I commented to someone recently that the beauty of old letters is their ordinary nature: people were and are motivated by the same concerns, whether this century or the last; they may be foreign but they are not alien.  But once in a while a letter will illuminate how things have changed.  I just drove down from Montreal, about seven hours rolling time*, by myself in a comfortable car.  Not, in this present time and country, an unusual trip.

Here is a description from a letter by Morris of a section of a stage-coach trip in New Hampshire in 1846: “We started from Plymouth (heading to Franconia Notch) with a stage filled with an incredible number of passengers- that is incredible for the accommodations of a stage- Twenty-Two, only nine inside, thirteen outside.  It was very warm and the horses pulled their heavy load slowly. In the evening the clouds obscured all light from above and we on top the vehicle using all our efforts to prevent being thrown off, striking our heads against the boughs of the trees, and the tops of bridges, earnestly entreated the driver to stop for the night.  He drove up at a small seven by nine tavern situated somewhere in the outskirts of Grafton. It was not a fit place to stop in, but necessity obliged us as it was now after midnight. With difficulty we found cribs where we could stow ourselves till daylight, and we all tried to sleep till five o’clock in the morn, when there was no use in trying anymore, for our driver with a loud voice told us the stage would start in five minutes.”

 

*that is not counting the near 2 hours at customs or the hour stuck in construction here and there…