OLD ORCHARD AND BOSTON.
“We shall look for a report of your journey in the Transcript,” has
been said to us many times, and we will respond to the interest
manifested in our wanderings by sharing with our friends through your
columns as much of our pleasure as is transferable.
The fact that we had driven between three and four thousand miles in
ten successive summers by no means diminished our desire to go again,
and it gave us great pleasure when, in reply to “Can we have the horse
for a journey this summer?” Mr. A. said “Why, I suppose of course
you will go.” We decided to start about the middle of July, a little
earlier than usual, and one might well imagine that in the intervening
weeks many routes were planned and talked over, but in truth we said
nothing about it until the last moment, when we asked each other, “Have
you thought where to go?” and in turn each answered “No.” It may seem
strange and suggest lack of purpose, but we like our journeys to make
themselves, as a certain novelist says her stories write themselves,
and she cannot tell when they begin how they will end.
As we tried to decide which direction to take first, we wondered if
we ever could have another journey as delightful as the last, when we
crossed the borders into Canada; then we recalled all we enjoyed on our
White Mountain drive, and that suggested never-to-be-forgotten roads
among the Green Mountains, and again the glories of our own Berkshire
Hills, and so on until Lake Memphremagog, the White Mountains, Green
Mountains, Berkshire Hills, Martha’s Vineyard, Lake Winnipiseogee,
Newport, the Connecticut Valley and the network of highways we have
traveled were all in a tangle, and there seemed to be no places of
interest left within our reach. Next came to mind the chance suggestion
of friends. One had said, “Why not take your horse aboard one of the
Maine steamers and explore that part of the country?” Another thought
the St. Lawrence drives very delightful, and suggested we should
take our horse by rail to some point in that vicinity. A third only
wished we could transport ourselves to Colorado to begin our journey.
We think, however that a carriage journey taken by steamer or rail
loses something of its genuineness, and brought our minds back to the
familiar towns and villages adjoining our own, through some one of
which we must go, and somehow decided on Shirley.
As we packed our “things” into the phaeton for the eleventh time, we
asked how long such vehicles are warranted to last, and felt sure no
other could serve us as well. The bags, lunch basket, umbrellas and
wraps seem to know their respective places. Yes, the revolver, too,
drops instinctively into its hiding place. At last we were off, but
a half hour was now spent searching the shops for a drinking-cup and
saying good-morning to friends, by which time we thought of a word
unsaid at home, and dropped our first mail at our own postoffice.
Our “reporter,” watching for items while waiting for his mail, was
attracted by our traveling outfit and eagerly “interviewed” us, but
with little satisfaction, as you may well know. That we were going
to Shirley, six miles distant, was of little interest to him or his
readers.
We now started in real earnest and soon were on the winding road to
Shirley. We took our first wayside lunch before we got to Groton, where
Charlie had two hours’ rest, and we passed the time pleasantly with
friends. An uneventful drive of ten miles in the afternoon brought
us to Westford, where we spent the first night. There is no hotel in
the place, but we found a good woman who took care of us, and a jolly
blacksmith opposite who promised good care for our horse. We strolled
down street in the evening and called on friends who were enjoying
country air and rest for a few weeks. Our sleep was refreshing, and
morning found us ready for an early start somewhere, but exactly where
we had no idea. After a brief consultation we concluded we should like
to go to the Isles of Shoals again, and accordingly we traced the way
on our map towards Portsmouth, N. H. It was hot and dusty, and we
passed through Lowell with no inclination to stop, but when out of
sight of the city with its heat and dust and rattling machinery, we
left Charlie to enjoy his dinner and took our books in the shade down
by the Merrimac River, and were fanned by its breezes for two hours.
The drive through Lawrence to Haverhill, where we passed the second
night, was quite pleasant.
The chief recollections of the thirty-two miles we traveled the next
day are a few drops of rain in the morning, just enough to aggravate,
for we were almost ready to welcome a deluge; Jumbo, whose wake we had
struck, and the green beach-flies. The proprietor of the quiet tavern
where we took our mid-day rest brought us “Jumbo Illustrated” for our
literary entertainment, and told us his probable losses on horse-hire,
etc., the following month, on account of all the people in the vicinity
giving their money to Barnum. He also assured us the “green heads”
would trouble us for about three miles. True to prophecy, they took
possession of our horse and phaeton for that distance, then disappeared
as suddenly as they came. We speculated as to their habits of life;
wondered why they did not stay on the beach, where their name implies
they belong, and why they did not steal five miles’ ride as well as
three; then thought how humiliating it would be to feel compelled to
turn away from the seashore overcome by an insignificant insect, when
we could follow our own sweet will for all fear of highway robbers, or
a Jumbo even.
Night found us at Portsmouth, where the discomfort was in keeping with
the day, and it was with pleasure we granted our horse a rest in the
morning and took passage ourselves for the Isles of Shoals. The day was
perfect on the water—so fresh and cool. We landed at Appledore, and an
hour passed very quickly as we met one friend after another. Suddenly a
thunderstorm burst upon us; the rain fell in torrents, and hailstones
rolled like marbles along the broad piazza. Surely the deluge we
wished for had come, and, although it was not needed where water was
everyhere, it could do no harm, and we enjoyed it to the utmost. We had
planned to spend the night amid ocean, but it was so glorious after
the skies cleared, we could not resist the temptation to have a drive
while Nature was fresh and dripping. After dinner, we visited Mrs.
Celia Thaxter’s fascinating parlor; then took the boat for Portsmouth.
The calm after the storm was delightful, and we sailed on, full of
anticipation for our drive.
On reaching Portsmouth we were surprised to learn it had been intensely
hot all day, and not a drop of rain had fallen. It was too late to
repent, and we ordered our horse, drove to the post office for our
mail, our first news from home, then started for the ocean again. Our
enthusiasm was somewhat abated by the sultry atmosphere; but a drive
of eight miles brought us to York Beach, and a brisk walk on the hard,
moist sand while the sunset clouds were fading quite restored us.
The next morning we drove leisurely along the beach, looking for
familiar faces we knew were in that vicinity, from the East and West,
visited one party after another, and in the afternoon drove on through
Wells to Kennebunk. We had another visitation from the beach flies, but
this time their persecutions continued for only a mile and a half. We
looked in vain for a hotel in Kennebunk, and on inquiring were directed
to a house attractively located, which we had thought to be a very
pleasant private residence. The homelikeness inside harmonized with the
exterior, and the host and hostess helped us to pass the evening very
agreeably. This was only one of many proofs of Maine hospitality.
Before leaving Kennebunk we called at the home of a lady, one of the
many pleasant people we have met in our summer wanderings, and promised
to remember, “if we ever drove that way.” She is the mother of Lizzie
Bourne, whose sad story and monument of stones every visitor to Mt.
Washington will remember.
At Kennebunkport we surprised a party of young friends on the
cliffs, and made another promised call. We found the place with some
difficulty, and learned our friend was in Massachusetts. We thought
hospitality reigned supreme there, when we and our horse were taken
bodily possession of for luncheon and a three-hours’ visit, by a lady
whom we had never seen before. Every moment passed pleasantly, and we
reluctantly left our new-found friend en route to Old Orchard, towards
which point we had been driving for days, just as if it had all been
planned instead of “happening.”
It was our first visit to this favorite resort, and we stayed several
days, waiting for letters, and doing what everybody does at such
places—driving, walking and gathering shells on the beach; reading,
chatting and crocheting on the piazzas, occasionally wondering where
we should find ourselves next. The heat was almost insufferable—land
breeze night and day. Perhaps we could have borne it better if we had
known then that the invalid we watched with some interest was Vennor
himself, sharing with the rest the tortures of the fulfilment of his
prophecies. As it was we were ready for a change. Our letters assured
us all was well at home, and we decided to drive across country to Lake
Winnipiseogee.
As we sat at the breakfast table the morning we were to leave, a lady
at our right casually addressed us, and when she learned we were
driving for pleasure enthusiastically exclaimed, “Oh! you must visit
Hollis, a deserted village on the Saco.” She fascinated us with her
description of that quiet nook she had chosen for a summer resting
place, and the charmed circle of friends there, and offered us her
rooms which she had left for a few days, if we would spend a night
there, at the same time wishing we might meet all her friends and
assuring us of a kindly reception. We thought this the climax of Maine
hospitality. Only a moment before we were entire strangers, except that
we recognized the face of our friend as one well known in the literary
circles of Boston. We referred to our map, and found Hollis directly
in our course, but unfortunately, only about half the distance we had
proposed driving that day. We promised, however, to take dinner there,
if possible.
We rarely spend more than one night in a place, and as we packed
ourselves into our phaeton once more it seemed like starting on a fresh
journey. Old Orchard has its charms; still we rejoiced as we left the
scorching sand. The drive of seventeen miles to Hollis seemed short,
and it was only eleven o’clock when we introduced ourselves to our new
friends, and so very friendly were they that after an hour’s chat in
the parlor and a pleasant dinner company we were loth to leave, and
stated the rest of our friend’s proposition to the lady of the house,
whereupon we were taken to the promised apartments, and at once made to
feel at home. The heat was hardly less intense than on the beach, and
we passed the afternoon pleasantly indoors. Supper was served early,
as one of the ladies proposed a walk to the charm of Hollis, the Saco
River. Only a few rods from the house we entered the woods and followed
the little path up and down, picking our way carefully over the swampy
places, occasionally losing balance as we stepped on a loose stone,
until we reached the favorite spot by a great rock overhanging the
river bank. Our ears were deafened and voices silenced by the mighty
roaring of the waters as they angrily surged through the narrow gorge.
As far back as we could see there was nothing but the foaming white and
the high wet rocks on either side. We gave ourselves up to the roar
and turmoil, and thought the stirring life and restless activity of
this bit of the Saco was worth the whole Atlantic Ocean. It was growing
dark in the woods, and we had to take a last look and retrace our steps
while we could see the path. A wish was expressed by our lady escort
that we might meet a delightful company of friends a mile or two from
the village whom we felt we knew already, through our friend at the
beach, who had also mentioned this as a part of the pleasant programme
she planned for us. Our phaeton was soon at the door, and we exchanged
our rubbers for wraps and were off in the moonlight, assured it was
perfectly safe all about there, night or day. Of course our friend
knew all the pretty roundabout ways, and we had a lovely drive. The
pleasant call we shall never forget, and as we drove back, the “short
cut” across the pastures was pointed out as a favorite summer-evening
walk. We did not sleep that night until we had written our friend,
thanking her for all we had enjoyed through her kindness. But for her
we should probably have driven through Hollis with no recollection save
one glimpse of the Saco.
Directly after breakfast next morning we bade our friends good-by,
promising to report to them from Weirs which of the various routes
suggested we took. There is no direct way, for it is literally across
country, and we felt as if we were leaving everybody and had nothing
but a wilderness between us and Lake Winnipiseogee. The morning drive
was hot and very uninteresting, no ocean or mountains, river or hills,
nothing but sandy roads and dry pastures.
We inquired the “best way” to Wolfeboro every time we saw anybody to
inquire of, and as we refreshed ourselves with sardines by the wayside,
wondered where Charlie was to get his dinner. We asked at a grocery
store when we got to Newfield, and were told that a widow near by
accommodated travelers. We found her very willing if we could take care
of the horse ourselves, for she had no “men folks.”
Despite our fatigue, as necessity compelled, we unharnessed Charlie
and gave him some corn—she had no oats. We went into the little
sitting-room to wait, but not to rest, for our hostess was very social.
After being entertained for an hour and a half, we carried a pail of
water to the barn for Charlie, and harnessed him. We asked the amount
of our indebtedness, when her ladyship mentioned a sum exceeding what
we often pay at first-class hotels, where our horse is well groomed and
grained—not by ourselves—blandly remarking at the same time that she
“did not believe in high prices.”
Our map is not much help when traveling bias, and we wondered next
where we should sleep. It was only a few miles to the little village of
West Newfield, and again we went to a grocery store for information.
Our many inquiries were very courteously answered, and one or two
hotels within a few miles were mentioned. At this point a young man
came forward, commenting on the modesty of the storekeeper, whom he
said was the hotel proprietor as well, and advised us to stay where we
were sure of good care, as we should be no nearer Wolfeboro at either
of the places suggested. We were directed to a modest house, one-story
front, which we had just passed, where the wife of the gentlemanly
storekeeper, hotel proprietor and farmer also, we afterward learned,
kindly received us and gave us a cosy front room on the first floor.
We soon felt we were in a home, as well as a hotel, and we sat on the
front doorstep writing letters till dark, then talked of our friends
in Hollis. How long ago it all seemed! And yet we only left there that
morning.
There was not a sound to disturb our slumbers that night, and we awoke
fresh for our drive of twenty-five miles to Wolfeboro. It was still
hot, but the drive was a striking contrast to that of the day previous.
We were approaching the rough country which borders Lake Winnipiseogee,
and more than once fancied ourselves among the Berkshire hills. We
stopped at a farmhouse for a pitcher of milk, and took a little lunch
sitting on a stone wall under a large tree. The good old people begged
us to go into the house, but we assured them we preferred the wall, and
when we returned the pitcher, they had come to the conclusion that it
might be pleasant to eat out of doors once in a while. We knew they had
watched us through the curtain cracks in the front room.
Every mile now, the country was more and more delightful, so wild and
hilly. Up and down we went, getting glimpses of the lake from the
top of a high hill, then wending our way into the valley only to go
up again. It sometimes seemed as if nothing but a plunge would ever
bring us to the lake, but after much twisting and turning, we reached
Wolfeboro and drove up to The Pavilion at two o’clock. We left our
horse and traveling equipments in charge until called for, and in an
hour went on board the Lady of the Lake. Now we felt really at home,
but the charms of Lake Winnipiseogee are only increased by familiarity,
and we never enjoyed it more. At Weirs Landing a friendly face greeted
us, one always present at the Grove meetings. We secured at Hotel Weirs
the room we had last year, and then went out in search of friends, and
found them from the East, West, North and South. We surprised them all,
for they had heard indirectly only the day before that we had started
on our journey with usual indefiniteness, except that we were not going
to Weirs.
The two or three days we spent there were interspersed with sermons,
friendly reunions, rowing, and a trip to Wolfeboro on The Gracie,
with a party of twenty. The talented company, the glories of the lake
and shore scenery by daylight, the sunset tints, the moon in its full
beauty, and the lightning darting through the black clouds in the
distant north, with now and then a far-away rumbling of thunder, made a
rare combination.
The next day, Saturday, was very bright, and we made sure of one more
pleasant sail. The Lady of the Lake landed us at Wolfeboro at four
o’clock, and we immediately ordered our horse, and made inquiries about
hotels, roads and distances. We learned that hills abounded and that
hotels were few and poor, and that Alton Bay was the only place where
we would be sure of good accommodations; that the distance was twelve
miles, and the road the roughest in the vicinity. We did not care to
go to Alton Bay, as we had been there on a previous journey, but it
seemed our wisest course. At different times we had driven entirely
around the lake, except this twelve miles, and we knew what to expect
without the emphatic assurance of the clerk. We started off full of
enthusiasm to surmount all difficulties, drew forth the revolver from
the bottom of the bag, where it had been stowed away during our stay at
Weirs, and amused ourselves by keeping tally of the hills, fifteen by
actual count! They were long and high, too, but the fine views fully
compensated us, and we knew Charlie was equal to the effort, for we
had not forgotten the Canada hills he took us over last year. It was
dark when we reached Alton Bay, and we were quite ready to enjoy the
comforts that awaited us.
While our friends we had left at Weirs were preaching and being
preached to, we quietly enjoyed the Sunday hours in our pleasant parlor
overlooking the lake, reading and resting from our rough drive. At
sunset we strolled to the water’s edge, sat down in an anchored row-boat
and watched the clouds, which were grandly beautiful, looking at first
like an immense conflagration, then resolving into black, smoky clouds
as the last rosy tint faded.
Monday was a perfect day and Charlie was as fresh for the twenty-eight
miles to Dover as we were. The road was familiar, but seemed none the
less pleasant. At Rochester we looked for the hotel, with beautiful
hanging baskets all around the piazza, where we spent a night two years
ago on our homeward drive from the mountains. Just after supper at
Dover we heard a great chorus of bells, whistles and puffing engines.
There was a fire just across the street, and we watched the devouring
flames and the feather beds and bundles as they were thrown from the
second story window into the drenched street, until the excitement was
over, then went out for a walk. That night we packed up a little more
than usual and planned what to do in case of fire, for our baggage
is necessarily so limited on these journeys we should miss even the
smallest article. Our precaution insured us sweet sleep and we took
an early leave of Dover for Exeter, where we rested two hours, then
started for Epping. Suddenly we changed our minds, faced about and went
to Kingston. We had never been in Kingston. If we had, we never should
have faced that way again; for the best hotel was the poorest we had
yet found, and the drive to Haverhill the next day very uninteresting.
We fully appreciated the dry retort of a chatty old man, who gave us
some directions, then asked where we came from that morning—“Kingston
Plains! Good Lord!”
The drive from Haverhill to Andover was quite pleasant. We arrived
there at three o’clock in the afternoon, and although we had driven but
twenty miles, at once decided to go no farther that day. The heat was
still oppressive, and no rain had fallen since we left home, except
the shower at the Isles of Shoals. We made ourselves as comfortable
as possible with books and lemonade. “Another pleasant day!” we said
with a sigh, next morning. We were really longing for one of our cosy
rainy-day drives.
Lowell and Lawrence were in our direct homeward route, but to avoid
those places we had full directions to Littleton, and started in good
faith for that place, but came across a guideboard which said, “Boston,
twenty miles,” in the opposite direction. The temptation was too great,
and once more we faced about. We called on friends as we drove through
Reading and Maplewood, and finally found ourselves at Point of Pines.
The heat and discomfort we had experienced were all forgotten there.
The brilliant illuminations and the music made the evening hours
delightful. The cool night was a luxury indeed. We spent the morning
on the piazza with friends, and, after an early luncheon, drove into
Boston via Chelsea Ferry. Oh! how hot it was! We thought there had been
a change in the weather, but concluded we had been told truly, that it
is always cool at the “Point.”
The crowded city streets distract Charlie, but we succeeded in wending
our way to Devonshire street, where we got the latest news from home
from a friend. Our last mail we had received at Weirs. We did a little
shopping on Winter street, and then left the busy city for Cambridge,
and on through Arlington and Lexington to Concord, a drive one cannot
take too often, so full is it of historic interest. As we near the home
of Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, and the Alcotts, and the monuments of
Revolutionary interest, the very atmosphere seems full of recollections
and reminiscences. The noble words of Emerson, the hermit life of
Thoreau, the fascinating writings of Hawthorne, transcendental people,
“Little Women” and cousins just like other people, are all confused
with skirmishes with the English, and the effort to realize it is
all true. We have experienced this ecstasy more than once before,
and it has faded away naturally as we drove on, but this time the
spell was broken suddenly. We stopped at the hotel and found it just
like a hundred other country taverns, not a suggestion of anything
transcendental, and we felt as if dropped from the heights into the
abyss of commonplaceness. We tried to rise again by watching from our
window the passers-by and selecting those who looked as if they had
been to the Summer School of Philosophy, but all in vain, and by the
time we were ready to leave in the morning our enthusiasm had sunk to
the Kingston level.
We had ordered our mails reforwarded from Weirs to Fitchburg, and
now we were perplexed to know how to get them on our way home, when
Leominster comes first. We studied our map and finally asked directions
to Littleton again, and this time saw no enticing guideboard. We
lunched at Ayer, lost our way trying to go from Shirley to Lunenburg
(we rarely take a wrong road except when near home, where we are so
sure we know we do not ask), and were ready for our two-hours’ rest
when we arrived. The dust we shook off there was more than replaced
before we reached Fitchburg. So many people were driving it was
like a trip through the clouds; and the heat was so great, with the
sun in our faces all the way, we set that little drive apart as the
most uncomfortable of our whole journey. We forgot all our dusty
zigzagging, however, as we drove leisurely towards Leominster, reading
our letters, which were none the less interesting for having been a
week in the Fitchburg post office.
Curious friends questioned our knowledge of geography, as they always
do when we come from Boston through Fitchburg, and go our roundabout
ways, but many years’ experience has convinced us there is more beauty
in a curved than a straight line. We have taken longer journeys, and
had better weather, but we shall always remember the journey of last
summer as one of the pleasantest.