RIVER LIFE AT DARTMOUTH IN THE EARLY SEVENTIES
Voyage Down the Connecticut River
An account of the recent canoe voyages of the Ledyard Canoe Club from Hanover to tide water recalls a similar voyage in the summer of 1873, the account of which, herewith submitted, is an excerpt from the manuscript of my unpublished memories of Midvictorian Dartmouth. The times have changed but perhaps with them we have not changed very much. I have an impulse to build a replica of the ancient canoe and enter it in the next cruise of the club to tide water. Mem. '73 is close to tide water already.
The Connecticut River, half a mile away furnished excellent water for aquatic sports. In our sophomore year a serious attempt was made at intercollegiate boating. For the training of the crew we imported one John Biglin from New York whose ideas of discipline frequently were accelerated by an occasional failure to put water enough in his whiskey. Biglin, in one of his periods of exaltation, announced that the crew were a lot of hopeless lubbers and that he would have nothing more to do with them. Then one of the members of '73, threw himself into the breach. He had mastered the principles of homeopathy. "Likes are cured by likes." "SimiliaShnilibiis Curantur."
"There was a man of our time and he was wondrous wise. He jumped into a bramble bush and scratched out both his eyes.
And when he found his eyes wert gone With all his might and main He jumped into another bush And scratched them in again."
This benefactor procured from "Lige Carter's saloon the necessary materiamedica and sympathetically coaxed Biglin to his room, kept him there happy for two or three days and turned him loose quite reconciled to go on with the training. The enterprising member of '73 was said to have been called to the carpet and to have made a successful defense, alleging that he did it, all to the honor of Dartmouth College. The erdict was analogous to one in the case of a clerk who came an hour or two late to the office, giving as an excuse that his wife had just had a baby; the employer let him off "for that time" but cautioned him "never to let it happen again." Evidently there was sporting blood in the faculty. Our boating enthusiasm terminated in one intercollegiate race. This came off at Springfield, Massachusetts, where Dartmouth, though not in the lead, made a creditable showing. Unfortunately, the following winter, a heavy storm broke in the roof of the boathouse and destroyed the boats.
The river life in this midvictorian period was confined to swimming and to a single, rough board, flat bottomed, canoe, built and used by a student, Granville (Granny) Miller, an expert canoeist, whose exploits in shooting rapids and in other aquatic sports stimulated my ambition to own and operate a canoe myself.
To this purpose I invested a few dollars in spruce-lumber, a hammer, a saw, a plane, some copper rivets, screws and nails, and went into the boat-building business. I had observed that boards became warped on exposure to the sun; therefore in order to avoid the flat bottom which inclines a boat to capsize I wet one side of a board about sixteen feet long, one inch thick, and about twenty inches wide and exposed the other side to the sun. Previous to this posure it had been shaped for the bottom of a canoe; that is, sharpened at both ends and the edges beveled. After a few days' exposure it exhibited a deep uniform lateral curve. Then some cleats corresponding to this curve were screwed transversely to the board about two feet apart. These cleats held the lateral exwarp permanent. The board now was placed on two frames such as are used by carpenters, called horses, one at each end, and was given a longitudinal curve by forcing down the center and holding it down by means of an upright reaching from the center of the board to the ceiling above. Both curves thus were maintained during the remaining construction of the boat. Strips of spruce three-eights of an inch thick then were adjusted on the sides with screws, copper rivets and nails all held rigid by transverse ribs, and the "gunnells" and other parts were added. We cracked a bottle of hard cider over the bows and launched a trim lapstreak canoe painted a ripping blue, perfectly at home in wind or wave and eager as a fish to take the rapids.
This canoe attracted a lot of friends. If one is to have friends he must earn them by being a friend to others. It was the solace of my college days. Frequently we directed our paddles to the Loveland farm, the home of the late Judge Loveland, thf chum, and until recently the only surviving classmate of Daniel Webster. An interesting feature of this farm which was conveniently situated in Norwich about two miles up the river was a cider mill. Sometimes we carried a full cargo of Loveland cider. Spirited disputes arose whether cider was equal to wine or beer. In order to settle the question we were compelled to make quantitative and qualitative tests which finally resulted in unanimous agreement that Loveland cider was equal to wine or beer.
HANOVER TO SPRINGFIELD BY CANOE One summer vacation, together with a classmate name Guthrie, I navigated the Connecticut River from Hanover to Springfield, a distance, taking into account the curves of the river, of over two hundred miles. The course was down-stream over many rapids. We made the voyage leisurely in five days, shooting all the rapids, making portages only around the mill-dams at Bellows Falls, Turner's Falls and Holyoke. We hoisted an umbrella in the bow for a sail when the wind was fair, made camp on the banks at night and found our food at farm houses along the way. One night we were drenched by a cloudburst and had to take a day to dry out.
All the way through this beautiful river valley the well cultivated farms were backed on either side by picturesque hills or mountains. The scenic effect was softened as we floated on the river by moonlight and intensified as finally we passed the historic town of Deerfield. Below this point the ancient river once flowed around a bend of a few miles forming the celebrated Ox-bow. In a freshet many years ago it cut its way across the narrow neck of the bend and threw the Ox-bow out of circulation. On we glided and soon had Mount Tom on the right and Mount Holyoke on the left, one of the most entrancing spots in the Connecticut valley. Oliver Wendell Holmes, when a guest at the hotel on the summit of Mount Holyoke, many years ago, looking down on the marshy quagmire of the Ox-bow, rebuked the river: "Served her right for cutting her old bow."
On we paddled to the city of Holyoke, where we experienced a thrilling adventure as we made our portage around the dam. The canoe with its contents was too heavy to carry. We had transferred the cargo to the foot of the dam and were returning for the canoe only to find some hoodlums, called river rats, paddling it diagonally across the river. When they saw us their idea of safety appeared to be full steam ahead. Fortunately, we were able to exhibit for their entertainment, a six-shooter, which we proceeded to fire across her bows, being careful not to hit the canoe nor the crew. As the bullets began to spatter the water in front of the canoe they concluded to return, which they did and then took to their legs.
As we careened and staggered under the burden of the canoe in the long portage around the dam we reviled ourselves because we had not permitted the six-shooter to persuade the would-be pirates to make the portage for us. Soon the boat was loaded and launched. In scarcely more time than it takes to tell the story we shot through the dancing, leaping waters below Holyoke dam ; and soon, at our journey's end, were bearing our faithful friend, the canoe, up the river bank in Springfield.
SUBSEQUENT HISTORY OF THE CANOE A word about the subsequent history of the canoe. Three years later, when I was a medical student in New Haven, I had out-riggers fitted which converted her into a working row-boat with two pairs of oars. She continued to hold her place as an aristocrat of the ancient regime in the boating world and to be a rallying point for myself and friends in Yale University. We used her in the harbor of New Haven for daily exercise and along the shores of Long Island Sound for extended voyages. Finally, on leaving Yale to go to Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn, I turned her over to an appreciative companion, a young banker in Bridgeport, Connecticut, Herman Briggs, who promised to love and cherish her "until death us do part."
For years after I had given up the canoe I had occasional dreams of paddling her over seas, mountains and deserts. Doubtless some of the frantic Freudians with their psychoanalysis would interpret these dreams on the hypothesis of a sex complex.
Led yard Bridge as it was fifty years ago
The Falls at Wilder in 1882
