Transcriber's Note
Page 74 — enthusiatically changed to enthusiastically
Page 127 —lettter changed to letter
Page 215 — Pemigewassett changed to Pemigewasset
Page 263 — hime changed to home
Page 271 — spic changed to spick
[Illustration: Ready for a Seven Hundred Miles Drive.
_See page 265._
]
14000
MILES
A CARRIAGE AND TWO WOMEN
_BY
FRANCES S. HOWE_
“AWAY, AWAY FROM MEN AND TOWNS
TO THE WILDWOOD AND THE DOWNS.”
—_Shelley_
PRIVATELY PRINTED
1906
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY
FRANCES S. HOWE.
SENTINEL PRINTING CO.
FITCHBURG.
FOREWORD.
Many of these informal reports of more than 14,000 miles’ driving were
written for the Boston Evening Transcript some years ago, and the later
letters for the Leominster Daily Enterprise. They cover an unbroken
series of summer and autumn journeys, which have never lost any of the
freshness and charm of that first little trip of two hundred miles
along the Connecticut. A drive across the continent, or even on the
other side of the water would seem less of an event to us now than that
first carriage journey. This volume is a response to “You ought to make
a book,” from many who have been interested in our rare experience.
F.C.A.
F.S.H.
Leominster, Mass.
CONTENTS.
I. SUMMER TRAVELS IN A PHAETON, 1
II. CHRONICLE OF THE TENTH ANNUAL DRIVE, 16
III. OLD ORCHARD AND BOSTON, 32
IV. MOOSILAUKE AND FRANCONIA NOTCH, 48
V. CONNECTICUT, WITH SIDE TRIP TO NEW
JERSEY, 73
VI. DIXVILLE NOTCH AND OLD ORCHARD, 91
VII. CATSKILLS, LAKE GEORGE AND GREEN
MOUNTAINS, 109
VIII. NARRAGANSETT PIER AND MANOMET POINT, 127
IX. WHITE MOUNTAINS AND VERMONT,
(A SIX HUNDRED MILES DRIVE.) 137
X. BY PHAETON TO CANADA,
(NOTES OF A SEVEN HUNDRED MILES TRIP.) 153
XI. OUTINGS IN MASSACHUSETTS, 173
XII. BAR HARBOR AND BOSTON, 190
XIII. DIXVILLE NOTCH AND THE NORTH SHORE, 211
XIV. THE KENNEBEC JOURNEY, 228
XV. ON HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS, (1894 TO 1904.) 241
XVI. LAKE MEMPHREMAGOG, 252
POSTSCRIPT. BUGGY JOTTINGS OF SEVEN HUNDRED
MILES DRIVING, CIRCUIT OF THE NEW ENGLAND STATES. 265
14000 MILES
CHAPTER I.
SUMMER TRAVELS IN A PHAETON.
“We were a jolly pair, we two, and ladies at that; and we had decided
to go, amid the protestations of the towns-people and the remarks of
Madam Grundy that it was not proper, and that there were so many tramps
it was not prudent for two ladies to take a trip with their horse and
carriage along the North Shore. Nevertheless, we take our lives in our
hands, and ‘do the trip’ in a large comfortable, roomy buggy,” etc.
A letter in the Boston Evening Transcript, under the heading “Along
the North Shore,” from which the paragraph above is taken, so aptly
describes a part of one of our journeys, that we cannot resist the
temptation to tell you something of our travels, which our friends no
longer consider daring and experimental, but a thoroughly sensible and
delightful way of combining rest and pleasure.
In the summer of 1872, “we two, and ladies at that,” made our trial
trip, with the consent and approval of family friends for our
encouragement, and the misgivings and fears of those outside to inspire
us with caution. Tramps were not in fashion, and I have forgotten what
was the terror of those days. Like the “other two,” we were equipped
with a pet horse—safe, but with no lack of spirit—a roomy phaeton,
with lunch basket, wraps, books, fancy work and writing materials all
at hand. Our bags, with rubber coverings, were strapped underneath the
carriage. Some cautious reader may like to know that we did not forget
to put in the “box” a wrench, a bottle of oil, strong cord, etc., for
emergencies. Of course we had a map, for geography was not taught very
practically in our school days, and we should be lost without one. We
made no definite plans beyond the first day, but had vaguely in mind,
if all went well, to drive through the valley of the Connecticut River.
Our first day’s ride took us around Wachusett. We did not delay to
climb its woody slopes, for we had many times visited our little
mountain, and knew its charms by heart. It was new scenes we were
seeking, and we were eagerly anticipating the drive along the
Connecticut, fancying that much more beautiful and romantic than the
familiar hills. It was not until we reached the hot, sandy roads, and
were surrounded by tobacco fields, with rarely a glimpse of the river,
that we realized that valleys are most enjoyable when seen from the
hill-tops. The peculiar charm of the view from Mt. Holyoke we can
never forget. A picture like that of the Northampton meadows, with the
silvery river winding through them, we have found on no other hill or
mountain-top.
If this trial journey had proved our last, we would like to recall it
in detail; but, as it has been succeeded by others more extended, we
must hastily pass by the novelty of our first crossing the Connecticut
by ferry, the historic points of interest in old Deerfield, the
terrific thunderstorm just after we left Greenfield, the Broad
Brook drive as we neared Brattleboro, the profuse quantity of lovely
maidenhair ferns by the roadside, dripping with the morning rain, our
lunch on the shore of Lake Spofford, and so on to Keene and Jaffrey.
How can we so hastily pass over the ascent of grand old Monadnock?
Perhaps we enjoyed it all the more for the repeated protests of the
youthful proprietor of the Mountain House, who assured us the feat was
impossible, as the heavy showers which we had so much enjoyed in our
morning drive had converted the path into a series of cascades. The
mists which had entirely concealed the mountain were just breaking
away, and we made the ascent in the face of warnings and water,
yielding to no obstacles. Before we left the summit it was mostly
clear, and we thought little of our moist condition or the difficulties
of the descent before us as we feasted our eyes, watching the showers
as they moved on from village to village in the valley below, leaving a
burst of sunlight in their wake. Our descent was rapid, notwithstanding
difficulties, and when we reached the hotel, so delightfully located
on the side of the mountain, we forthwith decided to prolong our stay.
After a cosy supper, for we were the only guests, we repaired to the
rocks to watch the sunset clouds, which are rarely finer. It was mild,
and we lingered while the darkness gathered, until the mountain looked
so black and lonely we did not like to think we had stood on that peak
alone only a few hours before. While we watched, the clouds began to
brighten, and soon the moon appeared in her full glory, making the
whole scene one of indescribable beauty. The next day was Sunday, and
a lovelier day never dawned. The peculiar Sunday quiet pervaded the
very atmosphere, and we sat on the rocks reading, writing and musing
all day, enjoying such a season of rest as one seldom experiences.
Two days more passed, and we were safe at home, after an absence
of only ten days, and about two hundred miles’ driving, but with
delightful recollections, which cannot be forgotten in a lifetime.
This trial trip was so successful that when another summer came it
was taken for granted by our friends that we should try again, and we
started, equipped as before with map, but no plan—only an inclination
to face north. Following this inclination took us through many thrifty
towns and villages, and gave us delightful drives over hills and
through valleys, until we found ourselves spending a night with the
Shakers on the top of a high hill in Canterbury, N. H. The brothers and
sisters were unsparing in their attentions, though strict in certain
requirements. We left them next morning, with a generous Shaker lunch
in our basket, and turned our horse toward Alton Bay. As Brother
George and Sister Philena assured us, it was the longest, roughest and
loneliest ten miles’ drive we had ever taken. The round trip on Lake
Winnipiseogee the following day was a delightful contrast.
We now began to study our map, for we had not even a vague idea where
next. We started at last, not anxious, but aimless; and after wandering
several days in obedience to the will of the hour, landed on Wells
Beach; we passed Sunday on York Beach; then drove on to Portsmouth,
where we left our horse for a day to visit the Isles of Shoals. The
places of resort and interest as we followed the coast to Gloucester,
Rye, Hampton, Salisbury, etc., are well known. After refreshing
ourselves at Gloucester with rowing and moonlight bathing we returned
to Newburyport, where we saw the homes of Lord Timothy Dexter, Harriet
Prescott Spofford, and others of note. An excursion on the Merrimac in
a barge, and the drive by the river road to Bradford and Haverhill, we
found very pleasant. It was in this vicinity that, for the first time,
we were received ungraciously. The good landlady of an old-fashioned
inn reluctantly received us, after rebuking us for the abuse of our
horse, little knowing how much more thoughtful we were of him than
of ourselves. He looked tired that night, for the seashore had not
agreed with him, and I think had her knowledge extended so far, she
would have reported us to the S. F. T. P. O. C. T. A. However, after
cross-examination, she conducted us to a room spotlessly clean, the
floor covered with the choicest of braided mats, and two beds mountain
high, but expressly enjoined us “not to tumble but one of them.”
We left the next morning laden with good advice, which, carefully
followed, returned us safely home ere many days, with our horse in
better condition than when we started on our journey.
Of course we were ready to go again the next year, this time starting
southerly, spending nights in Northboro, Franklin, Taunton and Tiverton
Stone Bridge. Thus far the scenery and roads do not compare favorably
with those in New Hampshire; but when we reached Newport, we were
compensated for lack of interesting driving.
Margery Deane tells your readers all one needs to know of this place
of places. So we will find our way to New Bedford, leave our horse and
take a look at Martha’s Vineyard for a few days. Our first impression
of the “Cottage City” was that of a miniature Newport; but this
every one knows all about, so we will go on to Plymouth, where we
saw everything worth seeing. Plymouth Rock would have satisfied us
more fully had it looked as it does in the pictures of the “Landing,”
instead of being out in the midst of dry land, with a pagoda built over
it, and inscriptions to remind one that it is not an ordinary flagstone.
We found much that interested us in Marshfield, Hingham, and Milton
with its Blue Hills. We have not forgotten a night at the homelike
Norfolk House, and an afternoon devoted to the famed residences in
Watertown. We drove to Point Shirley one morning during our stay near
Boston, and on returning gave our journey another historic touch by
going to the top of Bunker Hill Monument; and still another a few days
later, as we visited the old battle-grounds in Lexington and Concord,
on our way home.
Before another summer, whispers of tramps were heard, and soon they
were fully inaugurated, making us tremble and sigh as we thought of
the opposition that threatened us. A revolver was suggested, in case
we persisted in facing this danger, and finally as go we must, we
condensed our baggage that it might be out of sight, and confidently
took the reins, having no fear of anything ahead, so long as our
greatest terror—a loaded revolver—was close at hand, not “hidden away
in one corner under the seat,” but in a little pocket made on purpose,
where it could be seized without delay when our game appeared. As we
shall not refer to our “companion” again, never having had occasion to
use it, we will say here that it is no longer a terror but a sort of
chaperone, in whose care we rest secure.
Our driving this season was within the limits of our own State,
and we have yet to find anything more truly beautiful than western
Massachusetts, with its Berkshire hills and grand old towns,
Stockbridge, Lee and Lenox. Our map was on a small scale, and the
distance from Pittsfield to the Hudson River looked very short, so we
ordered good care for our horse, and took the six o’clock train one
morning for Hudson, where we met the boat for New York. The day was
perfect, and our enjoyment complete. We reached the city at dusk, and
next thought to surprise a friend, twenty miles out, in New Jersey,
where we received a joyous welcome. The next day we devoted to New
York, returning by night boat to Hudson, and before nine o’clock the
following morning, after forty miles by rail again, we resumed our
driving from Pittsfield, delighted with our side trip of nearly four
hundred miles, but oh! so glad to be in our cosy phaeton once more. The
homeward route was full of interesting details, which we must leave.
Centennial year came next, and we made our shortest trip, driving only
one hundred and fifty miles in New Hampshire in early autumn.
The tramp terror increased at home and abroad, and when summer came
again our “guardians” looked so anxious, we said nothing, and went
camping instead of driving. A party of twelve, on the shores of Lake
Wachusett, with royal accommodations in the number and size of tents
and hammocks and three boats at a private landing, diverted us at the
time. But, as the season waned, we pined, and before October was gone
we were permitted to revolve around the “Hub” for two weeks, supposed
to be quite safe, while so near the centre of civilization. It was like
a June day when we sat on the rocks at Nahant, and like November when
dreariest, as we drove around Marblehead Neck, and watched the ocean so
dark and angry; while the chill winds pierced our thickest wraps only
a few days later. We shall not soon forget our drive from Cambridge to
Hingham in the severest northeast storm of the season, or our delight
on the rocks at Nantasket, after this three-days’ storm cleared, and we
felt the dashing spray. Our “Hub” journey was none the less interesting
for being familiar, and we did not omit the attractions of Wellesley on
our way home.
Early in the following July, the New Hampshire tramp law having come
to our rescue, we once more turned our faces toward the ever beautiful
Lake Winnipiseogee. We renewed our acquaintance with the Canterbury
Shakers, and as we always avail ourselves of whatever is new or
interesting in our path, stopped over for a day at Weirs Landing to
witness the inauguration of the Unitarian grove meetings. After the
opening of this feast of reason we were of one mind, and without delay
provided good board and care for our horse for a week, and settled down
to three and four services a day. After the accomplishment of this feat
we visited points of interest about Centre Harbor. In accordance with
our usual good fortune we had a perfectly clear day on Red Hill, and
appreciated all Starr King has written of its charms. The day spent
at Ossipee Falls and Cascades gave us unbounded pleasure. We reveled
in the rough walking and climbing, and after exploring above and
below the falls, we were all ready to enjoy the lunch our hostess had
prepared for our party, which we spread on a huge rock in the narrow
gap. Our horse rested while we climbed, and the ten miles return drive
to Centre Harbor required our utmost skill. On the following day we
drove to Concord, N. H., a distance of forty miles. After spending a
few days with friends in this charming place, we drove on, passing a
night at the Mountain House, Monadnock, to refresh the memories of our
first visit there, and breathing the pure air of Petersham, Barre and
Princeton as we journeyed towards our own beautiful Leominster.
After these seven years’ wanderings, we were considered virtually
members of the great “Order of Tramps,” and from that time to the
present we have had full and free consent “to go to our own company”;
and when we boldly proposed crossing the Green Mountains to pay a visit
to friends near Lake Champlain, all agreed it would be a delightful
thing for us to do. We closely followed the familiar railroad route
through Keene, Bellows Falls and Rutland; it was a glorious drive all
the way. At one time we seemed buried in the mountains without any way
of escape, but we had only to follow our winding road, which after many
twistings and turnings brought us to Ludlow. The next night we were
safely over the mountains, and soon were with our friends.
Our week in the cosy town of Benson, surrounded by high hills, must
be left to your imagination. We will only tell you of a visit to Lake
George. A party of fifty, we started at six o’clock one morning, in
all sorts of vehicles. Four miles’ jolting up and down steep hills
took us to Benson Landing, Lake Champlain, and in course of time (a
dozen people in a heavy two-horse wagon, and two other vehicles on a
scow, towed by two men in a row-boat, is by no means rapid transit,) the
several detachments of our party were safely landed on the opposite
side. And then, what a ride! We never dreamed that the narrow strip of
land between Lake Champlain and Lake George, only four miles across,
could give us so much pleasure. At first we held our breath, but soon
learned that the driver and horses were quite at home, and gave our
fears to the winds as they galloped up hills almost perpendicular only
to trot down again to the sound of the grating brakes, the wheels going
over great rocks on one side one minute and down in a deep rut on the
other side the next. We many times congratulated ourselves that we
joined the party in the big wagon, instead of driving our good Charlie,
as first planned. The steepest pitch of all brought us at last to the
shore of the beautiful Lake George, at a point about ten miles south of
Ticonderoga, where the boat was to meet us by special arrangement.
Only those who have experienced it can realize what we enjoyed on that
bright day, as we glided over the mirror-like waters, enraptured with
the loveliness surrounding us.
After a few hours’ rest at Fort William Henry, we were ready for the
return sail. As we landed, our driver stood by his horses, eager for
a start; a few of us expressed our willingness to walk for a while,
possibly remembering the last fearful pitches in that rough road, as
well as the beautiful cardinal flowers and ferns we desired to gather.
After a walk and run of nearly two miles, the driver summoned us to
the wagon, just before we reached the pitch we most dreaded and were
hastening to avoid. We obeyed, and now galloped on until we reached
Lake Champlain again, and took breath while we slowly ferried across
in the gathering twilight. Our remaining four miles was a glorious
moonlight drive. As we entered the village it seemed impossible that we
had been away only since morning, for we had seen and enjoyed so much.
The next day we turned our thoughts homeward. Not wishing to return
by the same route, we ventured into New York State, and after two or
three days reached Saratoga Springs. All frequenters of this resort can
easily imagine our routine there—the drive to the lake at the approved
time, etc. The roving spirit so possessed us that we left the scene of
gayety without regret, and on we went over the hills to take a look at
Bennington on our way to North Adams. We drove over Hoosac Mountain,
but have yet to see its charms; the mist concealed everything but our
horse. We waited two hours at a farmhouse near the summit for fair
weather, but in vain. As we started in despair the clouds parted for
an instant, giving us glimpses into the valley, then united and came
down upon us in a deluging rain. Our dripping horse carefully picked
his way down the steep mountain, and when we reached the level road the
water was nearly a foot in depth for some distance. We splashed along
quite happy, for this was not half so aggravating as the fitful mist of
the morning, which every moment promised to clear away. The rest of our
journey was pleasant, but uneventful.
As we reviewed the drive of four hundred miles, we felt we must have
reached the climax within our limits. But no! we added another hundred
miles, and extended our time to nearly a month on our next trip.
Lacking definite plans as usual, we drove to Lake Winnipiseogee once
more, thinking another session of the Grove meeting at Weirs would be
a good beginning. When the glorious week ended, there was seemingly an
adjournment to the White Mountains, and as we had faithfully attended
these meetings from the first, it was clearly our duty to follow; so
on we drove, resting our horse at Plymouth, spending the night at
Campton Village, and next day visiting in turn the attractions of the
Pemigewasset Valley, the Flume, Pool, Basin, Profile and Echo Lake.
Passing on through the beautiful Notch, night overtook us at Franconia.
On our way to Bethlehem, the following morning, we left our horse for
an hour and walked up Mt. Agassiz, which well repaid the effort. With
the aid of a glass we traced the drive before us, through Bethlehem’s
one long street, past the Twin Mountain House and along the Cherry
Mountain road, turning until it nearly described a half-circle, and
finally reaching Jefferson.
We realized far more than Mt. Agassiz promised. We were leaving the
beauties of the Franconia Mountains and nearing the grandeur of the
White Mountain range, and in many respects it was the most impressive
drive of our journey. The last four miles from Jefferson to the
Highlands, just at sunset facing Mts. Washington, Jefferson, Adams and
Madison, was beyond description. Here we spent several days; for three
reasons: We had surely found the headquarters of the “adjournment,” for
we met many Weirs friends; then, too, we were floating about on the
northerly margin of our map, and could go no farther in that direction,
and lastly, we were waiting for a favorable day for Mt. Washington.
One of these waiting days we spent on Mt. Adams; two of us, out of our
party of seven, registering our names in the “little tin box” at the
summit.
It was an exhausting climb of four miles, up the roughest and most
beautiful path imaginable, marked out by the Appalachian Club. We
encountered four hailstorms, and suffered extremely from cold on
that August day, but the five minutes’ perfectly clear view more
than compensated. The gathering mist, which had cleared just for our
glimpse, warned us to seek our path, and we rapidly descended to the
Appalachian camp, where we found our friends and a glowing fire. After
a rest and lunch we continued our descent. An hour’s ride after we
reached the base brought us to our Jefferson “home” again, delighted
with the day’s experience. The sun went down in great glory, and the
weather authorities declared the morrow would be a fine day for Mt.
Washington; so, despite stiffened and aching joints, we took our
breakfast at halfpast five, and at six o’clock we were snugly packed
in our phaeton, with blankets and wraps all in use, for it was cold.
Our good horse felt the inspiration of the morning, and we started off
briskly on our thirteen miles’ drive over Cherry Mountain to the Fabyan
House, where we took the early train up Mt. Washington. Everybody does
this, so we will leave without comment, except on the unusual clearness
of the view, and hasten to our driving.
We reached Fabyan’s again after the slow descent at half-past four.
Our carriage was ready; and in less than five minutes we were on our
way. Passing the Crawford House, with its attractive surroundings, we
entered the Notch. What grandeur! Such a contrast to the quiet beauty
of the Franconia Notch! The road through this narrow gap is very rough,
with only here and there a place where vehicles can meet or pass, and
constant watchfulness is required. We spent the night at the Willey
House, with Mt. Webster looming up before us, and Mt. Willard and
others near by shutting us in completely. We reluctantly left this
quiet spot. The drive to North Conway was full of picturesque beauty;
then, as we journeyed, the mountains dwindled into hills, the lovely
meadows became pasture land, and Nature seemed dressed in every-day
attire.
Not yet satisfied, we turned toward the seashore again, following
the coast from Newburyport to Gloucester, this time rounding Cape
Ann, delighted with the unsuspected charms of Pigeon Cove, and
spending a night at “Squam.” Our next day’s drive through Magnolia,
Manchester-by-the-Sea and Beverly Farms took us to the Essex House,
Salem, where our course meets that of the “other two.” The interesting
account of their drive to this point need not be repeated, as we
retrace their steps through Marblehead, Swampscott, Lynn and Saugus,
thence to Boston. Here we visited, and our horse rested a few days,
when he proved himself more than equal to the forty miles in one day,
which ended our last summer’s journey.
These recollections have been put together on the cars (literally
at railroad speed), without reference to diary, home letters, map
or guidebook, and briefly outline our nine journeys and about three
thousand miles’ driving. We have told you very little of our every-day
enjoyment. The perfect ease and safety with which we have accomplished
this we attribute mainly to extreme caution and constant consideration
for our horse, and we are full of courage for the future. We have
friendly invitations from Maine to Colorado and Wyoming, and trust we
may be spared to visit at least one of these points, when we celebrate
our tenth anniversary.