CHAPTER II.
CHRONICLE OF THE TENTH ANNUAL DRIVE.
Some of the many readers of the Transcript may remember seeing in its columns about one year ago (Dec.27, 1880) a letter under the heading “Summer Travels in a Phaeton,” which gave an outline of nearly three thousand miles’ driving by two ladies in nine successive summer journeys. Since then we two ladies have enjoyed our tenth anniversary, and will tell you something about this last journey, which lost no charms from having become an old story.
Many times during the winter and spring came the query, “Shall you take your carriage journey next summer?” and as many times we answered “We hope so,” but often with a smothered doubt, as we thought of the fate of hosts of “best-laid plans,” and feared we would not always be exceptions to such a general rule.
As the early summer weeks passed, the obstacles multiplied; after a while circumstances began to combine in our favor, and by the 15th of August the way was clear for a start. A new difficulty now arose. Where could we go?
All through the year we had thought of Maine, which was sufficient reason why we should not go there, for we never go where we have thought of going. We have driven through the valley of the Connecticut, and along the coast from Newport,R. I., to Wells,Me., over theBerkshire Hills, up to Lake Winnipiseogee four times, all through the White Mountains, over the Green Mountains to Lake Champlain, Lake George and Saratoga, and taken in all the big hills, little mountains, inhabited island and country resorts on the way. Where should we find “new worlds to conquer”? In our perplexity, we remembered that a party of friends were in Dublin,N. H., for the summer, and resolved to make that our starting point.
The morning of the 15th of August dawned bright and cool, and we held our wraps close about us, as we stowed ourselves away for the tenth time in our same cosy phaeton, with all our equipments in the way of bags, straps, waterproofs, umbrellas, books, maps, writing materials, fancy work, lunch basket, and—the only thing we take which we never use—our revolver.
Our first day’s drive was very enjoyable; the air was so cool we could not dispense with our wraps even at midday. We said good-morning to our friends in Fitchburg, rested our horse, and sent our first mail home at Ashburnham, lunched by the wayside, surprised friends from Boston who were rusticating in the berry pastures of Rindge, and finally passed the night at East Jaffrey, the only place in the vicinity where we had not proposed spending the first night. The hotel proprietor was suffering from a recent sunstroke, but had recovered sufficiently to provide every comfort, including a fire in our room, and after another contribution to the mail, refreshing sleep and a good breakfast, we were ready for our morning drive to Dublin, where we found our friends delightfully located in the suburbs, close by the lovely Monadnock Lake, with the grand old mountain loomingup on the opposite shore. We lost no time, but proceeded to “do” Dublin, inspired by the cool, bracing atmosphere. We walked and talked, rode and rowed, and verified all the glowing descriptions, even to sifting the sand on the lake shore for garnets.
It now became necessary to decide in which direction to journey. As we drove towards the village next morning, it occurred to us that we had made a great omission in “doing” Dublin, not having called on the postmaster; in the words of another, “Our genial, ubiquitous postmaster, whose talents are so universal, whose resources so unlimited that he will build you a house, match your worsted, stock your larder, buy a horse, put up your stove, doctor your hens or cash a check with equal promptness, skill and courtesy.” Surely, he could help us. We took our maps to him, and asked a few questions, but, strange to say, he did not seem to get any definite idea of what we wanted, and, after a little hesitation, politely inquired, “Where do you wish to go?” We then hesitated, and as politely replied, “We do not know; we are driving, and would like to go where we have never been, and return by a different route.” Immediately his face brightened, he pointed out various places of interest, to which we could only say, “Yes, very delightful; but we have been there.”
Finally, he produced a map of his own, and soon started us off somewhere, I forget where, and, perhaps, we did not go there at all. Suffice it to say, we now felt Dublin was “done,” and turned our horse north, as we always do, when at a loss.
On we drove through Hancock, Bennington, Antrimand Hillsborough, wondering where we should find ourselves at night. We referred to our map and decided to go to ——, but on making inquiries at a farmhouse, the woman consulted her goodman and advised us not to go there, for a passing stranger had told them the hotel was filled to overflowing, and the dancing hall, dining-room and neighbors’ houses were occupied. She was much interested, and said, “If you do not wish to drive much farther, there is a little village two miles on, and widow —— sometimes puts up people.” We had driven far enough, and thought it best to make a trial of private hospitality. It was a new experience, we had never been “put up,” and felt as if we were imposing upon the good old lady as we lifted the knocker and asked if we could stay there over night. She looked at us over her glasses, then sent her one boarder to take care of our horse, while she helped us deposit our innumerable things in the “spare room.” We quietly put the revolver in a safe place, and glanced at each other as we thought, “What would she say?”
Widow —— and her boarder had supped, but soon a supper was prepared for us in the sitting-room, which we lazily enjoyed seated in old-fashioned rocking-chairs. After our cosy repast we went to the barn to see how Charlie was faring. He looked at us as if he thought meal a poor return for his day’s service, and we went to the “store” for oats. Several bystanders assured us it was a bad season for oats, and advised corn; but an old gentleman enlisted himself in our behalf, and said we should have some oats in the morning if he had to go to ——, two miles away, for them.
We went up to the churchyard to watch the sunset clouds, strolled down to the bridge, and when it grew dark we went “home.” Our hostess borrowed a yesterday’s paper, as we were anxious for the latest news from the President, and after reading we crocheted and chatted. The good lady opened her heart to us, and freely poured forth her lifetime joys and sorrows. Speaking of the children and grandchildren reminded her how much she enjoyed the seraphine in the other room when they visited her. We said we would like to try it, when she eagerly proposed having it brought into the sitting-room, where it was warm. We moved it for her, and sang through all the psalm-tune and Moody and Sankey books we could find. Our friend was very grateful, and when at a late hour we proposed removing the instrument to its proper place, she said, “Oh! leave it, and perhaps you will sing one more tune in the morning.” We rested well on a feather bed, in an unpretentious room, with odds and ends of furniture and ware which would tempt the enthusiastic relic hunters, and breakfasted in the kitchen. While waiting for Charlie, we sang another gospel hymn, and the good lady once more thanked us, saying she always liked to take care of good people, and really rather “put up” a gentleman than a tin peddler.
The day was misty and disagreeable, but on we went, imagining the charms of Sunapee Lake on a bright, sunny day, as we followed its shores, and resting and writing at Newport. Here, too, we again considered our course, but with no inclination to face about. We talked of going to Claremont and following the river, but wereadvised to keep our present direction and avoid the sandy valley roads. We left Newport without any idea where we should find shelter for the night, as hotels were scarce, but before dark we were again very comfortably “put up.”
The clouds were heavy next morning when we resumed our driving, and in the afternoon the rain fell in torrents. When the first shower came, we drove under a church shed for protection, but after a half-hour we concluded time was too precious to be spent in that way, so put aside our books and prepared to brave the storm. Our courage and waterproofs were put to the test, but neither failed, and at night we hung ourselves up to dry in a little country tavern.
The next day we crossed the Connecticut River into Thetford, leaving New Hampshire to begin our wanderings in Vermont; and wanderings they proved to be, for the first day at least. We were in the region of copper mines and of friends, but we did not know exactly where either the mines or the friends were to be found. We drove to West Fairlee, for we had ordered our mail forwarded there, and our first letters from home were eagerly anticipated. The news was good, and after dinner we began inquiries about our mining explorations. There seemed to be as many opinions as there were people, but we started off at last with directions to turn twice to the right, go two miles, leave the red school-house to the left, cross a bridge, go down a hill and through Bear or Bare Gap (we never found out which), strike a new road, etc. We were not sure that we remembered the precise order of these directions, but wedid strike a new road, and went down a hill—such a hill! We preferred walking, and Charlie was willing to be led, so that difficulty was overcome. After quite an afternoon’s experience we found a little hotel, where we passed the night, and next morning we retraced the latter part of our drive in search of Pike Hill, where we were told we should find friends and mines all together.
We were heartily welcomed and initiated into the mysteries of mining, and collected some specimens, all of which were very interesting to us.
It would seem as if we ought now to be content to turn towards home; but, after some deliberation, we convinced ourselves it was advisable to go a little farther, now we had got so far, for we might not have another opportunity so good. “A bird in the hand,” you know, and it is just as true of a horse. So, after supper and a little music, we got together a good supply of maps, and organized our friends into a geography class. We were very familiar with our own map, but drove into the northern margin last year, and now we seemed likely to entirely overstep its borders. As we studied and questioned our friends, we began to feel as if we could go anywhere; but prudence prompted us to follow the line of the railroad, so we traced the towns along the Passumpsic, and pinned the precious scrap of paper to our map.
We watched the clouds until half-past ten next day (we never heed the weather except we are with friends, who always think it seems inhospitable to let us drive off in a storm); then started for Wells River, a drive of thirty-one miles. This was the first time since we lefthome that we had any idea in the morning where we should sleep at night. The twelve-miles’ drive to Bradford was as lovely as our friends described it; the road follows Wait’s River very closely nearly all the way; it is a clear stream, with a bright, stony bottom, much more beautiful than many larger rivers with greater reputation.
We lunched as we drove, on bread and honey, the last sweet gift of our friends at Pike Hill, then rested our horse and made our daily contribution to the mail at Bradford. We had our prettiest view of the Connecticut that afternoon as we drove through Newbury and made another of our “surprise calls” on friends visiting in that vicinity.
Our landlord at Wells River, an old gentleman, made many inquiries when he found we lived very near his birthplace. His face brightened as we told him of his friends, who were our next-door neighbors, and he wondered at the distance we had driven “alone.”
It seemed quite natural to make another start with uncertainty before us. We followed the Connecticut to Barnet, and just as we left the hotel, after two hours’ rest, the contents of a huge black cloud were poured upon us; it was such a deluging rain, that as soon as we were out of the village we drove under a tree for partial shelter, and while waiting, finished up our honey. We got to St. Johnsbury in advance of our mail, and ordered it forwarded to Newport, thinking we might leave our horse for a day or two, and take a little trip by rail.
Strange as it may seem to those unused to such aimless wanderings, we went on and on, facing north at every fresh start, and gathering a bright bunch of golden-rodfor our carriage each morning, as we walked up the long, sandy hills (no wraps needed now), and winding about such queer, forlorn roads, with fields of burnt stumps and disagreeable marshes on either side, our map “annex” and infallible guide, the Passumpsic, assuring us we were not lost, until one bright morning we drove into Newport, and a “trip by rail” had not even been mentioned.
As we drove leisurely along the main street, taking our first look at Lake Memphremagog, a friend from Boston stepped off the piazza of the hotel and recognized us, as he paused to allow our carriage to pass. When recovered from his surprise, that we had strayed so far from home, he told us he was on his way to meet his family, and pitch his tents on the shores of the lake about twenty miles from Newport, and suggested we should drive to Georgeville, and visit their camp. Now we realized the convenience of having no plans to change, and went directly to inquire about the roads, and secure oats for Charlie, lest we should find none on our way. People generally go by boat, but we were assured we should find good roads. Having learned by experience that “good roads” in Vermont take one up and down such hills as in Massachusetts we should drive many miles to avoid, we asked more particularly about the hills. “Oh! yes, a little hilly, but a good road.” So with minute directions for the lake-shore route, we left our friend to the mercy of the waters, while we traveled by land. We never knew when we crossed the Derby line, for we were absorbed in watching for a turn which would take us near the lake,but we learned after a while that our “lake-shore road” was a mile inland. “A little mite hilly”! We went up and down such hills as we never saw but in dreams, leading our good Charlie, who picked his way very cautiously. At the top of a high hill we found a house, and a little Canadian girl said we could stop there, if we could take care of our horse; she assisted us in unharnessing and arranging a place for Charlie and his oats. We declined kind invitations to go into the house, and spread our blanket under a tree, where we had a fine view of Owl’s Head. Our little friend brought us milk and fruit, and after our lunch we wrote for an hour, then resumed our driving, in blissful ignorance of the fact that the worst hills were yet before us. We met men leading their horses, which encouraged us to feel that our precaution was not feminine timidity. The last hill reminded us of our drive over Hoosac Mountain. We left Newport at 10 A. M., and at 6 P. M. we arrived at the Camperdown House in Georgeville, a quaint Canadian village, feeling as if we had driven or walked one hundred miles, rather than twenty.
We were cordially received at this most homelike of places, and a room was ready for us. Our windows opened on the piazza, which was shaded by a row of cut spruce trees that were replaced by fresh ones occasionally. After supper we strolled down to the boat landing and took a survey of the lake and fine shore scenery. We have not time or space to tell you all we enjoyed while there. We spent the days in “camp” and the nights at the Camperdown, going back and forth in a row-boat, theNymph, our friend’s steam yacht, or driven at breakneck speed by one of the party who considered those perpendicular hills “good roads.”
Only those who have tried it know the charms of camping. From the time the one whose turn it is goes over the pastures to get the cream for breakfast, until the last one is served to cocoa at night, there is something to do, and that which is work at home becomes pastime on the borders of a lovely lake, with fresh air and good company. We fish with great interest when a dinner depends on our success; then, while the potatoes are boiling is just the time for bathing, after which, the table spread under the overarching trees looks very inviting. When all have helped to clear away and “do up” the dishes, then comes a time to separate for an hour—some to write, some to sleep, and others to read Spanish, English, prose or poetry, according to taste and ability. As the afternoon wears away, some one proposes a sunset row, and so the time too quickly flies. Rainy days have a charm of their own, and all the sympathy for “those people in camp” is wasted.
We shall not soon forget our trip to Magog in the Nymph. There were eight of us that afternoon, and we had a delightful sail. We left the gentlemen to find supplies of wood for our return trip (sometimes we helped saw and carry), while we ladies went shopping. We found a little store where tools, groceries, dry goods, jewelry and confectionery were kept; they had no axe, the only thing we wanted, so we bought lace pins at five cents a pair. The clerk quietly asked if we were going to have a thunder storm, which startled us, and we lost notime in getting back to the boat. Clouds gather rapidly on Lake Memphremagog, and our three hours’ sail looked long. We kept the steam up, and talked about everything but a shower until dark, when we were quiet, and observed, with only casual comment, the clouds which grew blacker and blacker, hiding the stars, and occasionally obscuring a light-house. We watched eagerly for the light we had left on the “Point” to guide us into our little harbor, but the wind had blown it out. One of the party took a row-boat (we had two with us) and went in search of our landing; the rising wind drowned the calls back and forth, but after a few anxious moments, a welcome light glimmered on the shore, and soon we heard the splashing of the oars. It was with difficulty the boat was guided to the Nymph, and just as the last boat-load was leaving her to go ashore, the storm burst in sudden fury over our heads. We rushed to the tents and gave up rowing or riding to the Camperdown that night. After securing the boats, the gentlemen, came in dripping, but quite ready for the lunch prepared by quick hands. We talked it all over as we sipped our cocoa, then separated, and soon were lulled to rest by the pattering of the rain on the canvas, and the distant rumbling thunder.
The next day was Sunday, and we enjoyed every hour of it. At the time appointed we assembled for service. The preacher sat with rubber boots on, and the audience, small but appreciative, were in hammocks and cosy corners. The sermon was good, and the singing, which was congregational, was well sustained. The day was not long enough, for it was our last in camp, and welooked back wishfully as we started off on our last row. We reached the Camperdown just as the sun was setting in gorgeous splendor. Supper was waiting for the “prodigals,” and after we had given an account of ourselves, we went to our room to plan for the morrow.
We decided to go to Newport by water, and, as if to favor our decision, the morning dawned perfect. It had been hazy and yellow for several days, but the veil was lifted. Our friends rowed over to see us aboard the Lady of the Lake, especially Charlie, who objects to water. We sat in the bow, fanned by the soft breezes, recalling just such a day on Lake George, while poor Charlie was frightened and stamping furiously beneath us, evidently thinking some effort on his part was necessary to effect an escape.
As we stood on the wharf at Newport an official-looking person came to us and asked if that was our carriage. We looked inquiringly, and said “Yes.”
“Have you anything you did not carry from the States?”
We now recognized our inquisitor, and answered so promptly, “Oh! no,” that we quite forgot the pins we bought at Magog. Charlie was quite excited, and we allowed him to be led to the stable, while we went to the Memphremagog House for dinner. We wanted to go to Willoughby Lake that afternoon, but we did not anticipate this when we pieced our map, and were now obliged to go in search of a new one. We went first for our mail, which was fresh to us, though a week old, and ordered the letters expected at night returned to St. Johnsbury. We found a little advertising map, then started on seeminglya new journey. Charlie had fared as well as we in Canada, and our twenty miles’ drive was easily accomplished. The glorious sunset and moonrise on Lake Willoughby was a fitting close to the day begun on Lake Memphremagog.
We watched the clouds from our window until quite late, then drew the shade and pinned to it our map with the two supplements.
For an hour or more we studied diligently, trying to find an unfamiliar route home, but all in vain. We had jestingly remarked, one day, that “we would go home through the mountains to avoid the hills,” and as a last resort we decided to do so, for that is a drive that will bear repeating any number of times.
The lake was dotted with white-caps next morning, and our desire to row was forgotten. We experienced our idea of a lakeshore drive as we followed the lovely road close to the water’s edge for four miles, Mt. Hor and Mt. Pisgah towering so high above, and looking as if they were one mountain, but rent in twain by some convulsion of nature, while the water had rushed in to fill the gap, as they drifted apart. The drive was a striking contrast to the sandy hills we went over in the afternoon, which we remembered too well, but no planning could avoid. We passed the night at St. Johnsbury, and just as the mail came for which we were waiting, Charlie returned from the blacksmith’s with his new shoes.
We now turned our faces towards the mountains, feeling quite at home as we journeyed off the supplements on to our old map, and still more so, when after along, hot drive, we reached Franconia, where we struck the route of our last year’s journey, which we must now follow all the way, even spending the nights at the same places. We took a good view of the mountains at Franconia, recalling the names of the different peaks, and very fortunately, for in the morning there was not one to be seen. The sun looked like a huge ball of fire, and the atmosphere was very smoky. We drove on, trying to realize we were surrounded by grand mountains; but not until we were close to them in the Notch could we discern the faintest outline, and the “Old Man” looked as if dissolving in the clouds. It seemed dreamy and mysterious until we got to the Basin, Pool and Flume, which were not affected by the atmosphere.
Our night at Campton passed pleasantly, but we started in the rain next day for Weirs, Lake Winnipiseogee, where we proposed to rest our horse for a day or two. From Plymouth to Weirs is a crooked way, and the pouring rain so changed the aspect of everything, that we felt every turn was a wrong one. It was chilly and disagreeable, but we put on all our wraps, the waterproof hoods over our heads, and brought the “boot” close up to our chins, then kept warm with ginger cookies. From the manner of the people of whom we made inquiries as we passed, we suspected our appearance was ludicrous. After many twistings and turnings we arrived at Hotel Weirs. We had never been there except when ministers and meetings abounded, but the place was now deserted, and we read “Endymion” instead of being preached to four times a day.
After two days’ rest we journeyed towards Concord, N. H., spending a night with the Canterbury Shakers on our way. Sister Philinda thought she remembered us, and found our names registered in her book eight years ago. The “yellow day” we passed with friends in Concord. Only two days more! We wanted to go to Boston as we did last year, but thought it best to follow the same old route to Milford, which we had been over so many times, then varied our course by going through Mason instead of Townsend Harbor, although we were told it was “very hilly.” We knew they were not Vermont or Canada hills. This new road, with its charming bits of scenery, gave a touch of freshness to the latter part of our journey. According to our annual custom, we supped with friends in Fitchburg, then drove home by moonlight. Nearly four weeks, and just five hundred miles’ driving, is the brief summing up of our tenth anniversary.