CHAPTER VII.
THE CATSKILLS, LAKE GEORGE AND GREEN MOUNTAINS.
In answer to the oft-repeated queries, “Did you have your journey last summer?” and “Where did you go?” we reply, “Oh, yes; we had a delightful journey. We were away four weeks and drove five hundred and seventy-five miles. We went all through Berkshire, up the Hudson, among the Catskills, then on to Albany, Saratoga, Lake George, Lake Champlain and home over the Green Mountains.”
Lovers of brevity, people who have no time or fondness for details, and those who care more for the remotest point reached than how we got there, will stop here. Those of more leisurely inclination, who would enjoy our zigzagging course, so senseless to the practical mind, and would not object to walking up a hill, fording a stream or camping by the wayside, we cordially invite to go with us through some of the experiences of our fifteenth annual drive.
We were all ready to go on the Fourth of July, but Charlie does not like the customary demonstrations of that day, and for several years he has been permitted to celebrate his Independence in his stall. There were three Fourth of Julys this year, and we waited patiently until Independence was fully declared. All being quiet on Tuesday, the sixth, we made ready, and at a fairly early hour in the morning everything had found its own place in the phaeton and we were off. As usual, we hadmade no plans, but our thoughts had traveled Maineward, until at the last moment the Catskills were suggested. The heat which often lingers about the Fourth was at its height, and the thought of Princeton’s bracing air was so refreshing we gladly started in that direction. We drove leisurely, taking in the pretty views and gathering flowers, camped by the roadside two hours at noon, and then on through Princeton to Rutland. We visited that pretty town three years ago, when the Mauschopauge House was being built, and we resolved then to spend a night some time under its roof. It is finely located, commanding extensive views, and is in every way a charming place to spend a scorching summer night. The cool breezes blowing through our room, the glorious sunset, and the one lone rocket, the very last of the Fourth, that shot up seemingly from a dense forest, two miles away, and impressed us more than a whole program of Boston pyrotechnics, calling forth the remark, “How much more we enjoy a little than we do a great deal,” to which a lady, kindly entertaining us, replied, “Oh, you are too young to have learned that,” all these are fresh in our memory.
Just as we were leaving in the morning, our kindly lady introduced us to a stately looking Boston lady, and told her of our habit of driving about the country. “Oh,” she says, “that is charming. I do not like woman’s rights, but this is only a bit of Boston independence.”
It was hot after we left breezy Rutland, and we drove the twelve miles to North Brookfield very leisurely, taking our lunch before we visited our friends there, and at once declaring our determination to leave beforesupper, as it was too hot to be any trouble to anybody. We sat in the house and we sat in the barn, but there was no comfort anywhere. Late in the afternoon we resisted the protests, but not the strawberries, and started off for the eleven miles to Ware. Our dread of the heat was all wasted, for we had a very pleasant drive, but, when we were once in that roasting, scorching hotel, we almost wished we had not been so considerate of our friends.
Twenty-five miles driving the next day, stopping at the comfortable hotel in Belchertown for dinner, brought us to Northampton. We drove about its lovely streets an hour before going to the hotel, and passed the evening with friends, who took us through Smith College grounds by moonlight, on our way back to the hotel. The luxuries of Northampton offset the discomforts of Ware, and we were filled with the atmosphere which pervades the country all about, through Mr. Chadwick’s glowing descriptions, as we followed along the Mill River, marking the traces of the disaster on our way to Williamsburg. Up, up we went, until we found ourselves on the threshold of Mr. Chadwick’s summer home, in Chesterfield. He took us out into the field to show us the fine view, with a glimpse of old Greylock in the distance. We were on the heights here, and went down hill for a while, but it was not long before we were climbing again, and after six miles of down and up we sought refuge for the night in Worthington.
There was rain and a decided change in the weather that night, and a fire was essential to comfort during the cheerless early morning hours. We took the opportunityto rest Charlie and write letters, and the ten miles’ drive to Hinsdale in the afternoon was quite pleasant. It was refreshing for a change to be chilly, rather than hot and dusty. At Peru, six miles from Worthington, we reached the point where the waters divide between the Connecticut and the Housatonic.
The night at Hinsdale was without special interest, but the drive from there to Stockbridge will never be forgotten. Could it be that only two days before we were dissolving with the heat, and now we needed our warmest wraps. The dust was laid, all Nature fresh, Charlie was at his best, and away we sped towards the lovely Berkshire region, with its fine roads, beautiful residences, cultivated estates and the superb views along the valley of the Housatonic, in the grand old towns of Pittsfield, Lenox, Lee and Stockbridge. Mr. Plumb, the well-known proprietor of the quaint old inn in Stockbridge, remembered our visit there eleven years ago, and asked us if we found our way to New York that time. He said he remembered telling us if we had found our way so far, we should find no difficulty in crossing the State line. Somehow, we were afraid of the New York State line then, but we have so far overcome it, that, after we crossed this year, we felt so much at home that the revolver was packed away a whole day, for the first time since we have carried it.
Any Berkshire book will tell you all about Mr. Plumb’s inn, the Sedgwick burial place, Jonathan Edwards and all the rest, and we will go on, leaving enough to talk hours about. We cannot go through Great Barrington withoutlingering a bit, however, giving a thought to Bryant and the lovely poems he wrote there, before we are diverted by the wonderful doings of Mrs. Mark Hopkins. An imposing structure puzzled us. “What is it?” we asked a man. “It is a mystery,” he said. We afterward were told that it was designed for Mrs. Hopkins’s private residence at present, but would be devoted to art some time in the future. We cannot vouch for the latter statement, but we can for the magnificence of the edifice, as well as for the church with its wonderful Roosevelt organ and royal parsonage, largely due to Mrs. Hopkins’s liberal hand. Many travel by private car, but Mrs. Hopkins has a private railroad, and when she wishes to visit her San Francisco home, her palace on wheels is ordered to her door, as ordinary mortals call a cab.
Sheffield had even more attractions than Great Barrington and Mrs. Hopkins, for there we got home letters. Next comes Salisbury, and now we are in Connecticut. We spent the night at an attractive hotel in Lake Village, and fancied we were at Lake Winnipiseogee, it was so like Hotel Weirs. Perhaps you think we forgot we were going to the Catskills. Oh, no; but we had not been able to decide whether we would go to West Point and drive up the Hudson, or to Albany and drive down, so we concluded to “do” Berkshire until our course was revealed. The turnpike to Poughkeepsie was suggested, and as we had reached the southern limit of the so-called Berkshire region, it met our favor, and we went to Sharon, then crossed the New York State line, which is no more formidable than visible. Still therewas a difference. It seemed as if we were among foreigners, but the courteous answers to inquiries and manifest kindly feeling won us at once.
Turnpikes are too public for a wayside camp, and as there was no hotel at hand, and Charlie must have rest, we asked permission of a farmer to drive into a little cosy corner where we could all be very comfortable. He would leave his dinner, although we protested, and helped unharness Charlie, then he brought us milk and luscious cherries, and when dinner was over, his wife came and invited Charlie to eat some of the nice grass in her front yard. We led him to his feast, and had a very pleasant chat with her, while he reveled in New York hospitality. This was in Armenia. From there we drove over the mountain to Washington Hollow, where we had a comfortable night in a spacious, old-fashioned, homelike hotel. The twelve miles to Poughkeepsie were very pleasant, and after we had nearly shaken our lives out over the rough pavement in search of a guidebook of the Catskills, we were ready for dinner and a two-hours’ rest at a hotel. The afternoon drive of seventeen miles to Rhinebeck on the old post road from New York to Albany was fine.
This was our first drive along the Hudson; but were it not for the occasional glimpses of the farther shore through the wooded grounds, we might have fancied ourselves driving through Beverly-Farms-by-the-Sea. The stately entrances and lodges of these grand old estates, with their shaded drives, towards the turrets and towers we could see in the distance, looked almost familiar to us.
It rained very hard during the night at Rhinebeck anduntil ten o’clock in the morning. While waiting for the final shower, we discussed our route for the day, and somehow inclination got the better of wisdom, and we left the old post road for one which we were told would take us near the river. When shall we learn that river roads are rarely near the river? We hope we learned it for life that day, for repentance set in early, and has not ceased yet, because of our compassion for Charlie.
The roads grew heavier every hour, and the twenty-six miles seemed endless. We scarcely saw the river, and the outline of the Catskills was all there was to divert us. We will touch as briefly as possible on the dinner at Tivoli. “Driving up the Hudson must be charming,” our friends wrote us with envy, but we forgot its charms when we were placed at the table which the last members of the family were just leaving, and the “boiled dish” was served. We were near the river, however, for which we had sacrificed comfort for the day. We survived the ordeal, smothering our smiles at the misery our folly had brought us, and with renewed avowals that we would never be enticed from a straightforward course by a river road again, we went on our wretched way. Thunder clouds gathered and broke over the Catskills, but the grumbling thunder was all that crossed the river to us. The fact that somehow the river was to be crossed, and exactly how we knew not, did not make us any happier. You may remember Charlie is particular about ferries.
Is there no end to this dragging through the mud, we thought, as the showers threatened, the night came on and no one was near to tell us whether we were right orwrong, when we came to turn after turn in the road. We were about lost in mud and despair, when we heard a steam whistle, and came suddenly upon express and freight trains, a railway station and ferryboat landing all in a huddle. Charlie’s ears were up and he needed all our attention. We drove as near as he was willing to go, then went to inquire the next step. No old scows this time, happily, but a regular ferryboat, and the ferryman has a way of whispering confidentially to timid horses which wins them at once, so we were soon safely landed into the darkness and rain on the other side. We spent the night in Catskill Village, and gave the evening up to study of the ins and outs of the Catskills. The heavy rain all night and half the morning prepared more mud for us, and we were five hours driving twelve miles. The wheels were one solid mass of clay mud, and we amused ourselves watching it as it reluctantly rolled off.
We took directions for the old Catskill Mountain House, but, luckily for Charlie, we guessed wrong at some turn where there was no guide-board, or place to inquire, and brought up at the Sunny Slope House at the foot of the mountain instead of at the top. We walked two miles after supper and were tempted to stay over a day and walk up the four-mile path to the famous Kaaterskill House, but it was a beautiful day to go through Kaaterskill Clove, and it seemed best to make sure of it. It was up hill about four miles, and as interesting as Franconia and Dixville notches, with its Fawn’s Leap, Profile, Grotto, Cascades and superb views. All this we should have missed if we had gone over the mountain. We dined at Tannersville and fancied wewere in Jerusalem, for every hotel in the place was full of Jews. The afternoon drive along the valley was very restful, after the morning’s rough climb.
We were now in a country entirely new to us, and we little dreamed that the Schoharie Kill or Creek driving would eclipse the Hudson. We had at last found a river road which followed the river. The shore scenery was simply exquisite. Miles of hills—mountains we should call them—with cultivated grain fields even to the summit. Surely we had never seen anything more lovely. The roads were not like the post road on the Hudson; indeed, they were the worst roads we ever encountered. Annual overflows undo the repairs which are rarely made, and in many places the highway is simply the bed which the creek has deserted. At home we improve roads by clearing the stones from them, but there they improve them by dumping a cartload of stones into them. We learned this fact by hearing an enterprising citizen declare he would do it himself, if the town authorities did not attend to their duty, and we can testify to the truth of it, having been over the roads.
Our hotel experiences were new, too. We spent one night at Lexington, and when Charlie was brought to the door and all was ready for our departure we noticed something wrong about the harness. Investigation proved that things were decidedly mixed at the stable, and probably a part of Charlie’s new harness had gone to Hunter, ten miles back, after the skating rink frolic of the night before. We had suspected our choice of hotels for that night was not a happy one, but the landlord did his best. He despatched a man to Hunter, and took ourbags back to our room, saying we should stay till the next day at his expense. We resumed our reading and writing, the stray harness returned that night, and early next morning we shook the dust of Lexington from us and were on our way again.
We drove twenty-six miles that day over the crazy roads close by the Schoharie all the way. We had been hemmed in for some time, with the creek on one side and overhanging rocks on the other, when we came suddenly to a ford, the first we had chanced to come across in our travels, and we feared it might be more objectionable to Charlie than a ferry, for he is really afraid of water. Only a few rods to the right was a leaping, foaming cascade seventy-five or one hundred feet high, which was a real terror to him, but he seemed to take in the situation and to see at once, as we did, that escape or retreat was impossible and the stream must be crossed. Oh, how we dreaded it! but we drew up the reins with a cheering word to him and in he plunged, pulling steadily through in spite of his fright. “Well, that is over, what next?” we wondered.
We wanted to drive to Middlebury for the night, but a fatherly old man we saw on the road said, “I wouldn’t drive eight miles more tonight if I were you; it will make it late, and you better stop at Breakabean.” We asked the meaning of the unique name and were told it signified rushes, but we saw none. Things were rushing, however, at the speck of a hotel, which was undergoing general repairs and cleaning. The cabinet organ was in the middle of the sitting-room and everything socially clustered around it. Out of two little rooms up stairs we managedto get things convenient. To be sure we had to pin up a shawl for a screen in our dressing-room, and a few such little things, but we assured our hostess we could be comfortable and should not be annoyed by the brass band of native talent which would practise in the little dancing-hall close by our rooms. When we went down to supper all was peaceful; the organ had retired to its corner and things were “picked up” generally.
There were two ways we could take the next day, but to avoid the mountain we were strongly advised to take the ford. We objected, but yielded at last, being assured it was by far our best course. If it was the best we are heartily glad we took it, and we got through the morning safely, but we are never going there again. We reached the ford in time, but had we not known it was a ford by directions given and unmistakable signs, we should as soon have thought of driving into the sea. The water was high, current strong—how deep we knew not—and it was quite a distance across. Charlie was sensible as before. We tucked our wraps in close, for where roads are made of rocks you cannot expect a smooth-running ford, and in we plunged again. Directly the water was over the hubs, and we felt as if it would reach the carriage top before we could get across. We held our breath in the spot where the current was strongest, but Charlie pulled steadily and all went well.
We understood our course would be level after the ford. The man must have forgotten the tow-path. From the ford we went right up on to the side of a cliff, and for a mile or more we were on the narrowest road we ever drove on, with the cliff fifty to one hundred feet straightup on our left, and a hundred feet down on our right was the river, or Schoharie Creek, with nothing to hinder our being there at short notice, not even a stick for protection. When we got to a rational road we inquired if we had been right, and were told “Yes, if you came by the tow-path; you would have had to ford three times if you had kept the valley.”
We told you at the outset that the Schoharie Valley is very beautiful. It lies now like a picture in our memory, and despite rocks, fords and tow-paths, we were very reluctant to leave it, but we were aiming for Saratoga, and at Schoharie we were advised to go by the way of Albany. It was the week of the bi-centennial celebration, and nothing but Albany was thought of, so we fell in with the multitude, and with a last look at Schoharie, turned east. The country was dull by contrast for a while, but became more interesting as we drew nearer the Hudson. We spent the night at Knowersville, and after everybody else had boarded the crowded excursion train to the Capital we leisurely started off via the plank road. Every grocer’s wagon or coal cart we met had a bit of ribbon, if no more, in honor of the occasion; and miles before we reached the city, strips of bunting adorned the humble dwellings. The city itself was one blaze of beauty. The orange, generously mixed with the red, white and blue, made the general effect extremely brilliant. We drove through all the principal streets and parks, dodging the processions—which were endless—with their bands and gay paraphernalia, to say nothing of the “trade” equipages, which suggested that all the business of Albany was turned into the streets.We went all over the Capitol building and had a fine view of the surrounding country from its upper rooms; then, feeling we had “done” the bi-centennial to our satisfaction, we drove nine miles up the Hudson to Cohoes for the night. When the porter brought our bags in, he said, with evident delight, “He’s given you the best rooms in the house,” and they were very nice; but luxuries are not always comforts, and we have not forgotten sitting bolt upright on the top of a marble table, with our book held high, in order to get near enough to the gaslight to read.
Everybody we saw the next day was dressed up and bound for Albany, for the President was to be there, but we were impatient for our letters at Saratoga and went on. The twenty-five miles was easily accomplished, and we found a large mail. In the evening we strolled about, enjoyed the fireworks in Congress Park, and talked over our plans for the next day. We had seen all the attractions about Saratoga in previous visits, except Mt. McGregor. We had thought to let Charlie rest, and go by rail, but were told we could drive up without the least difficulty, and that it was right on our way to Glen’s Falls. This seemed our best course, and we tried it, only to find, when too late, that the road had been neglected since the railroad was built, and was in a very rough condition. One led Charlie up and down the mountain, and the other walked behind to pick up any bags or wraps which might be jolted out on the way. The view from the hotel and the Grant Cottage is very pretty, and if we had been free from encumbrance, we should have enjoyed the walk up and down very much. As it was, wecould only laugh at ourselves and say, “Poor Charlie!” We had been to Mt. McGregor, however, and that is something, and it chanced to be the anniversary of General Grant’s death.
We spent the night at Glen’s Falls, and tried in vain to find some one who could tell us how to go home over the Green Mountains. We knew the way from Lake Champlain, having driven up that way several years ago, and finally concluded the longest way round might be the pleasantest way home. We had been to Lake George, and that was one reason we wanted to go again; so off we skipped over the nine miles’ plank road, and sat for two hours on the shore in front of the Fort William Henry House writing letters, which ought to have been inspired, for we dipped our pens in the waters of the beautiful lake. When we went to the stable for Charlie, we found an old man who knew all about the Green Mountains, and if we had seen him at Glen’s Falls we should have been on our direct way home. Our last plan was too pleasant to repent of now, and we took directions towards Lake Champlain. We had to retrace our way on the plank road several miles, then go across country to Fort Ann, a distance of sixteen miles. It is perplexing when you leave the main roads, there are so many ways of going across, and no two people direct you the same, which makes you sure the road you did not take would have been better.
At Fort Ann we had comforts without luxuries, in the homeliest little old-fashioned hotel, and stayed until the next afternoon to give Charlie a rest, then drove twelve miles to Whitehall, where we had a good-looking hoteland no comforts. There were things enough, but they needed the touch of a woman’s hand. It must have been a man who hung the looking-glass behind the bed. We rearranged, however, and borrowed a table and chair from an open room near by, and got along very well. These were trifles compared with the pouring rain, which was making mud out of the clayey soil which the Catskills could hardly compete with. We almost repented, but would not turn back when only fourteen miles were between us and friends. We think the men who held a consultation as to our best way to Benson must have conspired against us, or they never would have sent us by the Bay road. The rain ceased, but the mud, the slippery hills and the heathenish roads every way! We turned and twisted, stopped at every farmer’s door to ask if we could be right, and more than once got the most discouraging of all answers, “Yes, you _can_ go that way.” The spinning of a top seems as near straight as that drive did. I know we could not do it again, and I am surer yet we shall not try.
When, at last, we struck the stage road, things seemed more rational, and Charlie’s ears became very expressive. As we drove into Benson he tore along and nearly leaped a ditch in his haste to turn into our friend’s stable, where Cousin Charlie fed him so lavishly with oats seven years ago. No one seemed to know exactly how we got there, but our welcome was none the less hearty.
Now we were all right and needed no directions, for from this point our way over the Green Mountains was familiar, and after a short visit we turned towards home,anticipating every bit of the one hundred and fifty miles’ drive. At Fairhaven we lunched with another cousin while Charlie rested, and then had a most charming drive to Rutland. We now follow the line of the Central Vermont and Cheshire Railroad quite closely all the way to Fitchburg; but, fine as the scenery is by rail, one gets hardly a hint of its beauty by the carriage road. We rode seven miles on the steps of a car when returning from Saratoga later in the season, hoping for a glimpse, at least, of the beautiful gap between Ludlow and Chester, which compares favorably with Dixville Notch or Kaaterskill Clove, but a good coating of dust and cinders was the only reward. For more than a mile the carriage road winds through the gorge, the mountains high and very close on either side, and apparently without an opening.
One of the delights of our wanderings is to stop at a strange post office, and have a whole handful of letters respond to our call. Chester responded very generously, for here the truant letters, which were each time a little behind, and had been forwarded and reforwarded, met the ever prompt ones and waited our arrival. A few miles from Chester we found lovely maidenhair ferns by the roadside, and were gathering and pressing them, when an old man, in a long farm wagon, stopped and asked if we were picking raspberries. We told him it was rather late for raspberries, but we had found pretty ferns. To our surprise this interested him, and he talked enthusiastically of ferns and flowers, saying he had one hundred varieties in his garden, and asking if we ever saw a certain agricultural journal which was atreasure-house of knowledge to him. Still he was not a florist, but a vegetable gardener, and we learned ever so much about the business, and for a while could talk glibly of Angel of Midnight corn and Blue-eyed (?) pease and so on. He gave quite a discourse, too, on the advantages of co-operation and exchange of ideas. He told us how much he enjoyed a fair at the New England Institute Building, and was interested to know that we saw it when in flames. Our pleasant chat was brought to a sudden stop, just as he was telling us of his ambitious daughter and other family details, by other travelers, for whom we had to clear the road.
We spent a night pleasantly at Saxton’s River, and received the courtesies of friends, then on through Bellows Falls and Keene towards Monadnock. We wanted to go to the Mountain House for the night, but it was several miles out of our way, and we were tired as well as Charlie, with thirty miles’ driving in the heat, so contented ourselves with recollections of two delightful visits there, and stopped at Marlboro, five miles from Keene.
When we were packing up in the phaeton, the next morning, a lady brought us three little bouquets, the third and largest for Charlie, we fancy. It was a very pleasant attention to receive when among strangers and gave us a good send-off for our last day’s drive. Forty miles is a long drive at the end of a long journey, but Charlie seemed fully equal to it, and all went well as we journeyed along the familiar route through Troy, Fitzwilliam, Winchendon, Ashburnham and Fitchburg. We dined at Winchendon and visited the friends in Fitchburgfrom whom we have a standing invitation for our last tea out. The five miles from Fitchburg to Leominster Charlie never counts. He knows his own stall awaits him. Our last day, which began so pleasantly with a floral testimony from a stranger, ended with a night-blooming cereus reception in our own home.
“Did you take Summer Gleanings,” do I hear some friend ask? Oh yes, we took it, but not one sketch did we add to it. The fever for sketching ran high last year and spent itself, but every day of the July pages is radiant with pressed flowers and ferns. One more trip and the book will be full, “a thing of beauty,” which will be “a joy forever.”