The result of this ample charter, this liberty of self-government, was a social condition so nearly approaching to the Utopia of philosophers, and the golden age of the poets, that we must be allowed to dwell somewhat at length upon the beautiful and refreshing picture. It stands almost alone in the history of man. The institutions of Connecticut being almost perfected by this charter, nearly a century elapsed before any event took place which demands the historian’s notice. But its progress during this time was of healthy increase, its population doubled every twenty years, and its history was a picture of colonial happiness and prosperity. “To describe its condition,” says Bancroft, “is but to enumerate the blessings of self-government by a community of farmers who have leisure to reflect, who cherish education, and who have neither a nobility nor a populace. Could Charles II. have looked back upon earth, and seen what security his gift of a charter had conferred, he might have gloried in an act which redeemed his life from the charge of having been unproductive of public happiness. The contentment of Connecticut was full to the brim.” Connecticut and Rhode Island were examples of what a truly Christian commonwealth may become; greater than the Pilgrim states, because they understood and practised the milder Christian virtues of forbearance and love. Persecution had no home in these states. Roger Williams was ever a welcome guest at Hartford, and “that heavenly man,” John Haynes, at Providence. “I think, Mr. Williams,” said this modern St. John, addressing his Christian brother, “that the most wise God hath provided and cut out this part of the world as a refuge and receptacle for all sorts of consciences.” Happy Connecticut! “No enemy,” we are told, “was within her borders, tranquillity was within her gates, and the fear of God within her heart.” Nor was this a mere poetical image; for many years the public security was so great, that locks and bolts were unknown; the best house had no firmer fastening to its doors than a simple latch. At the risk of dwelling, perhaps, a little too long on this portion of our history, we must give a picture of life which is as quaint and beautiful as any Arcadian poem that ever was written.