USA > Massachusetts > Hampden County > Picturesque Hampden : 1500 illustrations > Part 12
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In time, I crossed a level, open expanse of upland with a charming view across the fields of the blue hills in the far west, and at its further borders, where grew a thick skirting of trees, dipped down into the valley of the Westfield. The valley here widens out into a vast expanse of fertile meadows, and in the midst is Westfield town. You get an attractive view of it from the hill here. Its age and the richness of its soil is witnessed by the thick-growing elms which so envelop it that you can glimpse hardly more than the spires of the churches and an occasional roof-top.
As you drive through Elm street, which is the chief business thoroughfare of the town, one is impressed that while the place appears to be a thriving manu- facturing center, its energies seem concentrated in a single industry -that of whip making. Indeed, the casual visitor carries away the impression that about every other building in the busi- ness portion of the town is a whip shop.
The two railroads which pass through the place give it un- commonly good connections with the world outside, and the little
PLOWING AT SUNRISE.
ON THE HILL.
Over the crest of the hill in the gray light of the dawning, Over the crest of the hill, the old man and young man go, Lo, all the Kingdoms of earth, and all the glory of them Glitter and shine before them in the misty vale below ! The heart of the young man leaps as he stops on the hard-won height, While city, and town, and river, burst on his longing sight :-
"Oh, were I there, among men, I would struggle nor ever tire Till I plucked the flower, Success, full-blown from the bud, Desire I would succeed, I know it, and here I must work like a slave Till old, and labor-worn, I drop into my grave!"
The old man smiles, " In youth such thoughts perhaps were mine ; There is crime and want and woe beneath that glitter and shine ; If you win success, (and one will succeed where hundreds fail), Bitter the struggle and long, many the foes that assail. It is better to have your own home, and that on your own bit of land Serving only Earth, our mother, who pays with liberal hand ; And gaining comfort and plenty for yourself and for your own, You ought not on your farm to envy a king on his throne. Nay, the farmer on his farm is the peer of all the kings ! He holds the world's true secptre, he touches the hidden springs !"
JULIA TAFT BAYNE.
CORN HUSKING TIME.
river which cuts it in twain furnishes a considerable water power for the mills in the town or on the outskirts. Along the stream are many pretty bits of scenery. A short walk above the bridge at the center is a low meadow that is quite delightful. It is cut up into pastures close cropped by the grazing cows; two or three lily ponds sleep in the hollows, and there is a pleasant scattering of trees about the fields, while far off in the west are the gracefully out- lined hills.
Follow down Elm street from the depot to the heart of the town and you come to a hand- some park of thick-planted elms which throw into deep shadow a large fountain in their midst. The trees are tall and slender columned and expand above in an almost solid mass of foliage. Within the shadows it is pleas- ant to sit on the settees or the convenient curbing of the foun- tain and doze or meditate and look out upon the sun-lighted buildings of the town which wall in the square.
Westfield has an unusual number of handsome streets lined with well-grown elms. Four of these I would men- tion particularly - Broad street, Court street, Franklin street, and Main street. These shadowed aisles, which the great elms overarch, are particularly grate- ful during the hot days of sum- mer. The old elms bespeak Westfield as one of the pioneer towns of Western Massachu- setts, and the place holds many old-time residences which further corroborate this inference. Per- haps the most interesting of these is the old tavern on the outskirts of the village where Main street approaches the open fields to the east. Here the British General Burgoyne stopped over night in the time of the Revolution. It is a hand- some, high-shouldered building shadowed by one or two big elms. Its front entrance is an interesting specimen of the elaborate woodwork early archi- tects were fond of lavishing on the front doors, and there is besides a decorative cornice beneath the eaves.
The town's best streets are lined with numerous comforta- ble homes. They are well built, attractive and commodious, but they rarely lay claim to much architectural pretension. On Broad street is the new normal school building, im- mense in size, yet of massive and handsome architecture that gives it a monumental character very much in keeping with its educational purpose. South of here, just beyond the confines of the thickly settled town streets, is as fine a village man- sion as is to be found in the
88
PICTURESQUE HAMPDEN.
A MOUNTAIN BROOK.
ALONG THE WESTFIELD.
water after flowing over the dam went on in a wild series of plunges over an immense mass of water-worn rocks that choke up the wide ravine. This point in the stream has the name of Salmon Falls, though its right to the title is not of the present, but dates back to the fabled fishing days of yore. An iron bridge spans the stream where the chasm narrows and the foaming waters make their final plunge into a quiet pool below. The bridge is at a dizzy height in the air, not to be matched by any
HIGH BRIDGE -FAIRFIELD.
county. It is the residence of J. A. Crane, the paper maker, a large, brownstone dwelling of varied yet harmonious design, in the midst of a broad expanse of well-kept lawn.
On the June day of my visit, after wandering about the town for some time, I took the road up the Westfield river. Nature became more rugged as I pro- ceeded, the road grew more hilly, the granite mountain masses began to lift themselves into prominence, and the stream in the hollow lost its quiet and sent up rippling murmurs from its stony bed. At Fairfield the region became very striking in its picturesqueness. In a lit- tle basin of the valley here, hem- med in by the giant mountain ridges, is a big paper mill, and about it a small village on the irregular hillsides. Above was a wide-spreading pond, and the
MOUNT TEKOA.
A FAIRFIELD ROADWAY.
like structure in the county. North of the stream is an old house which repays a visit. It was built in the days when Massachusetts was a colony of Great Britain. It is a low-roofed dwelling with a great stone chimney, and within is an open fireplace which has never been blocked up with bricks and mortar as is apt to be the case in these old houses which retain their big chimneys.
The next place which the winding road up through the woods and fields of the valley brought me to was Russell. The village was almost hidden by the heavy leafage of its maples. The valley widens here into a low level of perhaps a half-mile circumference, bound- ed, except where the stream cleaves its way, by wooded hills and rough mountain slopes, and here stand the village houses,
89
PICTURESQUE
OLD HOUSE -FAIRFIELD.
and on the banks of the stream a single big mill. Another short drive west along the stream brings the traveler to a hamlet of mill houses clustered about a big paper mill at the place known as Crescent Mills. Here I turned back. Evening was approaching and the sun, hanging low over the western hills, had lost its midday heat, and in the woods the cool damps of the night were already gathering.
About sunset I drew up before the long piazza of the "Four Mile House," on the borders of the township of Westfield, its distance from the town center being indi- cated by its name. The landlady sat in the doorway looking over an evening news- paper. The landlord was visiting at a neighbor's, but one or two calls brought him across the street, and the horse and I presently had supper. That disposed of, I betook myself to the piazza, where a group of three or four were discussing politics. The leading spirit of this group, by which I mean the one who had the surest man- ner and the most vigorous tones, held discourse between puffs at his pipe, to the effect that there was no earthly, doubt but that Harrison would be elected. He said that talk about civil service reform was humbug. He believed that "to the victors belong the spoils." For mugwumps
A STREAM IN THE WOODS.
HAMPDEN.
he said he had no kind of respect-they were just disgruntled republicans turned democrats because they wanted office. He confessed that in town affairs, where he knew the man, he voted for the one he thought best, inde- pendent of party lines. He did the same in state affairs, though less often, because it was more difficult to get definite knowledge. That seemed to lay him open to the charge of mugwumpism, but he declared that in national matters he stuck to his party through thick and thin, so I suppose he will be saved at last.
"That's a first-rate good fellow," said one of our company, when this chief
THEIR OWN DOGGIE.
of the arena left, " but he's pretty red hot on politics."
Next morning just at daylight we had a little shower, but though the day continued clouded there were signs of clearing and I concluded I might continue my picture quest after breakfast. While my host was attending to his stock at the barn, I took a walk about the place. Two or three houses besides the tavern are all there is to the village, which number seems not even to warrant the dignity of a name, unless it is desig- nated by the doubtful title of " Madagascar," a christening it received in times past from certain drunken stage drivers who used to carouse here. What significance that particular title has it would be hard to say. The village has a de- lightful situation high up on the hill-slope above
METHODIST CHURCH -RUSSELL.
THE FALLS AT THE CRESCENT MILLS.
90
PICTURESQUE
RUSSELL -BAPTIST CHURCH.
A STATIONARY SAWMILL.
the river, and across the valley rises the high, handsome spur of Mount Tekoa. This morning the mists were trailing about its summit, but at times lifted while a mellow patch of sunlight drifted over the landscape.
At eight o'clock I took the steep road to the south. I planned to see one of the "Washington
UP THE WESTFIELD RIVER.
HAMPDEN.
taverns " a mile up the road. Hampden county is a famous place for these Washington taverns, for the father of his country seems to have been a leisurely traveler, and every place where he stopped over night has taken his name. Westfield, Springfield and North Wilbraham have each one of these taverns, and though all are grey and weatherworn with their century's battle with the elements, all are in a fair state of repair and still have families liv- ing in them. This one in Westfield I found particularly interesting. It is one of the square, high, old-fashioned buildings fronting an open yard, with a variety of quaint sheds and barns just above. An ox team stood in the yard, and a second ox team was in the open doorway of the barn, attached to a cart that was being loaded with hay. The house, within doors, retained much of the form and flavor of its olden-time newness. There was the great chimney filling up as much space as a small-sized room, odd closets, quaint hinges and latches on the doors, paneled woodwork in nearly every room, and up stairs open fireplaces and walls of hard finished plaster elaborately decorated in
AN OLD PICTURE OF THE CRESCENT MILLS.
The following advertisement appeared in connection with this picture as a circular about 1840 :
The above is a view of the Great Falls on Westfield River, in the town of Russell, Massachusetts, twenty miles west of Springfield, and within four hours' travel of Albany, six of Boston, and nine of New York. The Western Railroad runs within a few rods of the Falls.
The water power at this place is very great, there being a fall of from thirty or forty feet, and all of the water sufficient for three largest class Cotton Mills, can be used for manufacturing purposes.
The bed and banks of the river here are composed of white coarse-grained granite and slate rock, and large mills could be built on solid rock foundation.
The whole of the water power incInding a Grist Mill, Dwelling House, and about 180 acres of land for sale on favorable terms, by
CYRUS W. FIELD. No. 9 BURLING SLIP, NEW YORK.
ON THE EDGE OF THE WOODS.
91
PICTURESQUE HAMPDEN.
AGAWAM-THIRSTY SCHOOL CHILDREN.
CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH.
colors. I visited the simple corner room which Wash- ington occupied so long ago, and climbed the stairs to the great garret under the angle of the roof. Here were treas- ures in the way of decrepit furniture, spinning wheels, old crockery, etc., and my attention was called to the fact that the roof of the house had formerly beneath the shingles a lining of birch bark, shreds of which still remained here and there. The bricks of the big chim- ney were laid in clay instead of mortar, and its sides were streaked with muddy oozings loosened and carried down by the coursing of the rain- drops. Lastly, I was shown the big cavern of the cellar and saw the massive founda- tion of great stones on which the chimney was reared, and found out where the choice liquors of the place in its tavern days were stored, and where were kept the hogs- heads of cider rolled in at the wide hatchway. At the
THE AGAWAM RIVER.
back door, the old-time flavor of the place was kept intact by a great well-sweep. Itseemed to me that water drawn from the depths by such a poetic institution must taste quite superior to that we get from our prosaic pumps, and I asked the privilege of a draught from the "old oaken bucket which stood by the well." But the water proved limy, and one or two swallows were sufficient to quench my thirst and dissolve the poetry of the situation. The man of the house said you had to get used to it before you liked it-that for his part he much preferred it to the ordinary "hard" spring water.
A short drive up the road, I was told there was "a won- derful dry bridge," immense- ly high over a great ravine. Before this was built people had to go over the mountain by climbing up a rude path over the rocks that, in one place, had been chiseled out into steps. I was told that General Burgoyne came over this mountain path and rode down these steps on horseback. I determined to visit so romantic a spot without delay. The road had taken a steep up- ward incline, skirting a high hillside, where, below in the deep-wooded valley, were shining reaches of a mountain brook. I continued to climb the hill for
BAPTIST CHURCH.
A BROAD BROOK BRIDGE.
92
PICTURESQUE HAMPDEN.
AGAWAM SCHOOL BUILDINGS.
some distance, but saw nothing of the bridge I sought, and which I was all the time expecting to see reach away in a high span across some cavernous ravine. The road left the open hillside and went on in steep ascent through the green woods. It now began to rain, and things looked discouraging. Presently 1 concluded I must have taken the wrong road, and turned back. I took the only side road I had seen, and that brought me to a pair of bars. The dry bridge was, I knew, on a traveled highway that would not be blocked by pasture bars,
A POND ON THE ROAD TO FEEDING HILLS.
OLD HOUSE-SOUTH AGAWAM.
and I with difficulty turned about in the narrow path and took the uphill road once more. I saw no sign far or near of the dry bridge I had in mind, but luckily I had not toiled far up the road in the woods when I met a team. The driver informed me the bridge was back the road a piece. I made haste to turn about and follow him. After a little he looked around and said, "There's your dry bridge !" I cast my eye about the landscape, and, discerning nothing in the nature of a bridge, asked, "Where?" Thus it came about that I learned that the dry bridge was simply an earthy rampart built along the high hillside, with a rock wall on one side and a strag- gling, single-railed fence on the other to prevent the unwary from rolling down the
A PASTURE CORNER NEAR THE PORTER PLACE.
A ROADWAY VIEW BELOW THE VILLAGE.
declivity. The man said if I wanted to make a picture of it I had better get it from down in the ravine. I looked down the long, ragged slope below and declined the privilege. The shower was now over and I made a view of the outlook into the valley. Then I made search for Burgoyne's steps, but those were as hard to find as the dry bridge, and I gave it up and betook myself to Westfield by way of the " Boulevard."
SCHOOL BUILDING - FEEDING HILLS.
93
PICTURESQUE HAMPDEN.
METHODIST CHURCH -FEEDING HILLS.
AGAWAM, FEEDING HILLS, SOUTHWICK, GRANVILLE AND TOLLAND.
On a brisk, sunlit day near the end of September, I started out from Spring- field, armed with camera and sketchbook, with intent to travel through western Hampden and search out its picturesque possibilities and study its characteristics. I had a short, yellow-painted buck-board for a vehicle and a stout horse for motive power, and as I carried the camera on the seat beside me and various other paraphernalia were in sight, it was apparent to all observers that some sort of a serious undertaking was on hand. Whether I was a ped- dler, agent or a traveling showman seemed to be uncer- tain. I was many times asked what I had to sell. In the neighborhood of the cities, the nature of the camera was more readily understood, and all the children of the dis- trict I happened to be in would follow me with requests
SUMMER.
with most of us, is alive in an imaginary need to be chewing, eating or having something running down one's throat a good share of the time. I suppose that the habit of chewing and smoking tobacco, and the drinking of liquors is a good share of it due, especially to begin with, to this physical uneasiness, which craves some sort of mild and, in waking hours, almost unceasing occupation. At any rate, grown people's motives are not so very different from children's, and if you find the source of one you have found it of the other.
CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH.
Two or three miles down the road, after leav- ing the long street of the chief village, is South Agawam. It lies in a prettily broken hollow where runs a little stream. Two or three of its old houses with gambreled roofs and big chimneys, lying low under the tall trees which shadow them, are quite interesting; but its most strik- ing feature, both to eye and nose, is an old dis- tillery. Beyond the stream on the rise of the hill is a little church.
I returned to Agawam and drove across the attractive looking farming country to Feeding Hills. From the name I would expect a very scattered community of farmhouses, each in
WINTER.
like those of all the older country towns right through New England. Lines of well-kept farmhouses and two white churches are half lost among the trees, and centrally situated were one or two stores and a two-story brick school build- ing. It was recess time and the yard was full of children running about. Next to the highway under the second line of elms, was a big watering trough which was visited by numerous delegations of the pupils, who found the water not only use- ful for drinking purposes but very good to play with. Which was the prime ob- ject I cannot say. Perhaps it was thirst. Any one who has taught knows that our public school children are about the most thirsty creatures made. " Please may I get a drink ?" is the familiar and oft-recur- ring refrain. It may be the dryness of the studies that causes this unnatural thirst, or simply uneasy human nature, which,
IN THE FIELDS.
to have their pictures taken. In the farming regions the machine was apt to suggest surveying. But the oddest notion was that 1 was selling accordions. This arose from the sight of the bellows arrangement on the camera for its extension. Several requests came from small vil- lage boys for a tune, which, of necessity, had to be disap- pointed.
A short drive across the low levels of West Springfield brought me to an old wooden bridge which crossed a little river to Agawam. Soon I entered the wide, elni- lined village street, which, in its main features, was very
A GLIMPSE OF THE CONGAMOND LAKES.
the midst of its own fields and wide- spreading pastures. But the title claims quite a village, with two churches, some stores, and a good-sized brick school building in its midst. There are varied trees growing thickly along the pleasant, rolling street, and the place gave the im- pression of holding a good deal of quiet comfort.
From here I went across the plains, and through the various patches of wood- land that closed in the winding roads to Congamond ponds. The largest pond is quite a lake, with irregular, wooded shores, and in the season is enlivened by many pleasure seekers who make this a resort for picnics. But the hot days which set humanity panting for shady woods and the cool expanse of water were now past. The pond was deserted; its blue waves dashed with a lonely ripple about the low wharf where the little steamer makes its
94
PICTURESQUE HAMPDEN
CONGAMOND LAKES.
AT THE FORD.
landing ; a few rowboats were fastened to the trees growing close to the shore, and rocked idly on the tossing waters. In the grove above, the windows of the buildings were boarded up and it was plain that the bottled soda and small beer had ceased their flow for that season.
I took the road which led along the edge of the water, and, like a low causeway, passes between two of the ponds, and then ascended the little hills beyond. Southward could be seen several sheets of water linking away into the distance where, far off, a handsome mountain overlooked them. I passed through the little village of Congamond, just as evening approached. The sun was at the horizon. Its light glowed softly on the broad, white front of the church, which stood lonely on a low ridge, with no protecting trees to shelter it. On farther was a small farmhouse, also brightened by the soft sunset light, from which a wreath of smoke was stealing up into the quiet air. In the cool autumn sky were a few scattered cloudlets, whose edges were begin- ning to catch the rainbow tints of sunset. I pushed on to Southwick and there spent the night.
Morning came, bright and cool, and the sun rose and set all the little lances of the frost on the grasses to sparkling and made the earth quite radiant. Southwick has a winding street with many handsome elms shadowing its homes that make it a very pretty village. I soon left for Granville. The country became more steeply rolling as I proceeded, and
Hinsdale Smith Jr.
A DOORYARD.
when I reached Granville Corners, the hill rising west of the village seemed quite mountainous in size and steepness. A tiny roadway could be glimpsed at intervals climbing its steep height, and on its summit were diminutive houses, trees and a church in delicate out- line against the sky. The Corners is a numerous village, lying in an irregular basin low among the hills. A toy manufactory, known as " The Drum Shop," is its chief center of industry. I climbed the western hill and was quite delighted with the little village at its summit. A narrow plateau crowns the slope and gives com- fortable room for the group of houses and the little church. Once "Granville Hill" was the chief center of life and prosperity in the town, and its church, each Sunday, gathered in the farmers for miles about; but the currents of life for the last half century in New England have tended to flow away from the old-time settle- ments on the hill-tops, and to concentrate in the valleys, where the busy manufactories lift their many-windowed walls along the streams. So Granville Hill has declined in number of homes and inhabitants, and has lost something of the prestige of earlier
AN AUTUMN SUNSET - CONGAMOND CHURCH.
PICTURESQUE
95
A WATER LANE - SOUTHWICK PONDS.
times, but the great, quiet hill-top, so high lifted above the rest of the world into the pure air of the skies, it has still, unchanged.
The road to the west at once dipped steeply into a little valley. Beyond lay another great hill. About this time it became necessary to change my plates. My holders held twelve plates. When I had caught that number of pictures, by exposing each in turn, I was obliged to find some place where I could change them in absolute darkness. On such occasions I would stop at some farmhouse by the way and explain the situation and ask the privilege of using some closet for a few minutes, or the cellar, if that was light-proof. Usually this request was cheerfully complied with,
though they commonly thought their closets would be too dark, and invariably apologized because they were so crowded and "mussed up." But I could change my plates by the sense of touch, and the denser the darkness, the better I was pleased; and as to closets being crowded and somewhat disordered, thus they are the world over, and one is never disturbed or critical with the spectacle, unless it is one's own closet which is to be put on exhibi- tion. People are, as a rule, very helpfully inclined to- ward travelers, but when it comes to letting a stranger with a big box into one's closet and leaving him there with the door closed behind him on some plausible pre- tense of a need to change his camera plates (whatever those
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