ing, the seventh and
eighth in Milton, one marked "8 miles to B. Town House. The Lower Way,
1734." The ninth and twelfth stand as historical landmarks in Quincy, on
the old Plymouth Road, and bear the dates 1720 and 1727.

In Wenham another mile-stone near the graveyard bears the date 1710,
shows the distance to Ipswich and Boston, and gives these words of
timely warning: "I know that Thou wilt Bring me to Death and to the
house appointed for all Living."

A marked improvement in facilities for travel came in turnpike days.
These well laid out and well kept roads fairly changed the face of the
country. They sometimes shortened by half the distance to be travelled
between two towns. Stock companies were formed to build bridges and
grade these turnpikes, and the stock formed a good investment and was
also vastly used in speculation. The story of the turnpike is as
interesting as that of the Indian path, but cannot be told at length
here. They, too, have had their day; in some counties the turnpike is as
deserted as the path and seems equally ancient.

New England roads and turnpikes have seen many a gay sight, for the
custom of speeding the parting guest "agatewards" for some miles, with
an accompanying escort on foot or on horseback, to some ford or natural
turning-point or bourn, was a universal mark of interest and affection,
and of courtesy as well. Judge Sewall records, on one occasion, with
much indignation, that "not one soul rode with us to the ferry." Ere the
days of turnpikes, the old Indian paths witnessed many a sad and
pathetic parting in the wilderness, such as was recorded in simple
language in Parson Thatcher's diary in 1680, when he left Barnstable to
go to a new parish:

"A great company of horsemen 7 & 50 horse & 12 of them double, went
with us to Sandwich & there got me to go to prayer with them, and
I think none of them parted with me with dry eyes."

This is indeed a strong picture for the brush of a painter, the golden
September light, nowhere more radiantly beautiful than on

"the narrowing Cape
That stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds,
And the relentless smiting of the waves,"

and the sad-faced band in Puritan garb, armed and mounted, gathered
around their departing leader in reverent prayer.

Perhaps the turnpike saw no more characteristic scene than the winter
ride to market. Though summer and fall were the New England farmer's
time o