[Campton—Monday, 10 June 1867]
Monday. A day Breezy & cool but absolutely perfect in Spring beauty. We started at ½ past nine and drove down to the covered bridge, crossed, stopped at Sanborn’s Inn, from there to Thornton & thence home at two o’clock. This was one of the drives to be remembered from the impression of perfect happiness & luxury of loveliness which was spread over everything. Something of this was I know a reflection from ourselves, but is this not therefore all the more to be treasured in our memories? Yet the beauty of the world was indeed without a spot and soon would be attended by very dark spirits who could not see or feel it. But the loneliness of it all is inexpressible; with wide outstretching glories far richer and more extended than it is possible for the eye or mind of anyone to grasp, we drove seventeen miles meeting none but the country folk and very very few of those, now & then a man with a team who seemed scarcely as conscious as his oxen, sometimes two women in a wagon bound on some errand (I remember remarking one with a black veil over her face and I could not help reflecting what a type that was of the way in which we are but too apt to darken the clear rays which are sent to us, (chiefly through ignorance perhaps and thus we hope for forgiveness,) yet not infrequently, as with the poor soul, for the sake of cherishing our sorrow and telling others, how great our griefs have been.) Sanborn & his wife were full of anxieties with regard to the coming season, Capital types of the New England country Inn keepers. She, hard-working, cheery, stocky, knowing a little about how to be and do everything with this exception that I fear Mrs S. knows how to do nothing very well, for once a woman with strength enough to accomplish the task of taking the chief care of 19 rooms & their occupants & their food with very little & very poor help during the summer. This is Mrs Sanborn, a knarly looking little party, short, grim of aspect—in short desperately homely, but with a kind of sturdiness as if she had put her arms a-kimbo against fate. He, Sanborn, is a stalwart farmer who stands with his feet nearly a yard apart, when he is considering a question of importance, the chief orator of the village, the owner of Appleton’s Encyclopedia, the farmer of meadowlands, the keeper of 4 fine horses, the proud possessor of an Inn. He greets us with particular kindness because J. will always say a good word for his house in the “Transcript” every year which he thinks fills it up. Mrs S. brought out a sister in law who is boarding there to see us, another type, this time of the uppish class—was intelligent and well dressed but not at all like a farmer’s wife which I understood she is and her clothes and delicate half-cultured ways reminded me of the half-baked condition of much of our present civilization. Nevertheless there was intelligence there and much which with years will ripen into very noble fruit in her children or children’s children. Intelligence, good will and above all energy indestructible which we find alas! often gets worked out of people with the pressure of life especially where the physical strength is overworked and enfeebled as is frequently the case particularly with the women.
After leaving the Inn we drove up the river through the exquisite scenery which never appeared to us more beautiful. It is more like my conception of the garden of Eden than anything which my eyes have ever lighted upon,—more distinctly beautiful than even Switzerland which has such awe commingled with vast beauty that when I left it I felt like one who has been standing face to face with death.
