CHRONICLE OF THE TENTH ANNUAL DRIVE.
Some of the many readers of the Transcript may remember seeing in
its columns about one year ago (Dec. 27, 1880) a letter under the
heading “Summer Travels in a Phaeton,” which gave an outline of nearly
three thousand miles’ driving by two ladies in nine successive summer
journeys. Since then we two ladies have enjoyed our tenth anniversary,
and will tell you something about this last journey, which lost no
charms from having become an old story.
Many times during the winter and spring came the query, “Shall you
take your carriage journey next summer?” and as many times we answered
“We hope so,” but often with a smothered doubt, as we thought of the
fate of hosts of “best-laid plans,” and feared we would not always be
exceptions to such a general rule.
As the early summer weeks passed, the obstacles multiplied; after a
while circumstances began to combine in our favor, and by the 15th of
August the way was clear for a start. A new difficulty now arose. Where
could we go?
All through the year we had thought of Maine, which was sufficient
reason why we should not go there, for we never go where we have
thought of going. We have driven through the valley of the Connecticut,
and along the coast from Newport, R. I., to Wells, Me., over the
Berkshire Hills, up to Lake Winnipiseogee four times, all through the
White Mountains, over the Green Mountains to Lake Champlain, Lake
George and Saratoga, and taken in all the big hills, little mountains,
inhabited island and country resorts on the way. Where should we find
“new worlds to conquer”? In our perplexity, we remembered that a party
of friends were in Dublin, N. H., for the summer, and resolved to make
that our starting point.
The morning of the 15th of August dawned bright and cool, and we held
our wraps close about us, as we stowed ourselves away for the tenth
time in our same cosy phaeton, with all our equipments in the way of
bags, straps, waterproofs, umbrellas, books, maps, writing materials,
fancy work, lunch basket, and—the only thing we take which we never
use—our revolver.
Our first day’s drive was very enjoyable; the air was so cool we could
not dispense with our wraps even at midday. We said good-morning to our
friends in Fitchburg, rested our horse, and sent our first mail home at
Ashburnham, lunched by the wayside, surprised friends from Boston who
were rusticating in the berry pastures of Rindge, and finally passed
the night at East Jaffrey, the only place in the vicinity where we
had not proposed spending the first night. The hotel proprietor was
suffering from a recent sunstroke, but had recovered sufficiently to
provide every comfort, including a fire in our room, and after another
contribution to the mail, refreshing sleep and a good breakfast, we
were ready for our morning drive to Dublin, where we found our friends
delightfully located in the suburbs, close by the lovely Monadnock
Lake, with the grand old mountain looming up on the opposite shore.
We lost no time, but proceeded to “do” Dublin, inspired by the cool,
bracing atmosphere. We walked and talked, rode and rowed, and verified
all the glowing descriptions, even to sifting the sand on the lake
shore for garnets.
It now became necessary to decide in which direction to journey. As
we drove towards the village next morning, it occurred to us that
we had made a great omission in “doing” Dublin, not having called
on the postmaster; in the words of another, “Our genial, ubiquitous
postmaster, whose talents are so universal, whose resources so
unlimited that he will build you a house, match your worsted, stock
your larder, buy a horse, put up your stove, doctor your hens or cash a
check with equal promptness, skill and courtesy.” Surely, he could help
us. We took our maps to him, and asked a few questions, but, strange to
say, he did not seem to get any definite idea of what we wanted, and,
after a little hesitation, politely inquired, “Where do you wish to
go?” We then hesitated, and as politely replied, “We do not know; we
are driving, and would like to go where we have never been, and return
by a different route.” Immediately his face brightened, he pointed out
various places of interest, to which we could only say, “Yes, very
delightful; but we have been there.”
Finally, he produced a map of his own, and soon started us off
somewhere, I forget where, and, perhaps, we did not go there at all.
Suffice it to say, we now felt Dublin was “done,” and turned our horse
north, as we always do, when at a loss.
On we drove through Hancock, Bennington, Antrim and Hillsborough,
wondering where we should find ourselves at night. We referred to our
map and decided to go to ——, but on making inquiries at a farmhouse,
the woman consulted her goodman and advised us not to go there, for a
passing stranger had told them the hotel was filled to overflowing,
and the dancing hall, dining-room and neighbors’ houses were occupied.
She was much interested, and said, “If you do not wish to drive much
farther, there is a little village two miles on, and widow ——
sometimes puts up people.” We had driven far enough, and thought it
best to make a trial of private hospitality. It was a new experience,
we had never been “put up,” and felt as if we were imposing upon the
good old lady as we lifted the knocker and asked if we could stay
there over night. She looked at us over her glasses, then sent her one
boarder to take care of our horse, while she helped us deposit our
innumerable things in the “spare room.” We quietly put the revolver in
a safe place, and glanced at each other as we thought, “What would she
say?”
Widow —— and her boarder had supped, but soon a supper was prepared
for us in the sitting-room, which we lazily enjoyed seated in
old-fashioned rocking-chairs. After our cosy repast we went to the barn
to see how Charlie was faring. He looked at us as if he thought meal a
poor return for his day’s service, and we went to the “store” for oats.
Several bystanders assured us it was a bad season for oats, and advised
corn; but an old gentleman enlisted himself in our behalf, and said we
should have some oats in the morning if he had to go to ——, two miles
away, for them.
We went up to the churchyard to watch the sunset clouds, strolled
down to the bridge, and when it grew dark we went “home.” Our hostess
borrowed a yesterday’s paper, as we were anxious for the latest news
from the President, and after reading we crocheted and chatted. The
good lady opened her heart to us, and freely poured forth her lifetime
joys and sorrows. Speaking of the children and grandchildren reminded
her how much she enjoyed the seraphine in the other room when they
visited her. We said we would like to try it, when she eagerly proposed
having it brought into the sitting-room, where it was warm. We moved
it for her, and sang through all the psalm-tune and Moody and Sankey
books we could find. Our friend was very grateful, and when at a late
hour we proposed removing the instrument to its proper place, she said,
“Oh! leave it, and perhaps you will sing one more tune in the morning.”
We rested well on a feather bed, in an unpretentious room, with odds
and ends of furniture and ware which would tempt the enthusiastic relic
hunters, and breakfasted in the kitchen. While waiting for Charlie,
we sang another gospel hymn, and the good lady once more thanked us,
saying she always liked to take care of good people, and really rather
“put up” a gentleman than a tin peddler.
The day was misty and disagreeable, but on we went, imagining the
charms of Sunapee Lake on a bright, sunny day, as we followed its
shores, and resting and writing at Newport. Here, too, we again
considered our course, but with no inclination to face about. We talked
of going to Claremont and following the river, but were advised to
keep our present direction and avoid the sandy valley roads. We left
Newport without any idea where we should find shelter for the night, as
hotels were scarce, but before dark we were again very comfortably “put
up.”
The clouds were heavy next morning when we resumed our driving, and in
the afternoon the rain fell in torrents. When the first shower came,
we drove under a church shed for protection, but after a half-hour we
concluded time was too precious to be spent in that way, so put aside
our books and prepared to brave the storm. Our courage and waterproofs
were put to the test, but neither failed, and at night we hung
ourselves up to dry in a little country tavern.
The next day we crossed the Connecticut River into Thetford, leaving
New Hampshire to begin our wanderings in Vermont; and wanderings they
proved to be, for the first day at least. We were in the region of
copper mines and of friends, but we did not know exactly where either
the mines or the friends were to be found. We drove to West Fairlee,
for we had ordered our mail forwarded there, and our first letters
from home were eagerly anticipated. The news was good, and after
dinner we began inquiries about our mining explorations. There seemed
to be as many opinions as there were people, but we started off at
last with directions to turn twice to the right, go two miles, leave
the red school-house to the left, cross a bridge, go down a hill and
through Bear or Bare Gap (we never found out which), strike a new road,
etc. We were not sure that we remembered the precise order of these
directions, but we did strike a new road, and went down a hill—such a
hill! We preferred walking, and Charlie was willing to be led, so that
difficulty was overcome. After quite an afternoon’s experience we found
a little hotel, where we passed the night, and next morning we retraced
the latter part of our drive in search of Pike Hill, where we were told
we should find friends and mines all together.
We were heartily welcomed and initiated into the mysteries of mining,
and collected some specimens, all of which were very interesting to us.
It would seem as if we ought now to be content to turn towards home;
but, after some deliberation, we convinced ourselves it was advisable
to go a little farther, now we had got so far, for we might not have
another opportunity so good. “A bird in the hand,” you know, and it
is just as true of a horse. So, after supper and a little music, we
got together a good supply of maps, and organized our friends into a
geography class. We were very familiar with our own map, but drove into
the northern margin last year, and now we seemed likely to entirely
overstep its borders. As we studied and questioned our friends, we
began to feel as if we could go anywhere; but prudence prompted us
to follow the line of the railroad, so we traced the towns along the
Passumpsic, and pinned the precious scrap of paper to our map.
We watched the clouds until half-past ten next day (we never heed
the weather except we are with friends, who always think it seems
inhospitable to let us drive off in a storm); then started for Wells
River, a drive of thirty-one miles. This was the first time since we
left home that we had any idea in the morning where we should sleep at
night. The twelve-miles’ drive to Bradford was as lovely as our friends
described it; the road follows Wait’s River very closely nearly all
the way; it is a clear stream, with a bright, stony bottom, much more
beautiful than many larger rivers with greater reputation.
We lunched as we drove, on bread and honey, the last sweet gift of
our friends at Pike Hill, then rested our horse and made our daily
contribution to the mail at Bradford. We had our prettiest view of the
Connecticut that afternoon as we drove through Newbury and made another
of our “surprise calls” on friends visiting in that vicinity.
Our landlord at Wells River, an old gentleman, made many inquiries when
he found we lived very near his birthplace. His face brightened as
we told him of his friends, who were our next-door neighbors, and he
wondered at the distance we had driven “alone.”
It seemed quite natural to make another start with uncertainty before
us. We followed the Connecticut to Barnet, and just as we left the
hotel, after two hours’ rest, the contents of a huge black cloud were
poured upon us; it was such a deluging rain, that as soon as we were
out of the village we drove under a tree for partial shelter, and while
waiting, finished up our honey. We got to St. Johnsbury in advance of
our mail, and ordered it forwarded to Newport, thinking we might leave
our horse for a day or two, and take a little trip by rail.
Strange as it may seem to those unused to such aimless wanderings, we
went on and on, facing north at every fresh start, and gathering a
bright bunch of golden-rod for our carriage each morning, as we walked
up the long, sandy hills (no wraps needed now), and winding about such
queer, forlorn roads, with fields of burnt stumps and disagreeable
marshes on either side, our map “annex” and infallible guide, the
Passumpsic, assuring us we were not lost, until one bright morning we
drove into Newport, and a “trip by rail” had not even been mentioned.
As we drove leisurely along the main street, taking our first look at
Lake Memphremagog, a friend from Boston stepped off the piazza of the
hotel and recognized us, as he paused to allow our carriage to pass.
When recovered from his surprise, that we had strayed so far from home,
he told us he was on his way to meet his family, and pitch his tents on
the shores of the lake about twenty miles from Newport, and suggested
we should drive to Georgeville, and visit their camp. Now we realized
the convenience of having no plans to change, and went directly to
inquire about the roads, and secure oats for Charlie, lest we should
find none on our way. People generally go by boat, but we were assured
we should find good roads. Having learned by experience that “good
roads” in Vermont take one up and down such hills as in Massachusetts
we should drive many miles to avoid, we asked more particularly about
the hills. “Oh! yes, a little hilly, but a good road.” So with minute
directions for the lake-shore route, we left our friend to the mercy of
the waters, while we traveled by land. We never knew when we crossed
the Derby line, for we were absorbed in watching for a turn which
would take us near the lake, but we learned after a while that our
“lake-shore road” was a mile inland. “A little mite hilly”! We went up
and down such hills as we never saw but in dreams, leading our good
Charlie, who picked his way very cautiously. At the top of a high hill
we found a house, and a little Canadian girl said we could stop there,
if we could take care of our horse; she assisted us in unharnessing
and arranging a place for Charlie and his oats. We declined kind
invitations to go into the house, and spread our blanket under a tree,
where we had a fine view of Owl’s Head. Our little friend brought us
milk and fruit, and after our lunch we wrote for an hour, then resumed
our driving, in blissful ignorance of the fact that the worst hills
were yet before us. We met men leading their horses, which encouraged
us to feel that our precaution was not feminine timidity. The last hill
reminded us of our drive over Hoosac Mountain. We left Newport at 10 A.
M., and at 6 P. M. we arrived at the Camperdown House in Georgeville,
a quaint Canadian village, feeling as if we had driven or walked one
hundred miles, rather than twenty.
We were cordially received at this most homelike of places, and a
room was ready for us. Our windows opened on the piazza, which was
shaded by a row of cut spruce trees that were replaced by fresh ones
occasionally. After supper we strolled down to the boat landing and
took a survey of the lake and fine shore scenery. We have not time or
space to tell you all we enjoyed while there. We spent the days in
“camp” and the nights at the Camperdown, going back and forth in a
row-boat, the Nymph, our friend’s steam yacht, or driven at breakneck
speed by one of the party who considered those perpendicular hills
“good roads.”
Only those who have tried it know the charms of camping. From the time
the one whose turn it is goes over the pastures to get the cream for
breakfast, until the last one is served to cocoa at night, there is
something to do, and that which is work at home becomes pastime on the
borders of a lovely lake, with fresh air and good company. We fish with
great interest when a dinner depends on our success; then, while the
potatoes are boiling is just the time for bathing, after which, the
table spread under the overarching trees looks very inviting. When all
have helped to clear away and “do up” the dishes, then comes a time to
separate for an hour—some to write, some to sleep, and others to read
Spanish, English, prose or poetry, according to taste and ability. As
the afternoon wears away, some one proposes a sunset row, and so the
time too quickly flies. Rainy days have a charm of their own, and all
the sympathy for “those people in camp” is wasted.
We shall not soon forget our trip to Magog in the Nymph. There were
eight of us that afternoon, and we had a delightful sail. We left the
gentlemen to find supplies of wood for our return trip (sometimes we
helped saw and carry), while we ladies went shopping. We found a little
store where tools, groceries, dry goods, jewelry and confectionery were
kept; they had no axe, the only thing we wanted, so we bought lace pins
at five cents a pair. The clerk quietly asked if we were going to have
a thunder storm, which startled us, and we lost no time in getting
back to the boat. Clouds gather rapidly on Lake Memphremagog, and our
three hours’ sail looked long. We kept the steam up, and talked about
everything but a shower until dark, when we were quiet, and observed,
with only casual comment, the clouds which grew blacker and blacker,
hiding the stars, and occasionally obscuring a light-house. We watched
eagerly for the light we had left on the “Point” to guide us into our
little harbor, but the wind had blown it out. One of the party took a
row-boat (we had two with us) and went in search of our landing; the
rising wind drowned the calls back and forth, but after a few anxious
moments, a welcome light glimmered on the shore, and soon we heard
the splashing of the oars. It was with difficulty the boat was guided
to the Nymph, and just as the last boat-load was leaving her to go
ashore, the storm burst in sudden fury over our heads. We rushed to the
tents and gave up rowing or riding to the Camperdown that night. After
securing the boats, the gentlemen, came in dripping, but quite ready
for the lunch prepared by quick hands. We talked it all over as we
sipped our cocoa, then separated, and soon were lulled to rest by the
pattering of the rain on the canvas, and the distant rumbling thunder.
The next day was Sunday, and we enjoyed every hour of it. At the time
appointed we assembled for service. The preacher sat with rubber
boots on, and the audience, small but appreciative, were in hammocks
and cosy corners. The sermon was good, and the singing, which was
congregational, was well sustained. The day was not long enough, for it
was our last in camp, and we looked back wishfully as we started off
on our last row. We reached the Camperdown just as the sun was setting
in gorgeous splendor. Supper was waiting for the “prodigals,” and after
we had given an account of ourselves, we went to our room to plan for
the morrow.
We decided to go to Newport by water, and, as if to favor our decision,
the morning dawned perfect. It had been hazy and yellow for several
days, but the veil was lifted. Our friends rowed over to see us aboard
the Lady of the Lake, especially Charlie, who objects to water. We sat
in the bow, fanned by the soft breezes, recalling just such a day on
Lake George, while poor Charlie was frightened and stamping furiously
beneath us, evidently thinking some effort on his part was necessary to
effect an escape.
As we stood on the wharf at Newport an official-looking person came to
us and asked if that was our carriage. We looked inquiringly, and said
“Yes.”
“Have you anything you did not carry from the States?”
We now recognized our inquisitor, and answered so promptly, “Oh! no,”
that we quite forgot the pins we bought at Magog. Charlie was quite
excited, and we allowed him to be led to the stable, while we went to
the Memphremagog House for dinner. We wanted to go to Willoughby Lake
that afternoon, but we did not anticipate this when we pieced our map,
and were now obliged to go in search of a new one. We went first for
our mail, which was fresh to us, though a week old, and ordered the
letters expected at night returned to St. Johnsbury. We found a little
advertising map, then started on seemingly a new journey. Charlie had
fared as well as we in Canada, and our twenty miles’ drive was easily
accomplished. The glorious sunset and moonrise on Lake Willoughby was a
fitting close to the day begun on Lake Memphremagog.
We watched the clouds from our window until quite late, then drew the
shade and pinned to it our map with the two supplements.
For an hour or more we studied diligently, trying to find an unfamiliar
route home, but all in vain. We had jestingly remarked, one day, that
“we would go home through the mountains to avoid the hills,” and as a
last resort we decided to do so, for that is a drive that will bear
repeating any number of times.
The lake was dotted with white-caps next morning, and our desire to
row was forgotten. We experienced our idea of a lakeshore drive as we
followed the lovely road close to the water’s edge for four miles, Mt.
Hor and Mt. Pisgah towering so high above, and looking as if they were
one mountain, but rent in twain by some convulsion of nature, while
the water had rushed in to fill the gap, as they drifted apart. The
drive was a striking contrast to the sandy hills we went over in the
afternoon, which we remembered too well, but no planning could avoid.
We passed the night at St. Johnsbury, and just as the mail came for
which we were waiting, Charlie returned from the blacksmith’s with his
new shoes.
We now turned our faces towards the mountains, feeling quite at home as
we journeyed off the supplements on to our old map, and still more so,
when after a long, hot drive, we reached Franconia, where we struck
the route of our last year’s journey, which we must now follow all the
way, even spending the nights at the same places. We took a good view
of the mountains at Franconia, recalling the names of the different
peaks, and very fortunately, for in the morning there was not one to be
seen. The sun looked like a huge ball of fire, and the atmosphere was
very smoky. We drove on, trying to realize we were surrounded by grand
mountains; but not until we were close to them in the Notch could we
discern the faintest outline, and the “Old Man” looked as if dissolving
in the clouds. It seemed dreamy and mysterious until we got to the
Basin, Pool and Flume, which were not affected by the atmosphere.
Our night at Campton passed pleasantly, but we started in the rain
next day for Weirs, Lake Winnipiseogee, where we proposed to rest our
horse for a day or two. From Plymouth to Weirs is a crooked way, and
the pouring rain so changed the aspect of everything, that we felt
every turn was a wrong one. It was chilly and disagreeable, but we put
on all our wraps, the waterproof hoods over our heads, and brought
the “boot” close up to our chins, then kept warm with ginger cookies.
From the manner of the people of whom we made inquiries as we passed,
we suspected our appearance was ludicrous. After many twistings and
turnings we arrived at Hotel Weirs. We had never been there except when
ministers and meetings abounded, but the place was now deserted, and we
read “Endymion” instead of being preached to four times a day.
After two days’ rest we journeyed towards Concord, N. H., spending a
night with the Canterbury Shakers on our way. Sister Philinda thought
she remembered us, and found our names registered in her book eight
years ago. The “yellow day” we passed with friends in Concord. Only
two days more! We wanted to go to Boston as we did last year, but
thought it best to follow the same old route to Milford, which we had
been over so many times, then varied our course by going through Mason
instead of Townsend Harbor, although we were told it was “very hilly.”
We knew they were not Vermont or Canada hills. This new road, with its
charming bits of scenery, gave a touch of freshness to the latter part
of our journey. According to our annual custom, we supped with friends
in Fitchburg, then drove home by moonlight. Nearly four weeks, and
just five hundred miles’ driving, is the brief summing up of our tenth
anniversary.