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HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE

NO. XXVI.--JULY, 1852.--VOL. V.




[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW.]

THE ARMORY AT SPRINGFIELD

BY JACOB ABBOTT


SPRINGFIELD.

The Connecticut river flows through the State of Massachusetts, from
north to south, on a line about half way between the middle of the
State and its western boundary. The valley through which the river
flows, which perhaps the stream itself has formed, is broad and
fertile, and it presents, in the summer months of the year, one widely
extended scene of inexpressible verdure and beauty. The river meanders
through a region of broad and luxuriant meadows which are overflowed
and enriched by an annual inundation. These meadows extend sometimes
for miles on either side of the stream, and are adorned here and there
with rural villages, built wherever there is a little elevation of
land--sufficient to render human habitations secure. The broad and
beautiful valley is bounded on either hand by an elevated and
undulating country, with streams, mills, farms, villages, forests, and
now and then a towering mountain, to vary and embellish the landscape.
In some cases a sort of spur or projection from the upland country
projects into the valley, forming a mountain summit there, from which
the most magnificent views are obtained of the beauty and fertility of
the surrounding scene.

There are three principal towns upon the banks of the Connecticut
within the Massachusetts lines: Greenfield on the north--where the
river enters into Massachusetts from between New Hampshire and
Vermont--Northampton at the centre, and Springfield on the south.
These towns are all built at points where the upland approaches near
to the river. Thus at Springfield the land rises by a gentle ascent
from near the bank of the stream to a spacious and beautiful plain
which overlooks the valley. The town is built upon this declivity. It
is so enveloped in trees that from a distance it appears simply like a
grove with cupolas and spires rising above the masses of forest
foliage; but to one within it, it presents every where most enchanting
pictures of rural elegance and beauty. The streets are avenues of
trees. The houses are surrounded by gardens, and so enveloped in
shrubbery that in many cases they reveal themselves to the passer-by
only by the glimpse that he obtains of a colonnade or a piazza,
through some little vista which opens for a moment and then closes
again as he passes along. At one point, in ascending from the river to
the plain above, the tourist stops involuntarily to admire the view
which opens on either side, along a winding and beautiful street which
here crosses his way. It is called Chestnut-street on the right hand,
and Maple-street on the left--the two portions receiving their several
names from the trees with which they are respectively adorned. The
branches of the trees meet in a dense and unbroken mass of foliage
over the middle of the street, and the sidewalk presents very
precisely the appearance and expression of an alley in the gardens of
Versailles.


THE ARMORY GROUNDS.

On reaching the summit of the ascent, the visitor finds himself upon
an extended plain, with streets of beautiful rural residences on every
hand, and in the centre a vast public square occupied and surrounded
by the buildings of the Armory. These buildings are spacious and
elegant in their construction, and are arranged in a very picturesque
and symmetrical manner within the square, and along the streets that
surround it. The grounds are shaded with trees; the dwellings are
adorned with gardens and shrubbery. Broad and neatly-kept walks, some
graveled, others paved, extend across the green or along the line of
the buildings, opening charming vistas in every direction. All is
quiet and still. Here and there a solitary pedestrian is seen moving
at a distance upon the sidewalk, or disappearing among the trees at
the end of an avenue; and perhaps the carriage of some party of
strangers stands waiting at a gate. The visitor who comes upon this
scene on a calm summer morning, is enchanted by the rural beauty that
surrounds him, and by the air of silence and repose which reigns over
it all. He hears the distant barking of a dog, the voices of children
at play, or the subdued thundering of the railway-train crossing the
river over its wooden viaduct, far down the valley--and other similar
rural sounds coming from a distance through the calm morning air--but
all around him and near him is still. Can it be possible, he asks,
that such a scene of tranquillity and loveliness can be the outward
form and embodiment of a vast machinery incessantly