In coming here (to Delmonico's Hotel, York), on the 14th October, from New Haven, we stopped at Bridgeport, at a rather indifferent hotel, – that is to say, compared with the generality of the hotels in the United States. I believe it is near that town that the wellknown Mr. Barnum, of Tom Thumb and “woolly horse” notoriety, has his abode–his splendid abode, I fancy I may say, if the accounts generally given of it are correct.

We did not see Bridgeport to advantage, as it rained a good deal while we were there. Both V–– and I were quite sorry to leave the City of Elms, and our very kind friends Mrs. and Miss W––, and Mrs. D––, who had made our sojourn there so singularly agree able. I should think Bridgeport is a pretty place when you can see it, which we could scarcely do for the cascade-like rain during our short stay.

There was a poor Irish housemaid there who touched our feelings extremely : we had watched her with compassion in the pouring rain milking the cows, her gown-skirt over her head, crouched in the wet grass. When she came in with our tea we asked her some questions about her leaving Ireland, and she appeared delighted to talk about the “ould country;” ill off as she had been there. She seemed to think it the most beauteous and charming place on the face of the globe.