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 only thing 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 a packed 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
least _one_ shingle to Maine.