VII
New England is especially favored with many rivers, streams, ponds and lakes, and it is with never-ending admiration that one reflects on the ingenuity of the early settlers putting to practical use all of the water power. Throughout the whole region will be found hundreds of remains of water mill sites, small and large, and the settlers soon found ways of putting a harness on them for water power.
If the stream happened to be small, the early millwright built a dam across it and in no time he acquired a small pond. The higher the dam, the greater the head of water.
Where there were large rivers, you can now find tremendous power plants, textile mills and other manufacturing establishments all using this water power.
Most of us today, when we think of power, think of electricity, gas, or steam, but it is very simple to consider the water in an ordinary little stream and the amount of power it can deliver.
Although the machinery built by the early millwrights was a bit crude, nevertheless it was functional and worked with efficient success.
On a recent scouting trip George and I took through Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Connecticut, we visited a few restored mills. One of them was in Rowley, Massachusetts, just off the Main Road, called the “Jewel Mill”. Here an enterprising and resourceful chap had rebuilt the outside water wheel on a fairly small stream and he was driving a small D C generator supplying electricity to his house and to a small lathe shop. This, he told me, had been going on for five or six years without interruption. The lights were steady and there was no fuss, clamor, or noise. The onlything one heard was the splashing of the water over the wheel. His mill was so named because he was actually cutting and polishing small, local, semi-precious stones.
I find that there is a small group of enthusiasts who are gradually picking up and collecting all the old turbines they can find of ancient vintage, so if one wishes to invest in the future, he might consider picking up one of these old turbines which in a few years will be extinct.
Another interesting site we visited was John Goffe’s Mill near Manchester, New Hampshire. Having read with fascination George Woodbury’s tale of restoring this mill, we were very anxious to actually see it. Mr. Woodbury, a very learned gentleman, former archaeologist and now author, had performed a most remarkable job.
Another mill, farther along the trail, was in Alstead, New Hampshire, where Heman Chase was conducting a class in woodworking, the power being supplied by an old refinished turbine. Mr. Chase, in addition, is a land surveyor, a teacher of mathematics and the philosophy of Henry George, as you can see from his letterhead.
At Weston, Vermont, at the Artists’ Guild, will be found a real old mill where they are grinding corn and wheat and other grains.
Late the first night of this expedition, George and I holed up in a modern motel somewhere in New Hampshire. I was not quite prepared for George’s night attire. It seems he still wears an old fashioned nightshirt, split up on each side, and I got a bit of a start to observe this character climbing into bed with this on. George will deny this, but he also had on an old night-cap.
Coming home we went to Monson, Massachusetts, and there found all kinds of mill apparatus in various states of repair, gradually rusting out and disappearing into the ground. I was a little sad to observe how the owner was tenaciously clinging to his old way of life: his machinery, tools, and all the things he had collected all his life. But how his eyes did light up with enthusiasm when he learned we were attempting to restore our own mill.
A tall, gaunt man, weather-beaten, with hands that had known many a piece of machinery, he was a living figure of the old millwright and gave us a great amount of information on the revolutions per minute and various other facets of millwrighting.
Most of us think of antique things as so many curios and objects to be placed in museums to be passed by, but we do not realize how much better some of these things did work than the ones we buy today. For instance, I have a small hand garden trowel, forged perhaps fifty or sixty years ago, and it is much more practical than the new trowels on sale in the hardware stores. I have often wondered why they couldn’t make one like this rather than the ones on display but perhaps this kind would last too long and the factory would go out of business.
We did not find on our pilgrimage a turbine suitable for us, but we did find the brilliant foliage of the hills and mountains, the quiet patience of the roads, and the beauty of the small towns of New England.
A few weeks later our fast trip in upper New England paid off, for we heard by mail of a turbine that seemed might be just right for our purposes. Chuck Stanley gave us the loan of his truck and George and I, fortified by apacked lunch, hot coffee, and sandwiches, started out at 4:00 A. M. one Sunday morning for Livermore Falls, Maine.
There, we found on the side of a hill an old turbine weighing about two ton, and after poking about this monster we decided we could use it.
The task of loading this beast upon the truck seemed formidable, so we finally located a mountaineer who possessed an oversized auto wrecker, and backing our truck against a strategic hump on the side of the hill we proceeded to load the turbine on the truck. The wrecker hooked onto the turbine, but the turbine proved too much for it, so much so that it turned it over on its side.
A goodly crowd had by this time gathered to watch the operation, and enlisting the aid of some husky boys, we finally managed to push the wrecker back on its four wheels.
Friend George, in his unruffled manner, soon had the turbine on the truck, and we fell to the task of shoring it up with chunks of wood, plank and chalks. We could vividly imagine what would happen if this baby got away from us going down some mountain, so we took a long time in lashing it securely to the truck.
Of course, George could not let the day go by without shouting,
“Harold, where is the shingle?”
“Didn’t bring one,” I replied.
Then followed an impassioned speech by friend George from the tailboard of the truck to the assembled populace, extolling the virtues of shingles and decrying the negligence of the author in not bringing at leastoneshingle to Maine.