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CHAPTER 1
The Muddling Years
In the spring of 1836, a seventeen-year-old farm boy, Hiram Bissell, arrived at the Port of Hartford to begin a four-year apprenticeship in the masonry business. Inasmuch as overland travel was difficult and the railroad had not yet reached the city, the Connecticut River was the all-important connection to the outside world. With passengers, cargo and news washing in and out on the great tidal currents, people never lost sight of this symbiosis. Thus, from steamboat pilots to the denizens of the small river towns up and down the lush valley, the rapidly expanding city on the western bank of the river was, quite naturally, referred to as the Port of Hartford.
Bissell was a wiry young man, about five-nine or five-ten in height, and the oldest of six children born to Chester and Prudence Bissell, who farmed a ten-acre parcel in a remote section of South Glastonbury known colloquially as Shingle Hollow. This tiny corner of the town — snug against the eastern shore of the Connecticut River and six miles south of the Port of Hartford — was named for a sideline business of Bissell's grandfather, William Tryon. In addition to farming, Tryon harvested the large cedar trees that thrived in the gravely soil of the surrounding hills by cutting their trunks into two-foot bolts with a whipsaw and expertly splitting off shingles with a long-handled froe and wooden mallet.
Bissell's father, Chester, was originally from East Windsor but settled in Shingle Hollow after marrying Prudence Tryon, one of six children herself. Her father had a fondness for Chester Bissell and helped him — in the early 1820s — to build a small house in the hollow. The "Bissell place"— as it was referred to on deeds extending far into the twentieth century — was a bare bones, two story affair with a total of four rooms. Resting on a stone foundation, the wooden structure measured just sixteen by twenty-eight feet, and had a lone fireplace on the first floor to supply heat in winter. A crudely built shed affixed to the back of the dwelling sheltered the family's two milking cows.
The Bissells pushed this undersized house to the limits. Not long after William Tryon's death in 1825, Prudence's mother came to live with them. By 1833, when the Bissell's last child, Sylvester, was born, there were nine people shoehorned into this little matchbox. Confronted with such a crush of humanity, the idea that the older children might strike out on their own when they reached their majority could not have been far from the thoughts of Chester and Prudence Bissell.
When Hiram finished high school, he had some decisions to make. The overcrowded situation at home dictated that he waste no time making his way in the world. With just a high school education though, his choices were limited — continue farming or learn a trade. Bissell chose the latter. Blessed with an unfailing practicality and an enviable capacity for hard work, he undoubtedly would have done well no matter which course he had chosen, but farming meant land, which he could ill afford. That left the trades and a move to the Port of Hartford where, in an effort to eliminate disastrous, sweeping conflagrations, the state legislature had mandated at the beginning of the nineteenth century that only brick and stone buildings could be erected.
For a smart young man like Hiram Bissell, the move out of Shingle Hollow was a blessing in disguise. The Tryons of South Glastonbury were as ubiquitous as cow flaps in that little corner of Connecticut, and even "a forceful character" like Hiram might have gotten lost in the shuffle. People who knew Bissell described him as a man "whose advise was sought and whose opinions were respected." For such a young man, charting his own course, as time would eventually confirm, was the wiser choice.
Finding a position as a mason's apprentice had not been difficult. Two of Hartford's five masonry contractors were from South Glastonbury and one of the men, Eldridge Andrews, was the city's largest building contractor. Owing to Andrews's penchant for paying low wages, he was always in need of new hands. Seeking to bridge this never-ending gap in his labor force, he hired Bissell for a four-year apprenticeship.
In 1836, there were a little over 11,000 people living in the Port of Hartford but, compared to Glastonbury, it was a bustling colossus. The city proper was a mere three-quarters of a mile square, with the bulk of the townspeople living on the gently sloping, quarter mile strip of land between Main Street and the Connecticut River. Since deep water schooners and brigs could navigate no farther north, the Port of Hartford became a prosperous commercial center, carrying on a lucrative trading business with every major American seaport as well as those in Europe, Africa, and the West Indies.
Initially, the port was clogged with sailing ships of every description. Many of these ships were built in towns along the Connecticut River, including a few from shipyards along the banks of the river in Hartford, but by 1836 steamers were fast replacing the older vessels. For almost a quarter of a century — beginning in 1815 — steamboats enjoyed a unique monopoly. They were the most comfortable form of travel over long distances and moved passengers, raw materials and finished goods to other eastern seaports and foreign cities alike. Monopolies, however, have always been the incubators of competition and, over the powerful objections of the stagecoach and steamboat interests, the railroad came to Hartford in 1839. A decade later, the Hartford & New Haven Railroad connected to New York, enabling passengers and freight to reach all points east of the Mississippi River.
Bissell's arrival in the city could not have been better timed, for America was undergoing huge changes which would eventually play into his hands as a mason and builder. Small mills, run by waterpower and tucked in the hollows of rural Connecticut, were giving way to enormous manufactories powered by steam boilers, which would catapult production to levels never before imagined. These powerful, new steam boilers — sometimes given to catastrophic explosions because of a lack of relief valves — enabled small businesses to grow at unprecedented rates, allowing Hartford to blossom from a small backwater port into a highly efficient and productive commercial center.
One can imagine the mesmerizing effect that this bustling river port had on a farm boy from rural Shingle Hollow. At the river, more than twenty wharfs spread out like splayed fingers from the shores of the Connecticut River where thirty warehouses, owned by the city's largest merchants, were spaced out neatly along a quarter mile of the riverfront. Almost two thousand steamboats a year stopped at the Port of Hartford, creating a waterfront that roiled with seamen, dockhands, teamsters, traders, agents and travelers of every sort. While Hussar sailors tended their vessels, and white and free black dockhands offloaded cargo, passengers from every conceivable home port disembarked along the busy wharfs. The only two impediments to this fabulous trade were the prohibition against sailing on the Sabbath and the cold weather. In winter, the river froze or gathered enough floating chunks of ice to endanger vessels. As the Connecticut Courant reported in December 1836 —
... The river became completely filled with ice on Thursday night and it was with difficulty that ... the schooner Pacific [reached this city] yesterday afternoon. The river is full of floating ice so that no vessels can move ...
Just north of the wharfs was a covered toll bridge, about a fifth of a mile long, connecting the city with the farming enclave of East Hartford on the opposite bank of the river. Though there were dozens of ferries servicing smaller towns along the 410-mile length of the Connecticut River — from northern New Hampshire to Long Island Sound — this weather-beaten structure was one of only two public bridges across the river in the state. The Hartford Bridge sat atop six cut stone piers, the enormous pile of lumber sagging under the weight of heavily laden wagons and the sheer heft of its own timbers. Pedestrians crossed for a few cents, while a wagon pulled by a double team paid about fourteen cents and stagecoaches about twice as much. Inside, there were two roadways and a sidewalk for those on foot, the structure lighted with oil lamps every twenty feet. The sides of the bridge were partially open, allowing the river breezes to whip away the road dust and malodorous scent of horse droppings that collected inside the dank, cavernous expanse. A woman recalled taking the trip across the river in her youth and summed up the passage as "slow and tedious."
In the center of the city was the massive State House, completed in 1796, where Connecticut's General Assembly met every other year. Since the state government had yet to choose a single capital city — and would not for another four decades — the legislature assembled at the Port of Hartford only in the odd numbered years; the remainder of the time, they met in New Haven. The state house was a Federal style building overlooking the warehouses, wharfs and river. Serving as the centerpiece of a large, triangular yard that was surrounded by a black cast iron fence, it was bounded by Main Street on the west and Central Row on the south. Running along the north side — from Main Street to the river — was State Street, the widest and busiest commercial boulevard in the city. Collectively, the whole area was known as State House Square.
About a third of the way from Main Street to the river, Market Street jutted north from State Street. Filled with oxen, horses, carts and wagons, Market Street was a clamorous and exciting place, much like the waterfront. It was here that the endless din of deal making filled the air, as buyers and sellers met to haggle and dicker. Whether it was at the City Hall Market — located in the basement of City Hall, one block north of the state house — or in the open air of Market Street itself, restaurateurs, grocers, hotel agents and merchants set the price of every bushel of beans, pound of beef on the hoof, and keg of nails.
Taking up a large section of State Street on the north side of this square was the United States Hotel, which was the home-away-from-home for visiting legislators. Besides these lawmakers, out-of-town purchasing agents relaxed there as well, waiting for steamers, clients or other merchants to arrive. The cheapest room was a dollar a night. For the less well-heeled, there were two dozen other hotels and public houses nearby. Food and drink were readily available at a wide variety of older taverns and newly established restaurants, which met the needs of every purse and palate. A signature springtime meal was American shad, caught by the proprietors of small fishing businesses up and down the Connecticut River and served for twenty-five cents a plate, half the cost of beef or mutton.
While the open markets were an important point of exchange, the most prosperous merchants also had shops in State House Square. Their signs shocked the senses with their garish lettering and shameless boasts. Absent zoning laws, almost every square inch of wood, brick and stone carried advertisements trumpeting their goods and services. Merchants kept their shops open from sunrise until ten o'clock at night, slipping out for a quick dinner at noon and a similar repast in the evening. Trusted clerks managed the shops in their absences. With the whistle of riverboats, the shouts of dockworkers and the low din of shopkeepers, legislators, middlemen, jobbers and shoppers, State House Square was a kaleidoscope of noise and commotion. Hired hands herded cattle through the streets while stray dogs roamed freely and, tethered to posts around the expansive lawn of the state house were the horses, wagons and carriages of farmers and townspeople, all transacting business nearby. For most of the year, this constantly moving mélange of animals, people, carts, wagons and carriages kicked up a cloud of fine dust that settled on buildings, store awnings, stone walkways and the swirling mob of passersby with equal abandon.
The Aetna and Hartford Fire Insurance companies had erected impressive buildings in the square alongside the large brownstones of the Hartford Bank and the Exchange Bank. At street level were the shops of dealers in groceries, pastries, cast iron stoves, paints, dye stuffs, sperm oil, books, machinery, patent drugs, cigars and snuff. Housed on the upper floors of these buildings were the offices of an almost unending parade of attorneys, physicians, dentists, publishers, stationers, jewelers and bootmakers. Not to be forgotten in the profusion of rented space were brokers of real estate, lotteries, stocks and common exchange bonds.
Wedged in awkwardly on the south side of the square — and looking like Daniel in the lion's den — was the Universalist Church. Eerily quiet, this elegant, white clapboard structure with a large, open belfry astraddle its ridgepole had been built long before mammon ruled the square, when the town fathers envisioned a community where spirituality might be the handmaiden of business. The church, with its steeple towering above most other buildings in the crowded square, seemed to dominate when, in fact, it was resolutely ignored amidst the crush of commerce.
At the northwest corner of State House Square, there was a public well that supplied water to parched visitors and legislators (children called it "one-armed Billy"). Unlike Boston, New York, Philadelphia and Baltimore, all of which installed municipal pumps on street corners throughout their cities, the Port of Hartford settled for this one pump in State House Square and a couple of smaller ones along Main Street. Alternative to this facility, a thirsty shopper or traveler could ask permission to use a private well at a residence on a side street or drink freely from the waters of the Connecticut River.
The hurly-burly atmosphere and the jostle of crowds were only two of the many differences between the city and the country to which Bissell would have to adjust. His first lodging was at the boardinghouse of a widow, Mary Buckley, who lived on Trumbull Street. His employer, Eldridge Andrews, probably facilitated this arrangement, for he lived a little to the north, on the same lane. Mary Buckley's home was a tumbledown affair that housed herself, her three daughters and eight tradesmen, including Bissell. Also lodging at the same boarding house was another of Andrews' South Glastonbury apprentices and Bissell's cousin, Henry Tryon. (Since Bissell and Tryon were of the same age and from the same town, it is entirely possible that they started in the masonry trade together, although this is only conjecture. Nevertheless, it does suggest that Bissell was not completely alone and adrift in the Port of Hartford.)
Typically, room and board arrangements at the time entitled a roomer to a single bed in a shared room, a light breakfast, and a plate of simple food at suppertime, usually stew. Quite naturally, accommodations also included the use of a privy at the back of the property and water for washing and drinking — hand pumped to the kitchen from a shallow well near the house. Baths were taken at facilities like Mr. Hartshorne's warm shower baths in the western part of the city.
In fairness, Bissell's lodging arrangements with Mary Buckley were deluxe compared to the dismal tenements that most unskilled workers inhabited. Crammed together amidst the tanneries, dye works and slaughterhouses along the north bank of the Little River — a filthy tributary of the Connecticut that meandered easterly through the city — they were dingy, overcrowded and oppressive places. Bissell's new neighborhood was a cut above that. However, the cost of his room and board took every cent of his pay, forcing him to adapt to an extremely constricted social life while he learned his trade. His spare time though was not completely wasted. All the while, he soaked up the warp and weft of the city, particularly the business and municipal affairs of his newfound home.
Trumbull Street — named after Connecticut's Revolutionary governor, Jonathan Trumbull — was one block to the west of Main Street. It ran parallel to it until, in its upper reaches, it swung to the east and connected with Main, a stone's throw north of State House Square. Trumbull was like all of the residential streets of Hartford in that private homes were interspersed with small shops and businesses. Neighborhoods were, by turns, fashionable, then undesirable, only to revert back a few decades later. Some streets had reputations that defied change, like Nichols Lane — called Hotel Row — the city's notorious red light district, where dingy rooms rented for ten cents a night, and Ferry Street, teeming with unsavory "flag taverns" or sailors' haunts. These streets, however, were the exception. Flux was the order of the day, and that was Trumbull Street's lot now. There were other builders and tradesmen on Trumbull Street besides Bissell's employer and his fellow boarders, but mostly the residents were white-collar workers. Printers, tailors, jewelers, grocers and ministers made their homes on the lane, but also there were the shops of bonnet makers, joiners and rule makers. Halfway along the quarter-mile street, Miss Draper prepared young women for life in the top echelons of society at her Female Seminary, insisting that her students speak only French during the school day.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Water for Hartford"
by .
Copyright © 2004 Kevin Murphy.
Excerpted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.
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