CHAPTER IX.
BOSTON, WHITE MOUNTAINS AND VERMONT.—A SIX HUNDRED MILE DRIVE.
In self-defence we must tell you something of our seventeenth annual “drive,” for no one will believe we could have had a good time, “on account of the weather;” and really it was one of our finest trips. We regret the sympathy, and pity even, that was wasted on us, and rejoice that now and then one declared, “Well, I will not worry about them, for somehow they always do have a good time, if it does rain.”
If two friends, with a comfortable phaeton and a good horse, exploring the country at will, gladly welcomed and served at hotels hungry for guests, with not a care beyond writing to one’s friends, and free to read to one’s heart’s content, cannot have a good time, whatever the weather may be, what hope is there for them?
Why has no one ever written up the bright side of dull weather? The sun gets all the glory, and yet the moment he sends down his longed-for smiles, even after days of rain, over go the people to the other side of the car, the brakeman rushes to draw your shutter, the blinds in the parlor are closed, and the winking, blinking travelers on the highway sigh, “Oh, dear, that sun is blinding,” and look eagerly for a cloud. Then, if the sun does shine many days without rain, just think of the discomfort and the perpetual fretting. Clouds of dust choke you, everything looks dry and worthless, the little brooks are mopingalong, or there is only a dry stony path that tells they once lived, and the roadsides look like dusty millers. Now, fancy a drive without the sunshine to blind your eyes, no dust (surely not, when the mud fairly clogs the wheels), every tree and shrub glistening and all the little mountain streams awakened to life and tearing along, crossing and recrossing your path like playful children; indeed, all Nature’s face looking like that of a beautiful child just washed. Really, there is no comparison.
Perhaps you are thinking that is a dull day drive. Now, how about a drive when it pours. Oh, that is lovely—so cosy! A waterproof and veil protect you, and the boot covers up all the bags and traps, and there is a real fascination in splashing recklessly through the mud, knowing you have only to say the word and you will come out spick and span in the morning.
We have purposely put all the weather in one spot, like “Lord” Timothy Dexter’s punctuation marks, and now you can sprinkle it in according to your recollection of the September days, and go on with us, ignoring the rain, as we did, excepting casual comments.
Our journey was the fulfilment of the longing we felt for the mountains, when we were driving home from our Narragansett Pier and Newport trip one year ago. Perhaps you remember those hazy, soft-tinted days, the very last of September. The air was like summer, as we drove along through Framingham to Southboro, gathering those gorgeous sumacs by the wayside, and wishing we could go straight north for two weeks.
The morning of Sept. 6th, 1888, was very bright, just the morning to start “straight north,” but with our usualaversion to direct routes we turned our faces towards Boston. We could not stop at Stow this time, for the old hotel, where we slept so sweetly our first night one year ago, is gone, and only ashes mark the spot. Waltham had a place for us, however. A cold wave came on during the night, and we shivered all the way from Waltham to Hull, except when we were near the warm hearts of our friends on the way.
The ocean looked cold, but nothing could mar that quiet drive of five miles on Nantasket Beach just before sunset. We were lifted far above physical conditions. We were just in season to join in the last supper at The Pemberton, and share in the closing up. We were about the last of the lingering guests to take leave in the morning, after dreaming of driving through snowdrifts ten feet deep, and wondering if we should enjoy the mountains as well as we had fancied. The weather, however, changed greatly before noon, and it was very sultry by the time we reached Boston. Prudence prompted us, nevertheless, to add to our outfit, against another cold wave. We found all we wanted except wristers. Asking for them that sultry afternoon produced such an effect that we casually remarked, to prove our sanity, that we did not wish them to wear that day.
Night found us at Lexington, pleading for shelter at the Massachusetts House. Darkness, rain and importunity touched the heart of the proprietor, and he took us into the great hall, which serves for parlor as well, saying all the time he did not know what he should do with us. We wanted to stay there, because we do not often have a chance to stay in a house that has traveled. The signsare over the doors just as when it stood on the Centennial grounds, and many things seem quite natural, although we did not chance to be among the distinguished guests entertained under its roof when in Philadelphia.
Our stay there was made very pleasant by a lady who gave us interesting accounts of her journeys by carriage with “Gail Hamilton” and her sister.
Here ended our one hundred miles preliminary, and bright and early Monday morning we were off for the mountains. The day was just right for a wayside camp, and just at the right time we came to a pretty pine grove, with seats under the trees. We asked a bright young woman in the yard opposite if we could camp there, and were given full liberty. She said Jerry might as well be put into the barn, then helped unharness and gave him some hay. Jerry was happy.
He does not have hay—which is his “soup,” I suppose—when he camps. We went to the grove with our little pail filled with delicious milk, and a comfortable seat supplied by our hospitable hostess. When we went to pay our bill, everything was refused but our thanks. We said then, “If you ever come to Leominster you must let us do something for you.”
“Oh, do you live in Leominster? Do you know ——?”
“Oh, yes, she is in our Sunday-school class.”
This is only one of the many pleasant incidents of our wanderings.
We spent that night at Haverhill and had one more camp, our last for the trip, this time on the warm side of a deserted barn.
Two and a half days’ driving up hill and down to Dover, and over a good road through Rochester and Farmington, brought us to Alton Bay, where we all went on board the Mt. Washington for the sail of thirty miles to Centre Harbor. Jerry was tied in the bow, and as we got under way the wind was so strong we should have had to wrap him up in our shawls and waterproofs if the captain had not invited him inside. We braved it on deck, for Lake Winnipiseogee is too pretty to lose.
We “did” Centre Harbor some years ago, so drove on directly we landed. At Moultonboro we stopped to make some inquiries, and while waiting, the clouds grew very mysterious, looking as if a cyclone or something was at hand, and we decided to spend the night there. The people were looking anxiously at the angry sky; and the Cleveland flag was hastily taken down; but no sooner were we and the flag under cover than the sun came out bright, dispelling the blackness. We wished we had gone on as we intended, and looked enviously on the Harrison flag, which waved triumphantly, not afraid of a little cloud.
We saw a large trunk by the roadside as we drove through the woods next morning. We gave all sorts of explanations for a good-looking trunk being left in such an out-of-the-way place, but, not being “reporters,” we did not “investigate” or “interview,” but dismissed the matter with, “Why, probably it was left there for the stage.” We do not feel quite satisfied yet, for why any one should carry a trunk half a mile to take a stage when we had no reason to think there was any stage to take, is still a mystery.
We got all over our disappointment at stopping early for the cloud, for the drive, which was so lovely that bright morning, would have been cold and cheerless the night before. It seemed as if we went on all sides of Chocorua, with its white peak and pretty lake at the base. Why has somebody said—
“Tired Chocorua, looking down wistfully into
A land in which it seemed always afternoon.”
One might spend a whole summer amid the charming surroundings of North Conway, but we had only a night to spare. There were many transient people about, as is usual in the autumn. The summer guests had departed, and now some of the stayers-at-home were having a respite. We wished all the tired people could try the experience of an old lady there, who said she “could not make it seem right to be just going to her meals and doing nothing about it.”
Oh, how lovely that morning at North Conway! This was the day we were to drive up Crawford Notch; and what about all the prophecies of our seashore friends? Where were the snowdrifts we dreamed of? The air was so soft we put aside all wraps, and, as we leisurely drove along the bright, woodsy road, I wonder how many times we exclaimed, “This is heavenly!” We fairly drank in the sunshine, and fortunately, for it was the last we had for a full week.
We dined at the hotel in Bartlett, and strolled about the railway station near by, so tempting to travelers, having a pretty waiting-room like a summer parlor, with its straw matting and wicker furniture. We took our timeso leisurely that we found we could not get to the Crawford House in season to walk up Mt. Willard, as we had planned, so stopped at the old Willey House, this side. It was quite too lovely to stay indoors, and, after we had taken possession of the house, being the only guests, we took the horn our landlady used to call the man to take care of Jerry, and went down the road to try the echo, as she directed us. It was very distinct, and after we got used to making such a big noise in the presence of those majestic mountains, we rather liked it. We gathered a few tiny ferns for our diaries, and took quite a walk towards the Notch, then came “home,” for so it seemed. We had chosen a corner room in full view of Mt. Webster, Willey Mountain, and the road over which we had driven, and where the moon would shine in at night, and the sun ought to look in upon us in the morning. The moon was faithful, but the sun forgot us and the mountains were veiled in mists.
Will there ever be another Sunday so long, and that we could wish many times longer? We had the warm parlor to ourselves and just reveled in a feast of reading, watching the fluffy bits of mist playing about Mt. Webster, between the lines. Just fancy reading “Robert Elsmere” four hours on a stretch, without fatigue, so peaceful was it away from the world among the mountains. After dinner we drove to the Crawford to mail a letter and back to the Willey, having enjoyed once more in the short one hour and a half one of the grandest points of the whole mountain region, the White Mountain Notch. We were now fresh for another long session with Robert and Catherine. It was raining again, andsteadily increased through the night until it seemed as if there would not be a bridge left of the many we had crossed the day before.
We were interested in the fate of the little bridges, for we were to retrace our steps, seventeen or eighteen miles, to Glen station. We had driven up through the Notch because—we wanted to; and we were going back all this distance because we wanted to go on the Glen side of the mountains; for with all our driving, we had never been there. What a change from the drive up on Saturday! How lively the streams; and the little cascades were almost endless in number.
The foliage looked brighter, too. The roads were washed, but the bridges all stood. We dined once more at Bartlett, then on to Jackson via Glen Station. We had not thought of Jackson as so cosily tucked in among the mountains.
Again we were the only guests at the hotel, and the stillness here was so overpowering, that it required more courage to speak above a whisper in the great empty dining-room than it did to “toot” the horn in Willey Notch.
We usually order our horse at nine, but when it pours, as it did at Jackson, we frequently dine early and take the whole drive in the afternoon. These rainy stop-overs are among the pleasant features of our journeys. Who cannot appreciate a long morning to read or write, with conscience clear, however busy people may be about you, having literally “nothing else to do”? It does not seem to trouble us as it did the old lady at North Conway. It was cool in our room, and we took our books down stairs,casually remarking to the clerk, who apparently had nothing to do but wait upon us, that we had been looking for the cheery open fire we saw in the reception room the evening before. He took our modest hint, and very soon came to the parlor, saying we would find it more comfortable in the other room, where there was a fire.
Early in the afternoon we were off, full of anticipation of a new drive, and by many the drive from Jackson to Gorham through Pinkham Notch and by the Glen House is considered the finest of all. The foliage was certainly the brightest and the mud the deepest of the whole trip, and we enjoyed every inch of the twenty miles. We fully absorbed all the beauty of the misty phases of the mountains, and did not reject anything, thinking instead how we would some time reverse things and drive from Gorham to Jackson on a pleasant day.
Another famed drive is the one from Gorham to Jefferson. Part of this was new to us, too, and we must confess that the “misty phases” were too much for our pleasure that time. Not a glimpse of the peaks of the Presidential range was to be had all that morning. Even the Randolph Hills were partly shrouded in mists. We dined at Crawford’s at Jefferson Highlands, and one of the guests said Mr. Crawford had promised a clear sunset, but what his promise was based on we could not imagine.
It does not seem as if anything could entirely spoil the drive from the Highlands to the Waumbek at Jefferson, and from Jefferson to Lancaster the views are wonderfully beautiful. The clouds relented a little as we slowly climbed the hills, and just as we reached the highestpoint we turned back once more for a last look at the entire White Mountain range, and we had a glimpse of the peak of Mt. Washington for the first time since the morning we left North Conway.
A moment more, and the Summit House glistened in sunlight, a stray ray from behind a cloud. As we began to descend, what a change of scene! Sun-glinted Washington was out of sight behind the hill, and before us were threatening clouds, black as midnight, and the mountains of northern New Hampshire looked almost purple. The sky foreboded a tempest rather than Mr. Crawford’s promised sunset, but while we were thinking of it there was a marvelous change. Color mingled with the blackness, and as we were going down the last steep hill into Lancaster, there was one of the most gorgeous sunset views we ever witnessed. We drove slowly through the broad, level streets to the outer limit of the town, and then turned back, but did not go to the hotel until his majesty dropped in full glory below the horizon.
The sun set that night for the rest of the week, and the clouds were on hand again in the morning. We went to Lancaster just for a look towards Dixville, but we made this our turning-point. The drive to Whitefield is very like the one just described, only reversed. There were no sun-glints this time, but memory could furnish all the clouds refused to reveal, for that ride was indelibly photographed on our minds.
From Whitefield we drove to Franconia, and as we went through Bethlehem street we thought it seemed pleasanter than ever before. The gray shades were becoming, somehow.
Having driven through Franconia Notch five times and seen the “boulder” before and after its fall, we did not fret about what the weather might be this time. We had been through in rain and sunshine, in perfect, gray, and yellow days, and never failed to find it charming. This time it poured in torrents. We dined at the Flume House, and watched those who were “doing” the Notch for the first time, and almost envied them as they gayly donned their waterproofs and were off for the Pool and Flume. One party declared they had laughed more than if it had been pleasant, and all in spite of that ruined Derby, too, which the gentleman of the party said he had just got new in Boston, and intended to wear all winter. They had passed us in the Notch in an open wagon, with the rain pelting their heads.
The drive to Campton that afternoon was one of those “cosy” drives. It never rained faster, and the roads were like rivers. Memory was busy, for it is one of the loveliest drives in the mountains. It was dark when we reached Sanborn’s, at West Campton, but it is always cheery there, and the house looked as lively as in summer.
One might think we had had enough of mountains and mists by this time, but we were not yet satisfied, and having plenty of time, we turned north again, just before reaching Plymouth, with Moosilauke and the Green Mountains in mind. A happy thought prompted us to ask for dinner at Daisy Cottage in Quincy, and unexpectedly we met there one of the party who braved Franconia Notch in winter a few years ago, and who told the tale of their joys and sorrows in the Transcript. Wemailed our cards to the friends whose house was closed, and then on to Warren, near Moosilauke. We experienced just a shade of depression here, perhaps because the hotel, which had been full of guests all summer, was now empty and cold, or possibly the sunshine we absorbed at North Conway—“canned” sunshine, Mr. Shayback calls it—was giving out. Be that as it may, our enthusiasm was not up to the point of climbing a mountain to see what we had seen for eight successive days,—peaks shrouded in white clouds. The sun did shine in the early morning; but it takes time to clear the mountains, and the wind blew such a gale we actually feared we might be blown off the “ridge” on Moosilauke if we did go up. We waited and watched the weather, finished “Robert Elsmere,” and began for a second reading, and after dinner gave up the ascent. By night we were reconciled, for we had the most charming drive of twenty miles to Bradford, Vt., crossing the Connecticut at Haverhill, and saying good-by to New Hampshire and its misty mountains.
A new kind of weather was on hand next morning, strangely like that we have become accustomed to, but not so hopeless.
These dense fogs along the Connecticut in September are the salvation of vegetation from frosts, we were told, but they are fatal to views. We drove above and away from the fog, however, on our way over the hills to West Fairlee, but it rested in the valley until nearly noon. It was encouraging to learn that fair weather always followed.
A “bridge up” sent us a little way round, but wereached West Fairlee just at dinner time, and while Jerry was at the blacksmith’s we strolled about the village with friends. The afternoon drive to Norwich on the Connecticut—a pretty, old university town—was very pleasant. We were directed to the hotel, but when a lady answered the door bell, we thought we must have made a mistake, and were asking hospitality at a private mansion. There was no sign; the yard was full of flowers, and the big square parlor, with the fire crackling under the high old mantel, the fan-decorated music-room through the portieres—everything, in fact, betokened a home. And such in truth it was, only, having been a hotel, transients were still accommodated there, as there was no other place in Norwich. When the very gallant colored boy ushered us into a room the size of the parlor below, with all the homey touches, we felt really like company. The delicious supper, well served from the daintiest of dishes, confirmed the company feeling.
We started out in the densest of fogs from our luxurious quarters in Norwich, but soon left it behind, and the drive along White River was very lovely. We had to dine at a “putting-up” place, with another fellow-traveler, in a kitchen alive with flies; and at Bridgewater, where we went for the night, we were received by a woman with mop and pail in hand—a little “come down” after our fine appointments. We must not forget our pleasant hour in Woodstock that afternoon. We drove through its pretty streets, called on friends, and took a look at the fair grounds, for everybody was “going to the fair.”
Fine appointments are not essential to comfort, andwhen we were all fixed in our little room, with a good book, waiting once more for it to simply rain, not pour, we were just as happy as at Norwich. After dinner we challenged the weather, and set forth for Ludlow. We overtook the little Italian pedler, with what looked like a feather bed on his back, who had sat at table with us, and was now ploughing his way through the mud. His face was wreathed in the most extravagant smiles in response to our greeting. The rain had spent itself, and we enjoyed walking down the mountain as we went through Plymouth. It seemed an unusual mountain, for there was no “up” to it, but the “down” was decidedly perceptible.
Ludlow was as homelike as ever, and the Notch drive on the way to Chester as interesting. The foliage, usually so brilliant at that season, had changed scarcely at all; only a touch of color now and then, but the streams were all up to danger point.
Bellows Falls was unusually attractive. We drove down the river, then crossed to Walpole, N. H., for the night.
The washouts here were quite serious, and we repented leaving Vermont to go zigzagging on cross-roads and roundabout ways in New Hampshire. I wish we had counted the guideboards we saw that day that said, “Keene eleven miles.” We had Brattleboro in mind, but after making some inquiries at Spofford Lake, we decided to put Brattleboro out of mind and Keene guideboards out of sight, and go to Northfield. We dined that day in a neat little hotel in the smallest town imaginable, and expected country accommodations at Northfield, butsome of the Moody Institute young ladies directed us to the new hotel “everybody was talking about.” What a surprise to find ourselves in an elegantly furnished hotel on a high hill, with a commanding view. The steam heat and general air of comfort and luxury were truly delightful.
Another mountain was in our way, and the long, slow climb seemed endless. Near the summit we saw an old lady who said she had lived there twelve years, and added that it was pretty lonesome at the time of the big snowstorm last winter, for the road was not broken out for a week. We think we prefer a blockade at Southboro, in a warm car, with plenty of company.
A gentleman, speaking of an extended tour by carriage some years ago, said he thought Erving, Mass., the most forlorn place he was ever in. We fully assent. We were cold after coming over the mountain, and that dreary parlor, without a spark of fire or anything to make one in, and a broken window, was the climax of cheerlessness. The dinner was very good, but the waiting was dreary. We walked to the railway station, but that was no better, so we went to the stable for our extra wraps, and then tried to forget the dreary room and lose consciousness in a book. This was not a good preparation for a long drive, but a little hail flurry as we drove through Athol took some of the chill out of the air, and the drive to Petersham was more comfortable. At the little hotel in that airy town, fires were built for us up and down stairs, and Erving was forgotten.
And now comes our last day’s drive, for although Jerry had traveled already over six hundred miles on thistrip, he was fully equal to the thirty miles from Petersham to Leominster. We forgot to ask to have the phaeton washed, and it looked so bad we stopped at a watering-trough in the outskirts of the town and washed off the shields with newspapers. After this we felt so respectable and self-confident that we did not heed our ways, until a familiar landmark in the wrong direction brought us to the certain knowledge that we were decidedly off our road.
We saw a young man and he knew we were wrong, but that was all he knew about it, so we turned back and presently came across an older and wiser man, who said, pityingly, “Oh, you are wrong, but if you will follow me, I will start you right.” We meekly followed for a mile and a half perhaps, but it seemed twice that, then he stopped and directed us to Princeton. We had no more difficulty, but were so late at the Prospect House that a special lunch was prepared for us, dinner being over.
It grew very cold, and was dark before we got home, but Jerry knew where he was going and lost no time. Although he had been through about ninety towns, and been cared for at over thirty different hotels, he had not forgotten Leominster and his own stall. Do you suppose he remembers, too, his old Kentucky home?