ROCHESTER TO BUFFALO.
[Illustration: THE DISTRICT SCHOOL HOUSE.]
Thirty-fifth Day.
_Sprague House_,
CHURCHVILLE, NEW YORK,
_June 12, 1876_.
I found as I mounted _Paul_ at nine o'clock in front of the Osburn House
that on this twelfth of June, 1876, my day's ride would be a trying one
on account of the heat, but it was impossible to change the weather and
impracticable to change my plans, so I accepted the inevitable. As usual
through Central New York a number of Grand Army friends and others had
assembled to see me off, and to wish me a safe journey to the "Golden
Gate." This cordiality, shown me all along the route, took away the
sense of strangeness natural to one travelling through comparatively
unfamiliar places, and gave me an idea of the hospitality of our
American people. The pleasant good-byes over, _Paul_ and I started away
in the direction of Chili, which we reached about noon. Here I had
dinner and passed the remainder of the day, resorting again to the
evening hours for resuming my journey; and I may add that in this
instance I found "something in a name," for Chili was an admirable place
to keep cool in.
At six o'clock I started on towards Churchville, coming in sight of its
church spires a little after sunset, and lessening the distance to San
Francisco by some fifteen miles.
Notwithstanding the stop over at Chili, I was glad when we came to the
end of my journey, and must confess that as I rode into the village the
sight of the Sprague House gratified me more than the view of the
picturesque town as I saw it outlined against the evening sky.
Thirty-sixth Day.
_Byron Centre Hotel_,
BYRON CENTRE, NEW YORK,
_June Thirteenth_.
Soon after breakfast in Churchville, I threw myself into the saddle and
started for Bergen Corners, reaching it by eleven o'clock. This distance
of two miles was covered very leisurely, for there was no pressing
engagement to fill, and I could "gang my own gait." When there was
anything to attract the eye--a sightly field of grain, or change of
scene, I usually stopped to notice it and add one more impression to the
panorama which my overland journey continually spread before me. At the
"Corners" I spent a few hours quietly, if I except the slight
interruptions of the landlord of the Hooper House and his family. These
interruptions for curiosity's sake were easily pardoned by me, for
anything a little humorous and characteristic is always acceptable to
one bent on seeing life in all its phases; and besides, the softening
influence of home-made bread and other country luxuries, which were
furnished me here, tended to make me look charitably upon everything.
In the afternoon I left for Byron Centre, reaching it at six o'clock and
making eleven miles for the day. While at supper there, the guests of
the Byron Centre House were greatly amused by two itinerant
photographers who, after their day's work was done, made a practice of
entertaining the public with fife and drum. Through this cunning
advertising scheme it was my good fortune to see one of the most
interesting crowds that rustic America could bring together. These
enterprising "artist musicians" seemed to possess the magic powers of
Orpheus, for the villagers attracted by their strains came flocking from
every direction and unconsciously made up a group which would have been
irresistible to a painter, and which was certainly interesting to the
ordinary observer. The sight was an entirely novel one to me, for
although I am a New Yorker, and have seen roving concerns of almost
every description, this particular species had never come to my notice.
Through the courtesy of Charles Leonard, the proprietor of the hotel
here, I was introduced to several Byron Centre gentlemen, among them
Rev. Edwin Allen, who called just before my departure. Mr. Allen was
most cordial, and gave me a very clever idea of the place, and the
country adjacent.
Throughout my journey I was often placed under obligations of this sort.
They added to my pleasure and increased my facilities for becoming
acquainted with the people and the country.
Thirty-seventh Day.
_St. James Hotel_,
BATAVIA, NEW YORK,
_June Fourteenth_.
A delightful shower of the previous evening cooled the air, and made my
journey to Batavia exceedingly pleasant. During the day I passed some of
the finest clover and wheat fields that I had seen since leaving
Rochester. The rain may have brightened their color and made them look
their best, but regardless of this, it is evident that the soil through
this section of New York is under a very high state of cultivation, and
signs of thrift are noticeable on every hand. I found, as is generally
the case upon approaching a town, the farms more tastefully laid out,
with their wide stretches of wheat, and their pretty conventional
"kitchen gardens."
After these outskirting homes I came upon the more dignified buildings
of Batavia proper, where push and enterprise have made some striking
advances. It is quite a business town, having its share of
manufactories, banks and newspapers, and, with its population of
something over four thousand, possessing the benefits of a larger place.
It is thirty-two miles west of Rochester and thirty-seven east of
Buffalo. The State Institute for the Blind is situated here.
In the evening I lectured at Ellicott Hall, and was introduced by lawyer
L. L. Crosby, a comrade of the Grand Army, who, during the late war, was
an officer in the Fifth Michigan Cavalry. Among those who called upon
me at the St. James before the lecture was Samuel A. Lester, a
fellow-soldier of the Harris Light Cavalry, with whom I talked over many
of our experiences in Company "E" of the "Old Regiment." Nothing has
been so gratifying to me in the course of my journey, changes of scene,
or new faces, as these meetings with old comrades, and the talks of camp
and field. Separating at the close of the war, when the trying
experiences we had equally shared had drawn us strangely together, it
was natural that a glimpse of those we had known under such
circumstances should be a delight after so many years. It gave a
different phase to my journey, too, and made it not only a series of new
and pleasant changes, but an extended visit which might delight any
traveller.
[Illustration: RURAL SCENE IN CENTRAL NEW YORK.]
Thirty-eighth Day.
_Crossroads_,
NEAR CROFT'S STATION, NEW YORK,
_June Fifteenth_.
I did not find it convenient to leave Batavia until eight o'clock in the
evening, but as most of the six miles between the two places lay through
a swampy region, I had a running fight with the mosquitoes, which
encouraged me to make good time, so that I reached "Croft's" in an hour.
On my arrival I found Babcock awaiting me with accommodation provided at
a quiet little retreat situated at the Crossroads, which was hotel,
grocery and farm-house in one. This odd grocery-tavern is about half a
mile from the station; just far enough away to have peculiarities of its
own. While its proprietor was throwing down hay for _Paul_ from his
barn loft, he in some way lost his footing and fell through, but no
serious damage was done.
This little incident simply added an extra attraction to the "horse that
was going to California." In the course of the morning I went to the
hotel sitting-room to make some observations and to post my journal.
While quietly occupied in this way I noticed the arrival of several of
the men and boys of the place, who came in, seated themselves on the
wooden benches that were placed around the sides of the room, and began
unceremoniously to "look me over." Phoebe, the proprietor's daughter,
and the ruling spirit at the "Corners," a bright little maid, who filled
the offices of cook, waitress, chambermaid and clerk, assumed one of her
various roles and was standing behind the counter. Soon, one of her
rustic knights sauntered up to her, pipe in mouth, and called out,
"Pheeb, gimme a match!" Whereupon, her father, who was standing on one
side of the room, country fashion, with 'trousers over his boot-tops,
and in his shirt sleeves, stepped forward and said with admirable
dignity, "Phebe, sir!" adding, as the nonplused offender made some
bashful apology, "You's brought up well nuff, Jack, but you've forgot
some on't."
This was an unexpected turn of affairs which I scarcely expected to
witness at "Croft's," but it at least gave evidence of a certain sense
of refinement which we Americans would hardly be credited with outside
our cultivated circles. It afforded, too, food for reflection upon that
assumption of equality which in this country so often tends to
familiarity. We are prone to forget that "familiarity breeds contempt."
Thirty-ninth Day.
_Crittenden House_,
CRITTENDEN, NEW YORK,
_June Sixteenth_.
Started from "Croft's" at ten o'clock, stopping at the little post
village of Corfu for dinner, where I was introduced to several people
who had come together to greet me upon my arrival. Among them were Dr.
Fuller, Dr. John McPherson and S. E. Dutton. Dinner over, I rested until
five o'clock, resuming my journey at that hour and reaching Crittenden
at six. As I rode up to the hotel at this place I found that a number of
villagers had gathered to give me welcome, and to learn something of my
journey and its objects. I talked to them for some time and then
followed a strong inclination to walk into the country. There were no
unusual attractions about this little village of a hundred souls
excepting the cordiality of its people and the natural attraction that
there always is about a small community in the midst of thriving acres.
To one who has been "a country boy" himself, these things never lose
their charm, and he will give them the preference, I think, to the
finest sights in town.
They recall a certain old home somewhere, long since abandoned for the
charms of Vanity Fair, or a quaint little "school house" where he first
began to think about the great world beyond. They form, too, the
resting-places in the ascent of the hill of life, from the
vantage-ground of which we may review our progress since those early
days.
Fortieth Day.
_American House_,
LANCASTER, NEW YORK,
_June Seventeenth and Eighteenth_.
My ride from Crittenden to this place, a distance of ten miles, was made
in easy time owing to the oppressively warm weather; for my only aim was
to reach my destination in season to meet my lecture appointment. Found
the farmers along the route still working out their taxes on the public
roads, which were greatly in need of attention. Speaking to them as I
passed along I found that they looked rather curiously at the strange
horse and rider, doubtless wondering whence we came and whither we were
bound.
Addressed my Lancastrian audience in the Methodist Episcopal Church in
the evening, Captain G. S. Remington introducing.
Early in the morning I had found, upon going to the stable, that _Paul_
was badly cut, and there was much speculation as to how and by whom the
injury was done; but it was generally conjectured that he had had a
battle with a horse belonging to the landlord, during the night. This
horse, which was a large and powerful stallion, had recently been shod,
so that in the matter of equipment he had a decided advantage over
"_Paul Revere_," who was possibly not averse to celebrating the
anniversary of the Battle of Bunker Hill.
The day following my arrival at Lancaster being Sunday, Captain
Remington called for me in the morning, and I accompanied him to the
Presbyterian Church.
As we passed along on our way to church, I had a good opportunity to see
this little town on Cayuga Creek, and the added advantage of a personal
account of the place from one of its residents. Like all towns adjacent
to a large city, Lancaster has a certain air of independence, and
unmistakable signs of contact with greater forces; and besides its
pretty homes, some of them the out-of-town retreats of Buffalo business
men, it has its share of industrial enterprises.
Altogether, it is a pretty little neighbor of which any city might be
proud, and which in its peace-loving way is very sensible in standing
off at a distance from its busier sister. A few minutes by rail can take
its thousand and a half inhabitants "to town," where they find the best
that the great stores provide; and a ride of a few minutes more brings
them out of the noise to their own quiet haven.
It is hard to realize a more delightful and thoroughly restful existence
than that found in suburban villages, where the influences of active
forces are felt, but where they cannot disturb the even tranquillity.
They seem to illustrate the "golden mean" which Horace recommends, and I
find that it is always pleasant to reach such places and hard to leave
them.
[Illustration: THE ROAD TO BUFFALO.]