing it historically. As I read the poem, I unexpectedly thought about the film Avatar because both works depict communities living in balance with their world before outside forces destroy that harmony. Although the comparison is modern, it helped me visualize the emotional devastation Plato conveys.

Reading Plato alongside Sigourney also revealed important differences in perspective. Sigourney often emphasizes the irony of Indigenous displacement while Native names remain attached to the land itself, almost as hollow memorials. Plato, however, focuses more directly on the emotional and human consequences of that displacement. Together, their works created a layered conversation abou t memory, colonization, and historical erasure. Hartford’s literary history therefore became increasingly complex to me, containing not only celebration and preservation, but also critique and loss.

Hartford’s Circus Fire: Mary-Ann Tirone Smith and Jacques Lamarre

Wallace Stevens’ “Of Hartford in a Purple Light” continued echoing throughout the second half of the course as I encountered Hartford’s darker histories. Stevens describes the city as “a region full of intonings” (Stevens), a phrase that gradually became central to my understanding of Hartford itself. The city began to feel filled with hidden emotional layers beneath its quiet exterior. What once seemed empty now appeared saturated with voices, memories, and unresolved histories.

This became especially clear during our exploration of the Hartford Circus Fire through the play Circus Fire and the writings of Mary-Ann Tirone Smith. The tragedy transformed my perception of Hartford by showing how collective trauma can remain embedded within physical spaces long after public attention fades. I had traveled through Barbour Street many times without fully understanding why the area always seemed to carry a strange emotional heaviness. After learning about the fire, that feeling no longer seemed imagined, but connected to something historical that still quietly echoed through the neighborhood.

Several moments from Circus Fire remained haunting long after the performance ended. Mildred Cooke witnessing a child drown earlier in the day before later losing her own daughter in the fire created a devastating sense of inevitability. The repeated complaints about the oppressive heat also became deeply unsettling in retrospect, functioning almost like warnings preceding catastrophe. Perhaps most horrifying was the description of a mother’s fingers remaining attached to her child even after death. That image captured a bond that refused to separate even through unimaginable tragedy.

Another moment that stayed with me was the investigator’s reflection after the convictions connected to the fire. Although he was praised for helping hold people accountable, he still felt no real sense of accomplishment. His reaction revealed that some tragedies cannot truly be resolved through punishment because nothing can restore what was lost. Hartford’s history therefore began to feel less like a series of isolated events and more like emotional residue carried through generations.

At the same time, Mary-Ann Tirone Smith’s Girls of Tender Age presented Hartford through fragmented childhood memory rather than public spectacle. Smith reveals how trauma often exists indirectly through confusion, embarrassment, silence, and incomplete understanding. Her recollections of classmates mocking her autistic brother or her inability to fully understand certain experiences within her own household demonstrate how children absorb emotional realities they cannot yet explain.

When Smith writes, “I feel myself choke up but I don’t cry… I crush down the whimpering that tries to come out of my throat” (Smith), she captures a quiet emotional restraint that feels painfully authentic. She also portrays childhood misunderstanding with subtle humor, such as when students wearing sweatshirts labeled “HOOKER SCHOOL” fail to understand why adults laugh at the name. These moments make her perspective feel deeply human because the reader often understands more than the child narrator herself.

Unlike the immediacy of Circus Fire, Smith’s writing portrays trauma as something quieter and more internalized. Even her nightmares reveal emotional tensions she cannot fully articulate. When she screams “Stop, stop!” during the night, the reader senses fears extending beyond the specific incidents she consciously describes. This contrast between public tragedy and private emotional experience deepened my understanding of how Hartford’s histories continue existing in both visible and invisible ways.

The tour of the former G. Fox Building further connected these literary experiences to Hartford’s physical spaces. Walking through the building made history feel tangible rather than abstract. I found myself imagining the routines, conversations, and anxieties that once filled the store, especially on the day of the fire. At the same time, I also thought about the joyful moments Smith describes, such as riding the elevators with her brother.

Learning about G. Fox’s relatively progressive hiring practices, where Black employees were hired in visible positions, revealed Hartford as a city simultaneously shaped by inequality and attempts at social progress. The store itself became symbolic of Hartford’s complexity: modern yet historical, commercial yet personal, public yet deeply tied to private memory.

Jacques Lamarre’s reflections also resonated with me personally. Hearing about Lamarre’s journey from Rome to Hartford reminded me that life paths do not always unfold in straight or predictable ways. Like him, I find myself navigating uncertainty while slowly trying to discover where I fit, what matters to me, and what direction my own life may eventually take.

This connection made Hartford feel less distant and more personal to me. The city was no longer simply a place I observed from the outside; it became a place where questions about identity, purpose, memory, and belonging could unfold.

Elizabeth Park and CT Museum of Culture and History: Wallace Stevens

Wallace Stevens ultimately became the writer who most fully transformed the way I viewed Hartford. Learning that Stevens was considered a “late bloomer” in poetry resonated with me because it challenged the idea that creativity belongs only to youth. His life suggested that personal growth and artistic discovery can emerge at any stage of life. Unlike many writers whose work focuses heavily on political conflict or social collapse, Stevens often directs attention toward ordinary experiences: walking through Elizabeth Park, drinking tea on a cold day, or quietly observing the physical world. His poetry does not avoid complexity; rather, it challenges readers to think more carefully about what already surrounds them.

The introductions by Glen MacLeod helped guide my understanding of Stevens without limiting interpretation. I appreciated MacLeod’s approach. Rather than offering fixed explanations, he poses questions that encourage reflection. Stevens’ poetry often feels intentionally open-ended. In “Tea,” for example, MacLeod emphasizes the personal tone of the poem, but what stood out most to me was its warmth. Stevens transforms something as ordinary as drinking tea into an imaginative retreat from the cold, allowing the mind to wander toward warmth and distant places.

The poem unexpectedly connected me to my own childhood memories of growing up on a tropical island. I loved watching rainstorms and imagining raindrops bouncing along the pavement like tiny people playing in the rain. When Stevens writes that “the leaves on the paths / Ran like rats” (Stevens), I immediately returned to those memories. His imagery allowed me to merge my past experiences with Hartford’s colder environment. Living in Connecticut has often made me nostalgic for the warmth of home, especially during long winters and cold springs, so the poem’s movement between cold weather and imagined warmth felt deeply familiar.

The exhibit Drawn Here: Stories from Hartford’s North End similarly expanded my understanding of Hartford as a city shaped by overlapping histories and communities. The exhibit’s focus on migration, resilience, and cultural diversity reminded me of Stevens’ “Anecdote of the Jar.” In the poem, the jar becomes a focal point that transforms the surrounding wilderness simply through its presence. Likewise, the North End emerged through the exhibit as a defining cultural presence within Hartford itself.

When Stevens writes,

“The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild” (Stevens),

I began thinking about the historical evolution of Hartford’s North End, from Indigenous land associated with the Saukiog and Poquonocks to a neighborhood shaped by generations of immigrants and working families. Despite hardships, including tragedies such as the Hartford Circus Fire and economic struggles over time, the North End continues standing with dignity and visibility. Like Stevens’ jar, it “took dominion everywhere” by asserting its presence within Hartford’s broader cultural landscape.

Visiting Elizabeth Park while studying Stevens’ poetry created one of the strongest intersections between the physical and textual aspects of the course. Walking through the park allowed me to imagine Stevens observing the same landscapes across changing seasons. His poems “The Plain Sense of Things” and “The Snow Man” became especially meaningful because they reflected my own experience encountering winter for the first time.

In “The Plain Sense of Things,” Stevens writes,

“After the leaves have fallen, we return
To a plain sense of things” (Stevens).

At first, I struggled to articulate why winter felt so visually striking once I experienced it firsthand. When the trees lost their leaves and snow covered the landscape, the environment around me changed in ways I had not anticipated. Areas that had once been shaded or partially hidden suddenly became visible, and the brightness of the snow made everything feel exposed and unfamiliar. Stevens reflects on noticing that the greenhouse needed repair and that the chimney stood crooked within the winter landscape. For both Stevens and me, the world around us suddenly became visible in ways we had previously overlooked, especially during warmer seasons when foliage concealed imperfections.

As I reflected further on the poem, I realized that it extends beyond winter itself and explores the imagination confronting reality. “The Plain Sense of Things” became a bridge connecting me to my changing perception of Hartford. I was beginning to see the city more directly, without the assumptions and expectations that had once shaped my judgment.

This idea becomes even clearer in “The Snow Man.” Stevens refuses to remain trapped within despair. The poem challenges readers to confront winter honestly rather than resist it emotionally. “One must have a mind of winter” (Stevens), he writes, encouraging acceptance of reality as it exists rather than as we wish it to be. I then u understood that the wind blowing through winter trees is ultimately the same wind that moves through every other season. Winter itself was not attacking me; it simply existed. Stevens’ poetry taught me to observe rather than immediately judge.

The final line of “The Snow Man” particularly stayed with me:

“Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is” (Stevens).

At first, the line seemed abstract and difficult to grasp. Yet reading it repeatedly, I realized it connected directly to my experience of Hartford throughout the semester. When I first arrived in the city, I focused too heavily on what I thought was missing: crowds, noise, movement, excitement. I viewed Hartford through absence. Stevens gradually taught me to stop searching for what I expected the city to be and instead pay attention to what was actually there. Once I did, Hartford slowly came into focus.

By the end of the semester, Stevens’ work had fundamentally reshaped my understanding of Hartford and of literature itself. When I first began this journey, I expected Hartford to reveal itself through dramatic landmarks or obvious excitement. Instead, Stevens taught me that meaning often exists within quiet observation and careful attention. Poetry does not always require grand historical events or spectacular scenery. Sometimes it simply asks us to look more carefully at the ordinary world before us.

As I reflect on the Hartford Literary Journey as a whole, I realize that adjusting my literary lens afforded me a multidimensional view of the city. Through Hartford’s writers, historical spaces, museums, performances, and archives, I learned that places contain emotional and historical layers invisible at first glance. Hartford became a city of overlapping voices: Twain’s humor, Sigourney’s grief, Plato’s resistance, Stowe’s activism, Smith’s fragmented memories, and Stevens’ meditative reflections all continue echoing through its streets.

What once appeared silent to me now feels layered with memory, creativity, grief, resilience, and historical presence. The journey ultimately taught me that cities are not understood through spectacle or movement alone, but through attention. Hartford itself did not change over the semester; rather, I learned how to see it differently.

By the conclusion of the journey, I no longer saw Hartford as an empty city hiding from itself. Instead, I saw what Stevens described all along: “a region full of intonings” (Stevens).

Works Cited

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins. “The Yellow Wallpaper.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 18 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=385.

Hooker, Isabella Beecher. “The Constitutional Rights of the Women of the United States.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 18 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=75.

MacLeod, Glen. “Wallace Stevens (1879–1955): Giant of 20th Century Poetry.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 10 May 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?page_id=234.

Plato, Ann. Essays; Including Biographies and Miscellaneous Pieces, in Prose and Poetry. Introduction by James W.C. Pennington, Printed for the Author, 1841.

Plato, Ann. “The Natives of America.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 26 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=494.

Sigourney, Lydia Huntley. “Fall of the Charter Oak.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 5 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/.

Sigourney, Lydia. “Death of an Infant.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 26 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=503.

Smith, Mary Ann Tirone. “From Girls of Tender Age.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 2 May 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=91.

Smith, Mary Ann Tirone. “From Master of Illusion.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 2 May 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=90.

Stevens, Wallace. “Anecdote of the Jar.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 10 May 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=240.

Stevens, Wallace. “Of Hartford in a Purple Light.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 2 May 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=246.

Stevens, Wallace. “Tea.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 10 May 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=245.

Stevens, Wallace. “The Plain Sense of Things.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 10 May 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=251.

Stevens, Wallace. “The Snow Man.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 10 May 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=242.

Stevens, Wallace. “Vacancy in the Park.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 10 May 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=248.

Stowe, Harriet Beecher. “Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Excerpts).” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 18 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=257.

Twain, Mark. A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Hartford Literary Project, accessed 12 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=57&page=3.

Twain, Mark. “A Literary Nightmare.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 12 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=60.

Twain, Mark. “Glimpse of Hartford, 1868.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 5 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=49.

Twain, Mark. “Speech in Honor of Cornelius Walford, Hartford, 1874.” Hartford Literary Project, accessed 12 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=61.

Warner, Charles Dudley. Backlog Studies. Hartford Literary Project, accessed 12 Apr. 2026, https://hartfordlit.org/?p=472&page=3.

Tours and Teaching, Uncategorized

The Hartford Literary Journey: An Exploration of Hartford’s Most Influential Writers

September 7, 2026 Jeff Partridge

The Hartford Literary Journey: An Exploration of Hartford’s Most Influential Writers

By Olivia Tummescheit

Olivia Tummescheit is a native of West Hartford, proud product of home schooling, enthusiastic reader, and lover of Jane Austen. Olivia was a member of the first literature class to make use of this anthology, taught by Professor Jeffrey Partridge at CT State Community College Capital in the fall semester of 2025.

I had the pleasure this fall of taking the first Hartford Literary Journey with the excellent and inspiring tour guide Dr. Jeffrey Partridge. The seven stops on the tour took us all over Hartford to explore the writings and lives of famous Hartford writers from Mark Twain to Wallace Stevens, but the highlight of the tour was becoming acquainting with lesser-known Hartford writers Lydia Sigourney and Charles Dudley Warner, who were renowned in their own day but have lately fallen from favor. This amazing tour is an absolute must for Hartford residents and visitors and anyone with a scholarly interest in Hartford’s literature and history.

First Stop: A Literary Look at the Wadsworth Atheneum
The tour begins on a fall morning with a walk down Hartford’s Main Street to the Wadsworth Atheneum, Connecticut’s largest (and one of the United States’ oldest) art museums, open to the public since 1844. Here we get an overarching view of the coming destinations through reading pieces by Mark Twain, Lydia Sigourney, and Wallace Stevens and connecting each excerpt to pieces in the Wadsworth collection. While Mark Twain and Wallace Stevens are familiar names in the literary world, most of us have never heard of Lydia Sigourney, the poet who in her day was considered one of the most influential authors of the United States. Her elegy “Fall of the Charter Oak,” read in front of Brownell’s magnificent painting of the famous Connecticut oak, makes an unintentionally humorous counterpoint to Twain’s decidedly mischievous description of the tree’s importance in his “Glimpse of Hartford.” Mrs. Sigourney mourns the “loved wreck” of “the monarch of the plain…that brave old Oak…our tutelary tree” in nine sentimental rhymed stanzas (Sigourney, “Charter Oak”). Twain describes being shown various furniture made from the great Charter Oak and his own reactions ranging from gazing “with inexpressible solicitude” to finally just “I worshipped” (Twain, “Glimpse of Hartford”). Then he visits the Atheneum itself, where he finds still more pieces of the Charter Oak made into “a walking stick, a needlecase, a dog collar, a three-legged stool, a bootjack, a diner-table, a ten-pen alley, a tooth-pick, a—” (We get the idea, Mr. Clemens, thank you!) (Twain, “Glimpse of Hartford”). The excursion closes with Stevens’ “Of Hartford in a Purple Light,” bringing us a glimpse of 20th century Hartford with “the river, the railroad, the cathedral” (Stevens “Hartford”).

Second Stop: Nook Farm with Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner
The second stop on our literary tour is Mark Twain’s magnificent mansion on Farmington Avenue. The readings, unexpectedly, pair Mark Twain with his neighbor and contemporary Charles Dudley Warner, who – like Lydia Sigourney – was immensely influential in his day and is almost forgotten in ours. Everyone knows that Twain is both entertaining and insightful, but what a pleasant and charming surprise to discover Warner’s series of dialogues entitled Backlog Studies – named after the large log that supports the fire in a fireplace – that capture the spirit of conversations around the fire in their neighborhood of Nook Farm. Although Warner’s own house no longer stands, the Clemens library with its enormous carved mantelpiece above a cozy hearth is easily imagined as the backdrop for these lively conversations, and Twain himself plays a part in the Backlog Studies as “Our Next-Door Neighbor.” Warner’s writing is less flamboyant than Twain’s, but has a charm all its own. There is the gentle banter between Warner (“The Fire-Tender”) and his wife Susan (“The Mistress”); Warner, speaking of how households are run, says that “when the mistress is absent, this room…does not look at all like the same place; it is stiff, and seems to lack a soul. […] When she returns…the room is transformed. I couldn’t do it in a week.” Mrs. Warner replies, “That is the first time I ever knew a man admit he couldn’t do anything if he had time.” In another study, Warner describes himself “in the adjoining library, pretending to write; but it is a poor day for ideas. He has written his wife’s name about eleven hundred times, and cannot get any farther” (Warner, Backlog Studies: Third Study).

But besides their innate charm and humor, Warner’s Backlog Studies provide an illuminating commentary on my other two favorite authors from the tour, the literary sensations Harriet Beecher Stowe and Lydia Sigourney. Warner and his friends spend much of the dialogues discussing what the introduction to Backlog Studies calls “‘The Woman Question,’ that is, what role should women play in society?” (Golden, “Introduction to Backlog Studies”). One particularly relevant dialogue tackles the growing number of female authors in particular, but rather than universally condemning (or approving) the “prominence women have” in the production of “the literature of this day,” the friends discuss the nuances of what makes literature worth reading, whether these qualities are more often found in female or male authors, and what kinds of literature women tend to fail or succeed at, ending with Reverend Twichell’s defense of why “the novel is immortal” – because it deals with human nature (Warner, Backlog Studies: Sixth Study). While it’s easy to bristle at the sometimes condescending tone taken towards some (but by no means all) of the women writers mentioned, what stood out to me is rather the courtesy and thoughtfulness of the discussion. The debate turns on the quality of writing that women are producing; although the friends deem much of popular fiction written by women either “flavorless as water-gruel” or “immoral in tendency,” they acknowledge in contrast that “the foremost living writers of fiction are women” (Warner, Backlog Studies: Sixth Study). While modern readers may not evaluate literature on the same terms as the Nook Farm friends, especially with regard to morality, the debate over what makes literature worthwhile is still relevant today. Inside Mark Twain’s own home, the influence of his beloved wife Livy Clemens is felt in every room with the dual emphasis on elegance and comfort. It’s easy to think of Mark Twain as a solitary adventurer and genius making his own way in the world, but visiting Nook Farm is a reminder that he was deeply rooted in his family and a wider circle of friends who were a lasting influence on his writing. Livy Clemens in particular was her husband’s primary and most trusted editor as long as she lived, although not a writer herself. But there were other women in the Nook Farm circle who did write books – and one of them, a friend and neighbor of Livy, would set out to write a serial story and end up changing history.

Third Stop: Three Women Writers of Nook Farm
Our next stop introduces a trifecta of literary women with deep connections to Twain and Warner’s neighborhood and era: Harriet Beecher Stowe, her sister Isabella Beecher Hooker, and their great-niece Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Gilman, the most modern of the three, wrote the riveting novella “The Yellow Wallpaper,” capturing the gradual descent into madness of a woman who is quietly but surely stifled by her abusive husband. Isabella Beecher Hooker was an advocate for women’s rights, arguing in one of her many writings that the Constitution, if properly interpreted, actually guaranteed women the right to vote, and that continuing to deny women this right was unconstitutional. The star of this literary sisterhood, however, is unquestionably Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe with her 1852 anti-slavery novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin. This book “broke American publishing records” and was instrumental in winning readers to the abolitionist cause (Burgess, “Hartford’s Resident Celebrity”). Her Nook Farm house is painted an unobtrusive gray and stands behind a screen of trees, its interior furnished comfortably but not opulently – a thought-provoking contrast to Mark Twain’s flamboyant mansion just across the lawn. Mrs. Stowe’s home may be understated, but sparks fly in Uncle Tom’s Cabin as she tells the twin stories of Eliza fleeing to the north and Tom being sold down south. Her bestselling work of fiction collectively awoke the nation’s conscience to the actual evils of slavery around them, causing Lincoln to remark on meeting her, “So you’re the little lady that wrote the book that started this great war” (Burgess, “Hartford’s Resident Celebrity”).

What compels me most about Mrs. Stowe is the morally direct compassion and courage in her writing. In Uncle Tom’s Cabin she offers a moving variety of characters who react in different ways to the issue of slavery. Mr. Shelby’s uncomfortable “we men of the world must wink pretty hard at various things” and slave trader Haley’s callous “All I want is a livin’, you know” both work to condone slavery, but Mrs. Bird’s impassioned declaration that the law against sheltering runaway slaves is “a shameful, wicked, abominable law, and I’ll break it…the first time I get a chance; and I hope I shall have a chance, I do!” convinces her husband to shelter Eliza (Stowe, “Excerpts from Uncle Tom’s Cabin”). Although she portrays both men and women on either side of the slavery issue, Mrs. Stowe highlights several women in particular, including Mrs. Bird, Mrs. Shelby, and the unnamed woman on the ship in Chapter 12, who boldly speak up about the cruelty and injustice of slavery while the men around them are uncomfortably complicit in it. Mrs. Bird, convincing her husband to break the law he has voted for and to help Eliza in the name of Christian kindness, is a reflection of Mrs. Stowe herself, using a work of fiction – a novel – to convince the male-dominated society of the United States that slavery had to be abolished at all costs. Mrs. Stowe’s combination of a thrilling, well-crafted story with a fiery condemnation of injustice in general and slavery in particular make Uncle Tom’s Cabin well worth reading today.

On this second visit to Nook Farm, we had a chance to explore some of the historical archives relating to Mrs. Stowe and her contemporaries. After visiting Mrs. Stowe’s own house, we walked across the lawn to the Day House – another historic home that now houses the archives of the Stowe Center – where an archivist pulled out old maps and census records and diaries to give us a glimpse into the Victorian era. Getting to turn the pages of a diary from 1897 is an unforgettably tangible link to another time! But the archive tour was unforgettable for other reasons as well: it gave us a glimpse into the “hidden history” of Hartford’s black population in the 1800s. We saw the signature of Josiah Henson, the man who partly inspired Mrs. Stowe’s character of Uncle Tom but whose own story took an adventurous rather than a sacrificial turn; and we looked at a census record of black persons in Hartford that listed their names and ages and residence as well as, in neat and proper and unapologetic cursive, the names of their former masters. Seeing primary sources like this is a thought-provoking jolt from the past. That uncompromising dual history of Hartford residents continues into the next century, as we explore more fully in our next stop.

Fourth Stop: Take A Giant Step and Hartford’s Hidden History
Our fourth stop focuses on Louis Peterson and his 1953 play Take A Giant Step. Instead of traveling to a specific location, we explore Peterson’s Hartford through historic maps and census documents, Peterson’s old yearbook, and the 1959 filmed adaptation of Take A Giant Step. Watching the main character Spence struggle to chart the right course in Take A Giant Step is a moving glimpse into the hardship Peterson himself must have faced in Spence’s situation – cross-referencing the Hartford map and census records reveals that, like Spence, Peterson’s family was the only black family in their district. In Peterson’s old yearbook, flipping through the pages reveals photo upon photo of smiling or serious students; only three of them are black. But Peterson, like his character Spence, does not let this rough start hold him back. Even in the yearbook, his infectious grin leaps off the page; he went on to study at Yale and become a successful writer, actor, and professor. Although in the play Spence’s story ends on a note of unfulfilled hope, Peterson’s own life gives us a glimpse of the happy future Spence is striving for.

Fifth Stop: Lydia Sigourney and Ann Plato, Poets in Conversation
In the fifth stop we visit the 19th century again with a deep dive into poems by Lydia Sigourney and her contemporary Ann Plato, along with a close look at archival materials that relate to the two women writers. Ann Plato’s life is far less documented than Lydia Sigourney’s, but we get a glimpse into her life through the handwritten notes from a school inspector, praising her for her teaching skills, and through her own book of essays and poetry, published when she was just sixteen. Miss Plato’s advice to “young ladies…which are about my age” to “try and get your learning young” reflects her own personal experience: her determination to get an education at an early age, and her publication of a book as a teenager (Plato “Advice to Young Ladies”). Mrs. Sigourney, as Miss Plato’s far more famous and prolific contemporary, has far more surviving archives, ranging from letters of business to daguerreotypes to handwritten copies of her poems, written out for friends in elegant flowing cursive. However, her fame also brought tension to her marriage – especially when her husband’s failing businesses meant that her writing was supporting their family. The Connecticut Museum of Culture and History preserves a lengthy letter in its archives written by Mr. Charles Sigourney to his wife, expressing his affection for her and respect for her writing while at the same time voicing his concern for the toll her fame was taking on their marriage. It’s easy to blame him for not fully supporting his wife’s authorship, but the painstaking cross-outs and edits on nearly every line and the frequent references to his deep love and respect for his “beloved wife” tell their own story about the care and thought that Mr. Sigourney put into this message.

As a passionate advocate for women’s education, Lydia Sigourney opened a girl’s school with a friend when she was only twenty years old. During her time as a teacher, she taught not only girls from privileged white homes, but also African American and indigenous girls, and even the deaf girl Alice Cogswell, making her “the first known person in the United States to teach a deaf child how to read and write” (Cook, “Best-Selling Woman Author”). In her writing, Mrs. Sigourney continued her advocacy for victims of injustice, writing fiery poems on slavery such as “To The First Slave Ship,” where she exclaims that it would have been better for the first slave ship to “plunge…beneath the cleaving main” rather than begin the slave trade with its “stripes – tortures – unrelenting hate, / And death-gasps drown’d in slavery’s tears” (Sigourney, “Slave Ship”).

Over her lifetime, Lydia Sigourney holds an astonishing number of roles with dignity and compassion: teacher, poet, author, businesswoman, activist, mother, wife, and friend. The deeply affectionate obituaries and remembrances preserved in Trinity College’s archives speak to her success in filling all of these roles and winning love and respect from countless readers throughout America. Like that of Mrs. Stowe, Mrs. Sigourney’s writing style is quietly old-fashioned, but the two women share the same moral courage in speaking truth to injustice, a quality that will never be outdated.

Sixth Stop: Wallace Stevens and Elizabeth Park
The penultimate author of the tour is the famous modernist poet Wallace Stevens, who lived and wrote in Hartford from 1932 until his death in 1955. His house on Westerly Terrace, near Elizabeth Park, is not open to the public, but we stopped by to look at its exterior. Across from the house stands the thirteenth and last of the granite markers that mark the walk he took to work every morning; each stone is engraved with one stanza from his poem “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.” On the day that we visited, it had been snowing for several hours, and though it was early afternoon the sky already seemed to be dimming – which made it peculiarly fitting to read, on the snow-covered stone across from Stevens’ former home, “It was evening all afternoon. / It was snowing / And it was going to snow. / The blackbird sat / In the cedar-limbs” (Stevens, “Blackbird”). I think Stevens would surely have approved of such impeccably-timed literary text-painting!

Seventh Stop: Modern Hartford with Ocean Vuong
The final author of the tour brings us into our own century with the poetry and fiction of contemporary writer Ocean Vuong. Vuong’s prose and poetry brings to life a much grittier and more modern view of Hartford, yet still gives us occasional glimpses of beauty amid descriptions of “two a.m. gunshots” and “twenty bags of heroin” found under a passenger seat. In an excerpt from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous about taking a bike ride with his friend Trevor, the two boys suddenly see Hartford revealed as a “cluster of light” brimming with “a strange rare brilliance.” The wonder of the moment directly recalls Stevens’ “Of Hartford in a Purple Light” but also indirectly recalls the love for Hartford expressed in some way by each of the writers we encountered. Vuong’s writing rounds out the variety of authors that this journey explores and gives a glimpse into Hartford’s continuing legacy as a literary inspiration.

Dr. Partridge’s unique journey through Hartford’s writers will open your eyes to the literary treasures that Hartford is filled with, delighting your mind and refreshing your spirit with thoughtfully-selected gems of literature and poetry combined with physical locations, objects, and archives that illuminate the men and women who wrote such memorable words. This journey will leave you challenged and inspired by these amazing writers – you will never see Sigourney Street quite the same way again!

NB: I recognize that I made an unusual decision in referring to most of the authors by their last names, but choosing to call Lydia Sigourney “Mrs. Sigourney,” Ann Plato “Miss Plato,” and Harriet Beecher Stowe “Mrs. Stowe.” I decided for these three women either to write their full names, or to employ the title they used during their lives as seen in their archival materials (signatures on letters, references to them by other people, etc.). Given their dignity and elegance, it seems appropriate to me to avoid referring to these women in a way which in their lifetimes they would have considered a great impertinence.

AI Statement: AI was not used in writing this essay with the exception of a few Google searches to double-check some details regarding citations.