CHAPTER III.
OLD ORCHARD AND BOSTON.
“We shall look for a report of your journey in the Transcript,” has been said to us many times, and we will respond to the interest manifested in our wanderings by sharing with our friends through your columns as much of our pleasure as is transferable.
The fact that we had driven between three and four thousand miles in ten successive summers by no means diminished our desire to go again, and it gave us great pleasure when, in reply to “Can we have the horse for a journey this summer?” Mr. A. said “Why, I suppose of course you will go.” We decided to start about the middle of July, a little earlier than usual, and one might well imagine that in the intervening weeks many routes were planned and talked over, but in truth we said nothing about it until the last moment, when we asked each other, “Have you thought where to go?” and in turn each answered “No.” It may seem strange and suggest lack of purpose, but we like our journeys to make themselves, as a certain novelist says her stories write themselves, and she cannot tell when they begin how they will end.
As we tried to decide which direction to take first, we wondered if we ever could have another journey as delightful as the last, when we crossed the borders into Canada; then we recalled all we enjoyed on our WhiteMountain drive, and that suggested never-to-be-forgotten roads among the Green Mountains, and again the glories of our own Berkshire Hills, and so on until Lake Memphremagog, the White Mountains, Green Mountains, Berkshire Hills, Martha’s Vineyard, Lake Winnipiseogee, Newport, the Connecticut Valley and the network of highways we have traveled were all in a tangle, and there seemed to be no places of interest left within our reach. Next came to mind the chance suggestion of friends. One had said, “Why not take your horse aboard one of the Maine steamers and explore that part of the country?” Another thought the St. Lawrence drives very delightful, and suggested we should take our horse by rail to some point in that vicinity. A third only wished we could transport ourselves to Colorado to begin our journey. We think, however that a carriage journey taken by steamer or rail loses something of its genuineness, and brought our minds back to the familiar towns and villages adjoining our own, through some one of which we must go, and somehow decided on Shirley.
As we packed our “things” into the phaeton for the eleventh time, we asked how long such vehicles are warranted to last, and felt sure no other could serve us as well. The bags, lunch basket, umbrellas and wraps seem to know their respective places. Yes, the revolver, too, drops instinctively into its hiding place. At last we were off, but a half hour was now spent searching the shops for a drinking-cup and saying good-morning to friends, by which time we thought of a word unsaid at home, and dropped our first mail at our own postoffice. Our “reporter,” watching for items while waiting for hismail, was attracted by our traveling outfit and eagerly “interviewed” us, but with little satisfaction, as you may well know. That we were going to Shirley, six miles distant, was of little interest to him or his readers.
We now started in real earnest and soon were on the winding road to Shirley. We took our first wayside lunch before we got to Groton, where Charlie had two hours’ rest, and we passed the time pleasantly with friends. An uneventful drive of ten miles in the afternoon brought us to Westford, where we spent the first night. There is no hotel in the place, but we found a good woman who took care of us, and a jolly blacksmith opposite who promised good care for our horse. We strolled down street in the evening and called on friends who were enjoying country air and rest for a few weeks. Our sleep was refreshing, and morning found us ready for an early start somewhere, but exactly where we had no idea. After a brief consultation we concluded we should like to go to the Isles of Shoals again, and accordingly we traced the way on our map towards Portsmouth, N. H. It was hot and dusty, and we passed through Lowell with no inclination to stop, but when out of sight of the city with its heat and dust and rattling machinery, we left Charlie to enjoy his dinner and took our books in the shade down by the Merrimac River, and were fanned by its breezes for two hours. The drive through Lawrence to Haverhill, where we passed the second night, was quite pleasant.
The chief recollections of the thirty-two miles we traveled the next day are a few drops of rain in the morning, just enough to aggravate, for we were almostready to welcome a deluge; Jumbo, whose wake we had struck, and the green beach-flies. The proprietor of the quiet tavern where we took our mid-day rest brought us “Jumbo Illustrated” for our literary entertainment, and told us his probable losses on horse-hire, etc., the following month, on account of all the people in the vicinity giving their money to Barnum. He also assured us the “green heads” would trouble us for about three miles. True to prophecy, they took possession of our horse and phaeton for that distance, then disappeared as suddenly as they came. We speculated as to their habits of life; wondered why they did not stay on the beach, where their name implies they belong, and why they did not steal five miles’ ride as well as three; then thought how humiliating it would be to feel compelled to turn away from the seashore overcome by an insignificant insect, when we could follow our own sweet will for all fear of highway robbers, or a Jumbo even.
Night found us at Portsmouth, where the discomfort was in keeping with the day, and it was with pleasure we granted our horse a rest in the morning and took passage ourselves for the Isles of Shoals. The day was perfect on the water—so fresh and cool. We landed at Appledore, and an hour passed very quickly as we met one friend after another. Suddenly a thunderstorm burst upon us; the rain fell in torrents, and hailstones rolled like marbles along the broad piazza. Surely the deluge we wished for had come, and, although it was not needed where water was everyhere, it could do no harm, and we enjoyed it to the utmost. We had planned to spend the night amid ocean, but it was so glorious after the skiescleared, we could not resist the temptation to have a drive while Nature was fresh and dripping. After dinner, we visited Mrs. Celia Thaxter’s fascinating parlor; then took the boat for Portsmouth. The calm after the storm was delightful, and we sailed on, full of anticipation for our drive.
On reaching Portsmouth we were surprised to learn it had been intensely hot all day, and not a drop of rain had fallen. It was too late to repent, and we ordered our horse, drove to the post office for our mail, our first news from home, then started for the ocean again. Our enthusiasm was somewhat abated by the sultry atmosphere; but a drive of eight miles brought us to York Beach, and a brisk walk on the hard, moist sand while the sunset clouds were fading quite restored us.
The next morning we drove leisurely along the beach, looking for familiar faces we knew were in that vicinity, from the East and West, visited one party after another, and in the afternoon drove on through Wells to Kennebunk. We had another visitation from the beach flies, but this time their persecutions continued for only a mile and a half. We looked in vain for a hotel in Kennebunk, and on inquiring were directed to a house attractively located, which we had thought to be a very pleasant private residence. The homelikeness inside harmonized with the exterior, and the host and hostess helped us to pass the evening very agreeably. This was only one of many proofs of Maine hospitality.
Before leaving Kennebunk we called at the home of a lady, one of the many pleasant people we have met in our summer wanderings, and promised to remember, “if weever drove that way.” She is the mother of Lizzie Bourne, whose sad story and monument of stones every visitor to Mt. Washington will remember.
At Kennebunkport we surprised a party of young friends on the cliffs, and made another promised call. We found the place with some difficulty, and learned our friend was in Massachusetts. We thought hospitality reigned supreme there, when we and our horse were taken bodily possession of for luncheon and a three-hours’ visit, by a lady whom we had never seen before. Every moment passed pleasantly, and we reluctantly left our new-found friend en route to Old Orchard, towards which point we had been driving for days, just as if it had all been planned instead of “happening.”
It was our first visit to this favorite resort, and we stayed several days, waiting for letters, and doing what everybody does at such places—driving, walking and gathering shells on the beach; reading, chatting and crocheting on the piazzas, occasionally wondering where we should find ourselves next. The heat was almost insufferable—land breeze night and day. Perhaps we could have borne it better if we had known then that the invalid we watched with some interest was Vennor himself, sharing with the rest the tortures of the fulfilment of his prophecies. As it was we were ready for a change. Our letters assured us all was well at home, and we decided to drive across country to Lake Winnipiseogee.
As we sat at the breakfast table the morning we were to leave, a lady at our right casually addressed us, and when she learned we were driving for pleasure enthusiastically exclaimed, “Oh! you must visit Hollis, adeserted village on the Saco.” She fascinated us with her description of that quiet nook she had chosen for a summer resting place, and the charmed circle of friends there, and offered us her rooms which she had left for a few days, if we would spend a night there, at the same time wishing we might meet all her friends and assuring us of a kindly reception. We thought this the climax of Maine hospitality. Only a moment before we were entire strangers, except that we recognized the face of our friend as one well known in the literary circles of Boston. We referred to our map, and found Hollis directly in our course, but unfortunately, only about half the distance we had proposed driving that day. We promised, however, to take dinner there, if possible.
We rarely spend more than one night in a place, and as we packed ourselves into our phaeton once more it seemed like starting on a fresh journey. Old Orchard has its charms; still we rejoiced as we left the scorching sand. The drive of seventeen miles to Hollis seemed short, and it was only eleven o’clock when we introduced ourselves to our new friends, and so very friendly were they that after an hour’s chat in the parlor and a pleasant dinner company we were loth to leave, and stated the rest of our friend’s proposition to the lady of the house, whereupon we were taken to the promised apartments, and at once made to feel at home. The heat was hardly less intense than on the beach, and we passed the afternoon pleasantly indoors. Supper was served early, as one of the ladies proposed a walk to the charm of Hollis, the Saco River. Only a few rods from the house we entered the woods and followed the little path up anddown, picking our way carefully over the swampy places, occasionally losing balance as we stepped on a loose stone, until we reached the favorite spot by a great rock overhanging the river bank. Our ears were deafened and voices silenced by the mighty roaring of the waters as they angrily surged through the narrow gorge. As far back as we could see there was nothing but the foaming white and the high wet rocks on either side. We gave ourselves up to the roar and turmoil, and thought the stirring life and restless activity of this bit of the Saco was worth the whole Atlantic Ocean. It was growing dark in the woods, and we had to take a last look and retrace our steps while we could see the path. A wish was expressed by our lady escort that we might meet a delightful company of friends a mile or two from the village whom we felt we knew already, through our friend at the beach, who had also mentioned this as a part of the pleasant programme she planned for us. Our phaeton was soon at the door, and we exchanged our rubbers for wraps and were off in the moonlight, assured it was perfectly safe all about there, night or day. Of course our friend knew all the pretty roundabout ways, and we had a lovely drive. The pleasant call we shall never forget, and as we drove back, the “short cut” across the pastures was pointed out as a favorite summer-evening walk. We did not sleep that night until we had written our friend, thanking her for all we had enjoyed through her kindness. But for her we should probably have driven through Hollis with no recollection save one glimpse of the Saco.
Directly after breakfast next morning we bade ourfriends good-by, promising to report to them from Weirs which of the various routes suggested we took. There is no direct way, for it is literally across country, and we felt as if we were leaving everybody and had nothing but a wilderness between us and Lake Winnipiseogee. The morning drive was hot and very uninteresting, no ocean or mountains, river or hills, nothing but sandy roads and dry pastures.
We inquired the “best way” to Wolfeboro every time we saw anybody to inquire of, and as we refreshed ourselves with sardines by the wayside, wondered where Charlie was to get his dinner. We asked at a grocery store when we got to Newfield, and were told that a widow near by accommodated travelers. We found her very willing if we could take care of the horse ourselves, for she had no “men folks.”
Despite our fatigue, as necessity compelled, we unharnessed Charlie and gave him some corn—she had no oats. We went into the little sitting-room to wait, but not to rest, for our hostess was very social. After being entertained for an hour and a half, we carried a pail of water to the barn for Charlie, and harnessed him. We asked the amount of our indebtedness, when her ladyship mentioned a sum exceeding what we often pay at first-class hotels, where our horse is well groomed and grained—not by ourselves—blandly remarking at the same time that she “did not believe in high prices.”
Our map is not much help when traveling bias, and we wondered next where we should sleep. It was only a few miles to the little village of West Newfield, and again we went to a grocery store for information. Ourmany inquiries were very courteously answered, and one or two hotels within a few miles were mentioned. At this point a young man came forward, commenting on the modesty of the storekeeper, whom he said was the hotel proprietor as well, and advised us to stay where we were sure of good care, as we should be no nearer Wolfeboro at either of the places suggested. We were directed to a modest house, one-story front, which we had just passed, where the wife of the gentlemanly storekeeper, hotel proprietor and farmer also, we afterward learned, kindly received us and gave us a cosy front room on the first floor. We soon felt we were in a home, as well as a hotel, and we sat on the front doorstep writing letters till dark, then talked of our friends in Hollis. How long ago it all seemed! And yet we only left there that morning.
There was not a sound to disturb our slumbers that night, and we awoke fresh for our drive of twenty-five miles to Wolfeboro. It was still hot, but the drive was a striking contrast to that of the day previous. We were approaching the rough country which borders Lake Winnipiseogee, and more than once fancied ourselves among the Berkshire hills. We stopped at a farmhouse for a pitcher of milk, and took a little lunch sitting on a stone wall under a large tree. The good old people begged us to go into the house, but we assured them we preferred the wall, and when we returned the pitcher, they had come to the conclusion that it might be pleasant to eat out of doors once in a while. We knew they had watched us through the curtain cracks in the front room.
Every mile now, the country was more and more delightful, so wild and hilly. Up and down we went,getting glimpses of the lake from the top of a high hill, then wending our way into the valley only to go up again. It sometimes seemed as if nothing but a plunge would ever bring us to the lake, but after much twisting and turning, we reached Wolfeboro and drove up to The Pavilion at two o’clock. We left our horse and traveling equipments in charge until called for, and in an hour went on board the Lady of the Lake. Now we felt really at home, but the charms of Lake Winnipiseogee are only increased by familiarity, and we never enjoyed it more. At Weirs Landing a friendly face greeted us, one always present at the Grove meetings. We secured at Hotel Weirs the room we had last year, and then went out in search of friends, and found them from the East, West, North and South. We surprised them all, for they had heard indirectly only the day before that we had started on our journey with usual indefiniteness, except that we were not going to Weirs.
The two or three days we spent there were interspersed with sermons, friendly reunions, rowing, and a trip to Wolfeboro on The Gracie, with a party of twenty. The talented company, the glories of the lake and shore scenery by daylight, the sunset tints, the moon in its full beauty, and the lightning darting through the black clouds in the distant north, with now and then a far-away rumbling of thunder, made a rare combination.
The next day, Saturday, was very bright, and we made sure of one more pleasant sail. The Lady of the Lake landed us at Wolfeboro at four o’clock, and we immediately ordered our horse, and made inquiries about hotels, roads and distances. We learned that hillsabounded and that hotels were few and poor, and that Alton Bay was the only place where we would be sure of good accommodations; that the distance was twelve miles, and the road the roughest in the vicinity. We did not care to go to Alton Bay, as we had been there on a previous journey, but it seemed our wisest course. At different times we had driven entirely around the lake, except this twelve miles, and we knew what to expect without the emphatic assurance of the clerk. We started off full of enthusiasm to surmount all difficulties, drew forth the revolver from the bottom of the bag, where it had been stowed away during our stay at Weirs, and amused ourselves by keeping tally of the hills, fifteen by actual count! They were long and high, too, but the fine views fully compensated us, and we knew Charlie was equal to the effort, for we had not forgotten the Canada hills he took us over last year. It was dark when we reached Alton Bay, and we were quite ready to enjoy the comforts that awaited us.
While our friends we had left at Weirs were preaching and being preached to, we quietly enjoyed the Sunday hours in our pleasant parlor overlooking the lake, reading and resting from our rough drive. At sunset we strolled to the water’s edge, sat down in an anchored row-boat and watched the clouds, which were grandly beautiful, looking at first like an immense conflagration, then resolving into black, smoky clouds as the last rosy tint faded.
Monday was a perfect day and Charlie was as fresh for the twenty-eight miles to Dover as we were. The road was familiar, but seemed none the less pleasant. AtRochester we looked for the hotel, with beautiful hanging baskets all around the piazza, where we spent a night two years ago on our homeward drive from the mountains. Just after supper at Dover we heard a great chorus of bells, whistles and puffing engines. There was a fire just across the street, and we watched the devouring flames and the feather beds and bundles as they were thrown from the second story window into the drenched street, until the excitement was over, then went out for a walk. That night we packed up a little more than usual and planned what to do in case of fire, for our baggage is necessarily so limited on these journeys we should miss even the smallest article. Our precaution insured us sweet sleep and we took an early leave of Dover for Exeter, where we rested two hours, then started for Epping. Suddenly we changed our minds, faced about and went to Kingston. We had never been in Kingston. If we had, we never should have faced that way again; for the best hotel was the poorest we had yet found, and the drive to Haverhill the next day very uninteresting. We fully appreciated the dry retort of a chatty old man, who gave us some directions, then asked where we came from that morning—“Kingston Plains! Good Lord!”
The drive from Haverhill to Andover was quite pleasant. We arrived there at three o’clock in the afternoon, and although we had driven but twenty miles, at once decided to go no farther that day. The heat was still oppressive, and no rain had fallen since we left home, except the shower at the Isles of Shoals. We made ourselves as comfortable as possible with books and lemonade. “Another pleasant day!” we said with a sigh,next morning. We were really longing for one of our cosy rainy-day drives.
Lowell and Lawrence were in our direct homeward route, but to avoid those places we had full directions to Littleton, and started in good faith for that place, but came across a guideboard which said, “Boston, twenty miles,” in the opposite direction. The temptation was too great, and once more we faced about. We called on friends as we drove through Reading and Maplewood, and finally found ourselves at Point of Pines. The heat and discomfort we had experienced were all forgotten there. The brilliant illuminations and the music made the evening hours delightful. The cool night was a luxury indeed. We spent the morning on the piazza with friends, and, after an early luncheon, drove into Boston via Chelsea Ferry. Oh! how hot it was! We thought there had been a change in the weather, but concluded we had been told truly, that it is always cool at the “Point.”
The crowded city streets distract Charlie, but we succeeded in wending our way to Devonshire street, where we got the latest news from home from a friend. Our last mail we had received at Weirs. We did a little shopping on Winter street, and then left the busy city for Cambridge, and on through Arlington and Lexington to Concord, a drive one cannot take too often, so full is it of historic interest. As we near the home of Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, and the Alcotts, and the monuments of Revolutionary interest, the very atmosphere seems full of recollections and reminiscences. The noble words of Emerson, the hermit life of Thoreau, thefascinating writings of Hawthorne, transcendental people, “Little Women” and cousins just like other people, are all confused with skirmishes with the English, and the effort to realize it is all true. We have experienced this ecstasy more than once before, and it has faded away naturally as we drove on, but this time the spell was broken suddenly. We stopped at the hotel and found it just like a hundred other country taverns, not a suggestion of anything transcendental, and we felt as if dropped from the heights into the abyss of commonplaceness. We tried to rise again by watching from our window the passers-by and selecting those who looked as if they had been to the Summer School of Philosophy, but all in vain, and by the time we were ready to leave in the morning our enthusiasm had sunk to the Kingston level.
We had ordered our mails reforwarded from Weirs to Fitchburg, and now we were perplexed to know how to get them on our way home, when Leominster comes first. We studied our map and finally asked directions to Littleton again, and this time saw no enticing guideboard. We lunched at Ayer, lost our way trying to go from Shirley to Lunenburg (we rarely take a wrong road except when near home, where we are so sure we know we do not ask), and were ready for our two-hours’ rest when we arrived. The dust we shook off there was more than replaced before we reached Fitchburg. So many people were driving it was like a trip through the clouds; and the heat was so great, with the sun in our faces all the way, we set that little drive apart as the most uncomfortable of our whole journey. We forgot allour dusty zigzagging, however, as we drove leisurely towards Leominster, reading our letters, which were none the less interesting for having been a week in the Fitchburg post office.
Curious friends questioned our knowledge of geography, as they always do when we come from Boston through Fitchburg, and go our roundabout ways, but many years’ experience has convinced us there is more beauty in a curved than a straight line. We have taken longer journeys, and had better weather, but we shall always remember the journey of last summer as one of the pleasantest.