CHAPTER VI.
DIXVILLE NOTCH AND OLD ORCHARD.
A Colorado friend recently sent us a paper with an interesting account of “Two Women in a Buggy—How two Denver ladies drove five hundred miles through the Rockies.” Now, “Two Ladies in a Phaeton,” and “How they drove six hundred miles through, beyond and around the White Mountains,” would be laid aside as hardly worth reading, compared with the adventures of two women driving through the “Rockies;” but, for actual experience, we think almost everybody would prefer ours. We all like ease, comfort and smooth ways, and yet disasters and discomfort have a wonderful charm somehow in print. Our two weeks’ drive in Connecticut last year seemed small to us, but we have been asked many times if it was not the best journey we ever had, and as many times we have discovered that the opinion was based on the hard time we had crossing the Connecticut by ferry, the one unpleasant incident of the whole trip. Now if we could tell you of hair-breadth escapes passing “sixers and eighters” on the edge of precipices, and about sleeping in a garret reached by a ladder, shared by a boy in a cot at that; or better yet, how one day, when we were driving along on level ground chatting pleasantly, we suddenly found ourselves in a “prayerful attitude” and the horse disappearing with the forward wheels, the humiliating result being that the buggy had to be taken to pieces, and packed into a Norwegian’s wagon and weand it transported to the next town for repairs—if we could tell you such things like the Denver ladies, we should be sure you would not doubt our last was our best journey. How we are to convince you of that fact, for fact it is, when we did not even cross a ferry, is a puzzle.
Before we really begin our story we will tell you one or two notable differences between the Denver tourists and ourselves. They took their “best” bonnets and gowns, and such “bibbity bobbities” as “no woman, even were she going to an uninhabited desert, would think she could do without;” bedding and household utensils, too, so of course had baggage strapped on the back of the buggy, and they had a pail underneath, filled, “woman fashion, with everything, which suffered in the overturns,” but, will you believe it, they had no revolver! Were they to meet us, they would never suspect we were fellow travelers, unless the slight “hump” under the blanket or duster should give them an inkling that we had more “things” than were essential for a morning’s drive. Helpless and innocent as we look we could warrant “sure cure” to a horse whatever ill might befall him, and we could “show fire” if necessary. The last need not have been mentioned, however, for like the Denver tourists, we can testify that we receive everywhere the “truest and kindest courtesy.”
You may remember that one of the peculiar features of our journeys is that we never know where we are going, but last summer we thought we would be like other people, and make plans. As a result we assured our friends we were going straight to Mt. Washington via the Crawford Notch, but, as Mr. Hale has a way of saying inhis stories, “we did not go there at all.” Why we did not fulfil so honest an intention we will reveal to you later.
We started in good faith, Tuesday, July 7, driving along the familiar way through Lunenburg and Townsend Harbor, crossing the invisible State line as we entered Brookline, and spending the night, as we have often done, at the little hotel in Milford, N. H., journeying next day to Hooksett, via Amherst, Bedford and Manchester. Nothing eventful occurred except the inauguration of our sketchbook, a thing of peculiar interest to us, as neither of us knew anything of sketching. The book itself is worthy of mention, as it is the only copy we have ever seen. It has attractive form and binding, and is called “Summer Gleanings.” There is a page for each day of the summer months, with a charming, and so often apt, quotation under each date. The pages are divided into three sections, one for “Jottings by the Way,” one for a “Pencil Sketch,—not for exact imitation, but what it suggests,” and a third for “Pressed Flowers.” As it was a gift, and of no use but for the purpose for which it was intended, we decided it must be taken along, although one said it would be “awfully in the way.”
We enjoyed camping at noon by the roadside so much last summer, when the hotels were scarce, that we planned to make that the rule of this journey, and not the exception. We thought the hour after luncheon, while Charlie was resting, would be just the time to try to sketch. Our first “camp” was under a large tree, just before we crossed into New Hampshire. We looked about for something to sketch, and a few attempts convinced us that, being ignorant of even the first rules of perspective,our subjects must be selected with reference to our ability, regardless of our taste. We went to work on a pair of bars—or a gate, rather—in the stone wall opposite. We were quite elated with our success, and next undertook a shed. After this feat, we gathered a few little white clovers, which we pressed in our writing tablet, made a few comments in the “jotting” column, and the “Summer Gleanings” began to mean something.
We cannot tell you all we enjoyed and experienced with that little book. It was like opening the room which had “a hundred doors, each opening into a room with another hundred,” especially at night, when our brains, fascinated and yet weary with the great effort spent on small accomplishment, and the finger nerves sensitive with working over unruly stems and petals, we only increased a thousandfold the pastime of the day by pressing whole fields of flowers, and attempting such sketching as was never thought of except in dreamland. A word or two about the quotations, then you may imagine the rest. What could be more apt for the first day of our journey than Shelley’s
“Away, away from men and townsTo the wild wood and the downs,”
“Away, away from men and townsTo the wild wood and the downs,”
“Away, away from men and townsTo the wild wood and the downs,”
“Away, away from men and towns
To the wild wood and the downs,”
or, as we came in sight of the “White Hills,” Whittier’s
“Once more, O mountains, unveilYour brows and lay your cloudy mantles by.”
“Once more, O mountains, unveilYour brows and lay your cloudy mantles by.”
“Once more, O mountains, unveilYour brows and lay your cloudy mantles by.”
“Once more, O mountains, unveil
Your brows and lay your cloudy mantles by.”
and
“O more than others blest is heWho walks the earth with eyes to see,Who finds the hieroglyphics clearWhich God has written everywhere,”
“O more than others blest is heWho walks the earth with eyes to see,Who finds the hieroglyphics clearWhich God has written everywhere,”
“O more than others blest is heWho walks the earth with eyes to see,Who finds the hieroglyphics clearWhich God has written everywhere,”
“O more than others blest is he
Who walks the earth with eyes to see,
Who finds the hieroglyphics clear
Which God has written everywhere,”
as we journey along the Connecticut. Especially apt were the lines by Charles Cotton, when we had driven several miles out of our way to spend Sunday in Rumney, because we remembered the place so pleasantly:
“Oh, how happy here’s our leisure!Oh, how innocent our pleasure!O ye valleys! O ye mountains!O ye groves and crystal fountains!How I love at libertyBy turns to come and visit ye!”
“Oh, how happy here’s our leisure!Oh, how innocent our pleasure!O ye valleys! O ye mountains!O ye groves and crystal fountains!How I love at libertyBy turns to come and visit ye!”
“Oh, how happy here’s our leisure!Oh, how innocent our pleasure!O ye valleys! O ye mountains!O ye groves and crystal fountains!How I love at libertyBy turns to come and visit ye!”
“Oh, how happy here’s our leisure!
Oh, how innocent our pleasure!
O ye valleys! O ye mountains!
O ye groves and crystal fountains!
How I love at liberty
By turns to come and visit ye!”
Once more, as we drove along the Saco—
“All, all, is beautiful.What if earth be but the shadow of heaven.”
“All, all, is beautiful.What if earth be but the shadow of heaven.”
“All, all, is beautiful.What if earth be but the shadow of heaven.”
“All, all, is beautiful.
What if earth be but the shadow of heaven.”
If you think we are writing up a book instead of a journey, let us tell you that the book cannot be left out if the journey is to be truly chronicled, for it was never out of mind, being constantly in sight, nor was it any trouble. In this respect, too, we fared better than the Denver ladies, for they were real artists, and never had any comfort after the first day, for their “oils” would not dry, even when they pinned them up around the buggy.
We should have been miserable if we had stayed in Hooksett all the time we have been telling you about the sketch book, but we were off early in the morning for Concord, and as we drove into the city, Charlie knew better than we which turn to take to find the welcome which always awaits us. The clouds were very black when we left our friends at four o’clock, feeling we must go a few miles farther that day; and when we had driven a mile or two a sudden turn in the road revealed to us“cyclonic” symptoms. We saw an open shed, and asked a portly old man if we could drive in, as it looked like rain. “Yes, and quick too,” he said, hobbling ahead of us. We were scarcely under cover before the cloud burst, and such a gust of wind came as it seemed must have overturned our phaeton if we had been exposed to it. We threw our wraps over our heads and ran to the house, where we were kindly received, amid the banging of doors and crackling of glass. The rain fell in sheets and the lightning flashes almost blinded us, but in an hour, perhaps less, we were on our way again, dry and peaceful, the sun shining and the clean, washed roads and prostrate limbs of trees simply reminding us there had been a shower. We spent the night at Penacook, formerly Fisherville.
By this time we had decided we would deviate from our straight course to Mt. Washington just a bit, only a few miles, and spend a night at Weirs. We remembered very well our last drive from Weirs to Penacook via Tilton and Franklin, and thought to take the same course this time. Franklin came to hand all right, but where was Tilton? We were sure we knew the way, but were equally sure Tilton should have put in an appearance. We inquired, and were much surprised when told we had taken a wrong turn, or failed, rather, to take the right one seven miles back. We had not only lost our way to Weirs, but we were off our course to Mt. Washington, and there is no such thing as going “across lots” in that part of the country. Not knowing what to do, we said we would have luncheon, and take time to accept the situation.
At this point we discovered that our diary was left twenty miles back at Penacook. Our first dilemma paled before this, for that diary means something; indeed, it means everything. Without it, life would not be worth living—even were it possible. We must have it. But how should we get it? We went back to the man in the garden, and he told us a train would go down directly, and we could get back the same afternoon, he thought. We considered it only a moment, for having lost our way and the diary, we feared losing each other or Charlie next. We returned to the carriage, unharnessed Charlie, tied him to a telegraph pole, then took our luncheon. After a good rest our way seemed clear, and we started on towards Bristol, resolved that we would make no more plans, but give ourselves up to the guidance of Fate. We find in the “jotting column” for that day, “A criss-cross day.” Our honest intention to go straight to Mt. Washington was overthrown, and we found ourselves at night castaways on the shores of Newfound Lake, while our letters awaited us at Weirs, and the diary was speeding its way to Plymouth, in response to a telegram.
Eleven miles driving the next morning brought us to the Pemigewasset House, Plymouth, just in season to telephone our mail from Weirs on the one o’clock train. We felt like embracing the express boy who handed us the precious sealed package from Penacook. Thanks and a quarter seemed a poor expression of our real feelings. Perfect happiness restored, where should we go to enjoy it over Sunday? Fate suggested Rumney, and we quickly assented, remembering its delightful quiet, andthe lovely drive of eight miles. We could go across from Plymouth to Centre Harbor, and thence to Conway, as we had planned, but we would not. We had been defeated and determined to stay so. The drive along the valley was as lovely as ever, and a look of pleasant recognition was on the face of our hostess at the “Stinson House” in Rumney. After supper we took our sketch book and strolled through the meadow to the river bank, quite artist like. We spent the next day quietly in our room, reading and writing, until towards night, then drove two miles to call on a lady who had found us out through the Transcript, and assured us a welcome if we ever drove to Rumney again. We had a delightful hour with our new friends, and left them with a promise to return in the morning for a few days.
It would fill the Transcript if we were to tell you all we enjoyed in that little visit, the adventures, pedestrian excursions, camping on islands, nights in caves and barns, related by our friends, which made us long to explore for ourselves the region about Rumney. Some of the Transcript readers may remember a letter two years ago (Feb. 15, 1884), from one of a party of six who braved Franconia Notch in winter. We read it with great interest at the time, and wondered from which house in Rumney so brave and jolly a party started. Our curiosity was more than gratified by finding ourselves guests in the hospitable home, and by meeting several of the party, two of whom arrived from Boston while we were there. One morning we bowled in the loft of the ideal barn, and one rainy afternoon we had lessons in perspective. Miss D. proved a good instructor, and wethought we were fair pupils as we talked glibly of the station point, point of sight, base and horizontal lines, and the vanishing point, and reproduced Mrs. Q.’s desk by rule.
We reluctantly left our friends to their camping preparations, while we traveled over once more the route of the sleighing party. This was our fourth drive through the Pemigewasset Valley, but its beauty is ever new. We took two hours’ rest at the entrance of a cathedral-like archway of trees, which now adorns our parlor in “oils.” We tried to sketch properly, but, alas! all our points were “vanishing points” without Miss D. at hand, and we returned to the ways of ignorance. We spent the night at “Tuttle’s,” and heard from the cheery old lady and “Priscilla” the story of the sleighing party who were refused shelter at the Flume House, and though half-perished with cold had to drive back seven miles to spend the night with them. She told us how sorry she was for them, and how she built a roaring fire in the old kitchen fireplace, and filled the warming-pans for them. We imagined how good they must have felt buried in the hot feathers that cold night.
We did not visit the Flume this time, but just paid our respects to the Old Man, took breath and a sketch at Echo Lake, and gathered mosses as we walked up and down the steep places through the Notch. We spent the night in Bethlehem, and enjoyed a superb sunset. We went several miles out of our way the next day to see the Cherry Mountain slide, which occurred the week before. We were introduced to the proprietor of the ruined farm, caressed the beautiful horse, pitied the once fine cow,which now had scarcely a whole bone in her body, and learned many interesting details from the daughter, a bright girl. It was a forlorn spectacle, and a striking contrast to the drive we had after retracing our steps to Whitefield. Charlie had traveled far enough for such a hot day, but we knew the Lancaster post office had something for us, and we could not wait, so started leisurely, promising to help poor Charlie all we could. He understood us well enough to stop at the foot of every hill, and at the top of very steep ones, to let us get out and walk. We were repaid a thousand times by the magnificent views of the Franconia range until we reached the highest point, when the glories north opened before us. We were now facing new scenes for the first time since we left home, and yet we felt at home in Lancaster, for another Lancaster is our near neighbor. The postmaster looked relieved to find owners for his surplus mail, and as he handed out the seventh letter with a look of having finished his task, we said, “Is that all?” for one was missing. “I think that will do for once,” he said. Two weeks later we sent him a card and the missing document came safely to hand down in Maine.
Fate knows we like to drive north, and led us onward. We followed the Connecticut through the lovely valleys, crossing it and driving in Vermont one afternoon, enjoying the new country until we had left the White Mountains sixty miles behind us. We then turned directly east, and ten miles along the Mohawk River brought us to the entrance of Dixville Notch. We were bewildered by its beauty, grander even than the Franconia Notch. We reached the Dix House, the only habitationin that wild spot, at three o’clock, and as soon as we could register our names we hastened away for Table Rock, a narrow peak 800 feet above the meadow in front of the Dix House and 3150 feet above the sea. It was the roughest climb we ever attempted—almost perpendicular, and everything we took hold of seemed to give way.
Once at the top we looked aghast at the narrow path, hardly four feet wide, then with open arms rushed across and embraced the flagstaff on Table Rock. It seemed as if the foundation was rocking beneath us, but after a little time we went back and forth confidently. The air was clear and the view very fine. Just below the summit, a tiny path, with scarcely a foothold, led to an ice cave, and we refreshed ourselves by looking into its cooling depths. When safely at the foot again we cut some spruce walking sticks for souvenirs and stripped the bark as we walked back to the Dix House.
It rained the next day and the mountains were visible through the mist only now and then. We sketched Table Rock and the Notch profile in instalments, reading and writing between times, and enjoyed the very lonesomeness of the place. The clouds made way for the moon at night, but we were disheartened next morning to find they had settled down closer than ever, although the rain was over. We could not wait another day, and packed up, hoping it would all come out right, as many times before. Our wildest hopes were more than realized when we entered the Notch, and found it clear ahead. The clouds had driven through and settled about the meadows. It is two miles throughthe Notch, and we walked nearly all the way. Everything is moss-grown and marked with decay. The Notch has its Old Man, its Flume and Cascades, and our exclamations burst forth at every turn. Such mosses, such high, ragged bluffs, such babbling brooks, and all so fresh after the rain! Was ever anything so beautiful? Suddenly we found ourselves in open space again, and driving along the Clear Stream meadows, we passed the little enclosure where are the graves of the first two inhabitants of this lonely region. Six or eight miles more brought us to Errol Dam, where we left Charlie in good care, while we took a five hours’ trip on a tiny mail steamer. We thought we were to be the only passengers, but a young woman with an invalid brother, bound for the Rangeley Lakes, came at the last moment. We steamed along the Androscoggin River until within a half mile of Lake Umbagog, then turned into the Magalloway. In course of time the little Parmachenee pushed up against a bank and we were landed in the glaring sun, to wait while the mail was carried two or three miles, and the two men had dinner.
Fortunately we had a luncheon with us, or we should have had to content ourselves with crackers and molasses, and “bean suasion” with the brother and sister, at the only house in sight. We were back at Errol Dam at four o’clock, and as we paid the four dollars for our little trip the man said, “Too much, but we have to live out of you folks.”
There is a stage route from Errol Dam to Bethel, Me., but we preferred to follow the Androscoggin, so that eventful day finished off with a fourteen-miles drivethrough the forest, over a road badly washed, with the river rushing madly along, as if bent on its own destruction, then taking breath for awhile and looking placid as the Connecticut, but directly in a turmoil again as the rocks obstructed its course. Just as the sun dropped, we emerged from the forest into a broad plain, and four houses, widely separated, were in sight—the first habitations we had seen since we left Errol Dam. We knew one of them must be Chandler’s, where we had been directed for the night. It was a lonesome place, and we did not feel quite comfortable when we found ourselves in a room on the first floor, having four windows and two doors, with no means of fastening any of them, and a “transient” man in the room adjoining. I am not sure but the Denver ladies’ “loft” and “boy” might not have seemed preferable, only we had a revolver. Suffice it to say, our experience since we left Dixville Notch in the morning had been sufficiently fatiguing to insure rare sleep, in spite of open doors, barking dogs and heavy breathing of the “transient,” and after a very palatable breakfast we took our leave, grateful for such good quarters in such a benighted country.
We drove thirty miles that day, following the Androscoggin all the way. Berlin Falls and the Alpine Cascades, along the way, are worth going miles to see. We camped at noon between Berlin Falls and Gorham and had a visit from five boys of various nationalities, some with berries and some with empty pails. They sat down on the ground with us and showed much interest in our operations, jabbering in their several dialects. “I know what she’s doing: she’s making them mountains,”one whispered. We looked quite like traveling parties we have seen, with Charlie munching his oats, and we asked them if they did not think we were gypsies. “No, indeed, we never thought such a thing; we thought you were ladies from Gorham.” With this compliment we drove on toward Gorham, dropped our mail, and then turned directly eastward with the Androscoggin, to enjoy for the first time the drive from Gorham to Bethel, called the North Conway drive of that region. We spent a night at Shelburne, almost as nice as Rumney, and another at Bethel.
With much regret we now parted from the Androscoggin, and aimed for the Saco at Fryeburg. The heat was so intense that we stopped, ten miles sooner than we intended, at Lovell, driving the next day to Hiram, and the next to Hollis, so full of delightful recollections of the wonderful hospitality of stranger friends a few years ago. That charmed circle is now broken by death and change, but a welcome was ready for us from those who had heard about our visit there, and we were at home at once. There were many summer guests, but a cosy little attic room, full of quaint things, was left for us. The Saco runs just before the house, and we took the little walk to the “Indian’s Cellar” where the river rushes through the narrow gorge, and it charmed us as much as before.
We not only felt at home in Hollis, but really at home, for all between us and home was familiar, whatever route we might take. We eagerly drove towards Saco, for that was our next mail point, and the letters that came direct, and those that followed us around thecountry, came to hand there. We talked over their newsy contents as we drove miles on Old Orchard Beach that afternoon. We spent the night at Bay View, and part of the next day, for the thunder showers followed one after another so closely, we could not get an order to the stable, and time for a dry start in between. We finally ordered Charlie harnessed after one shower, and brought to the door after the next. This plan worked too well, for after all our hasty packing off, sides on, boot up, all ready for a deluge, it never rained a drop. We called at the Saco post office again, and then took a road we thought would take us by the house of a friend in Kennebunkport, but it proved to be a lonely road with neither friends nor foes, and before we knew it Kennebunkport was left one side, and we were well on our way to Kennebunk. Despite our muddy and generally demoralized condition, we called on friends there before going to the hotel for the night. We drove thirty-seven miles the next day, through Wells, York and Portsmouth, to Hampton. Ten miles the next morning took us to Newburyport, where we stopped over Sunday for a visit.
All was well at home, so we thought we would still follow the ocean, as this was a sort of water trip. (We had followed the Merrimac, Pemigewasset, Connecticut, Mohawk, Androscoggin and Saco rivers.) The old towns, Newbury, Rowley, Ipswich and Essex, are always interesting, and Cape Ann is so delightful we could not resist the temptation to “round” it again, and have another look at Pigeon Cove, one of the loveliest places we have ever seen.
We drove on through Gloucester to Rockport on the Cape, and there passed the night. We were hardly out of sight of the hotel in the morning before it began to rain, and the thunder rumbled among the rocks as if it would unearth them. We did not enjoy it, and just as it reached a point unbearable, and the rain was coming in white sheets, we saw a private stable and begged the privilege of driving in. We were urged to go into the house, but declined, thinking the shower would soon be over. For a full half hour we sat there, rejoicing after each flash that we still lived, when a man appeared and insisted we should go in, as the rain would last another hour, and it would be better for our horse to have his dinner. We declined dinner for ourselves, but the delicious milk the good wife brought us was very refreshing, and if we had not accepted that boiled rice, with big plums and real cream after their dinner, it would have been the mistake of our lives.
Soon after noon the sun came out in full glory, and we left our kind host and hostess with hearty thanks, the only return they would accept. Everything was fresh after the shower, and the roads were clean as floors. Full of enthusiasm we drove on and by some mistake, before we knew it, Cape Ann was “rounded” without a glimpse of the “pretty part” of Pigeon Cove. We had no time to retrace our way, so left Pigeon Cove, and Annisquam friends, for the next time, and hurried on through Gloucester, anticipating the wonderfully beautiful drive of twenty miles before us. At Magnolia we inquired for friends, and were directed to the cottage struck by lightning that morning. The waves dashed angrily on therocks at Magnolia Point, and the surf at Manchester-by-the-Sea would have held us entranced for hours. It was the time for driving and we met all the fine turnouts and jaunty village carts as we went through Beverly Farms, with the tangled slopes and bewitching little paths or cultivated terraces with broad avenues, the stately entrances assuring you that both paths and avenues lead to some princely “cottage.”
A night at Beverly was followed by a crooked wandering through Salem and Marblehead Neck, then on through Swampscott and Lynn to Maplewood, where we spent an hour or two, then drove into Boston. The city was draped in memory of General Grant. We drove through the principal streets down town, then over Beacon Hill and through Commonwealth avenue to the Mill-dam, winding up our day’s drive of nearly forty miles by pulling over Corey Hill on our way to Brighton, where we gave Charlie and ourselves a day’s rest. As we were packing our traps into the phaeton for the last time on this trip, for we usually drive the forty miles from Boston, or vicinity, to Leominster in one day, our friend gave the phaeton a little shake and said, “This will wear out some day; you must have driven two thousand miles in it.” “Oh! yes,” we said, and referring to that encyclopedic diary, exclaimed, “Why, we have driven over five thousand miles!” He complimented its endurance, but we thought of the “one hoss shay.”
It was a bright day, and the familiar roads seemed pleasant as we drove along through Newton, Watertown and Stow, leaving Lexington and Concord one side this time. We found a very pretty spot for our last “camp,”and there we squared our accounts, named our journey and pressed a bright bit of blackberry vine for the sketchbook. The afternoon drive was even more familiar. We let Charlie take his own time, and did not reach home until eight o’clock, and finding everybody and everything just as we left them nearly five weeks before, gradually all that had come between began to seem like one long dream.
“Summer Gleanings” lies on our table, and we often take it up and live over again the pleasant days recorded there in “timely jottings,” crude little sketches, and pretty wayside flowers, and then we just take a peep into the possibilities of the future by turning over a leaf and reading—
“To one who has been long in city pent,”
and think what a nice beginning that will be for our fifteenth “annual.”