MOOSILAUKE AND FRANCONIA NOTCH.
“You did not take your drive this year, did you? I have seen nothing
of it in the papers.” This oft-repeated query, and many similar hints,
suggest that we have kept the pleasant incidents of our last summer’s
drive to ourselves long enough; and the kindly interest of friends we
know, and some we do not know, should be sufficient incentive to prompt
our pen to tell you all about it.
Only those who have traveled by carriage nearly four thousand miles,
within a radius of two hundred miles, in twelve successive summers, can
appreciate the difficulty which increases each year in deciding which
way to go. Railway travelers escape that difficulty, for they can only
go where the rails are laid; but we belong to the great company of
tramps who wander aimlessly, and rarely know in the morning where they
will rest at night. We had only one definite idea when we decided to go
somewhere, and that was, not to go to the seashore, because it was hot
there last year; we believe in having a reason, however senseless it
may be.
During the small hours of the morning of July 13th we found ourselves
packing. Packing for a carriage journey means looking over once more
the “must haves” which have been carefully selected, to see how many
can be dispensed with in order to reduce the quantity to the amount
of “baggage allowed” in a phaeton. This allowance is so small that,
however limited one’s wardrobe may be, it looks plentiful after a
month’s absence from it. This fact may well be mentioned as one of the
decided advantages which a journey by carriage has over almost every
other kind of summer traveling. The fewest things possible having been
condensed into the smallest space possible, we were ready for a start
at eight o’clock; but the clouds hung heavy, and we waited awhile for
the sun to find its way through them; then said “good morning” to
friends and were off. We drove to Fitchburg because we like to start
north, and from there we went to Ashburnham. Before we left Fitchburg
the sun forgot all about us and hid behind the clouds, which had no
consideration for our desire not to get wet the first day, and poured
their contents on us unsparingly until we got to Ashburnham, where we
stopped an hour or two. With seeming maliciousness the rain ceased
during our stay, and began with renewed energy directly we were on
our way again; and as we drove on through Winchendon the thunder
and lightning rapidly increased. We had quite enjoyed the distant
rumbling, but it was getting unpleasantly near. The freshness of all
our equipments was decidedly marred when we drove to the hotel in
Fitzwilliam, and waterproofs and blankets were despatched to the
kitchen fire to dry.
We devoted the evening to an earnest debate on “Why did we come to
Fitzwilliam?” We had not even the reason we had for going to Fitchburg,
and wherever we might drive, it did not seem as if Fitzwilliam was
likely to be on our way. We do not know yet how it happened, unless the
thunder and lightning so diverted us that we did not look on the map
to see that Fitzwilliam was not on the way to anywhere. It is indeed
delightful enough to be a terminus, and we were well cared for and
ready for an early start when the bright morning greeted us. We faced
toward Jaffrey, but were not out of sight of the hotel when we noticed
our horse was lame. We drove on, thinking he might have stepped on a
stone, and would soon be all right; but instead he grew worse, and, as
we could not discover the cause after careful examination, we settled
into a walk, and decided to stop at the first hotel we came to.
This was a new experience, and it looked serious. We found such slow
traveling tiresome, and stopped for an hour in a very inviting spot by
the wayside, where the rocks, under the shade of a large tree, seemed
to be arranged for our especial comfort. We had luncheon from our
basket, and read aloud, and watched between times the movements of a
little green snake that evidently considered us intruders and was not
disposed to give us absolute possession of the place.
We were refreshed, but Charlie was no better, and we were glad when
we came to a hotel so pleasantly located that we felt we could spend
Sunday there very comfortably, and hoped Charlie would be well by
that time. Of course our limping condition interested the bystanders,
and their wise opinions were freely volunteered. One said it was a
sprain; another, strained cords of the right foot; a third thought the
difficulty was in the left foot; when the landlord removed his pipe
from his mouth and wisely declared he did not know, and as he resumed
his smoking his manner indicated that the horse was as well as he ever
would be. The best of care was promised, and to make sure of hitting
the right place, the faithful hostler compressed both legs.
We established ourselves comfortably in a large front room facing
Monadnock, a mountain we never tire of, and tried to enjoy as much
as other people do who go to places to stay, instead of being always
on the wing as we are. The afternoon and evening passed pleasantly,
although we occasionally grew retrospective and thought of our usual
good time and how some people would say, “That comes of starting on
Friday.” Should we have to go home? and where would we be if Charlie
had not been lame? Sunday morning we went quietly into the back pew of
the little church across the green; then we read and read, and after
that we read some more. Charlie seemed a little better at night, and
Monday morning the landlord said he thought it would be well to drive
him. (We think he expected parties to take our room.)
We started towards East Jaffrey, and tried to think he was better, but
it was of no use. There was serious trouble somewhere. Having the day
before us, we concluded to try to get to Peterboro, an easy drive if
a man had not carelessly given us a wrong direction, which took us a
long way over hard hills instead of along the pretty river road. Poor
Charlie! he did his best; and so did we, for, despite the heat, we
walked much of the way and dragged him. We looked and felt forlorn as
lost children, but our wits were sharpened by our discouragements, and
we concluded he had sand or gravel under his shoe. We did wish we had
had a blacksmith instead of a compress at Jaffrey!
We hobbled into Peterboro in course of time, and asked to have Charlie
taken directly to a blacksmith, who said we were right, but he feared
the trouble was not discovered in season for immediate relief. We
again settled down to await our fate. The hotel was very nice, but
the outlook was a poor exchange for Monadnock; nothing but stores,
the signs on which we read until it seemed as if we could never
forget them, as our eyes wandered up and down the street in search of
something restful. All things have an end, so had this unsatisfactory
day. We made an early call, next morning, on the blacksmith, who said
we had better let Charlie rest that day, and take him down to the shop
Wednesday morning.
Another day! Our diary record for that day is, “We do not like this way
of taking a carriage journey.” Before the sun set we were driven to an
extremity never reached before, in all our journeyings—an afternoon
nap to kill time. After breakfast Wednesday morning, in desperation,
we took matters into our own hands, went to the stable, led Charlie
out, and trotted him about the yard. He was certainly better, and as we
were determined not to act upon any advice, we asked none, but paid our
bill and packed our traps before we drove to the blacksmith’s shop—a
model establishment, by the way. The humblest one has a charm; but
this shop was the most luxurious one we had ever seen, and everything
was in harmony, from the fair, genial face of the proprietor to the
speck of a boy who earned two cents a horse, or twelve cents a day, for
brushing flies while the horses were being shod. We watched anxiously
while the examination went on, and when the man looked up with a face
worthy a second Collyer and said it was all right, we felt like having
a jubilee. He carefully protected the injured spot, reset the shoes,
and pronounced the horse ready for use. We added this Boston-born
blacksmith to our list of never-to-be-forgotten friends and began our
journey anew.
Was this an inspired creature we were driving? On he sped, and his eyes
were in every direction, looking for some adequate excuse to jump.
Surely, the limping Charlie was a myth! Bennington and Antrim were left
behind, and night found us at Hillsboro Bridge, twenty miles from our
good blacksmith, the pleasantest remembrance we had of Peterboro.
Now we were really going somewhere, we must fix upon some place to
meet letters from home. We took the map and cast our eyes up and down
New Hampshire, but whether we fled to the borders or zigzagged through
the interior, there was no escaping familiar routes. Being unanimously
persistent in facing north, we bethought ourselves of the transformed
“Flume,” and immediately fixed upon Plymouth for a mail centre.
Charlie’s spirits were unabated the next day, and we rested him at
Warren. It was useless to ask directions, for everybody was determined
we must take the great highway to the mountains, through Concord. This
we were not going to do, and as a first digression we drove around Mt.
Kearsarge in Warner and spent a night at the Winslow House, a very
attractive hotel half way up the mountain. A slight repentance may
have come over us as we left the main road and attacked the hills that
lay between us and the house on the mountain, especially as we felt
compelled to walk, lest the hard pull prove too much for Charlie. Just
before we reached the Mountain House we got into our phaeton, and all
signs of repentance must have fled, for a lady on the piazza exclaimed,
as we drove up, that we must be the ladies she had read of in the
Transcript, for we looked as if we were having such a good time!
Once there, no one could have any regrets. The night was perfect. We
asked leave to change our seats at the supper table, in order to add
the sunset to our bill of fare; and in the evening we were cordially
welcomed by the guests, who gathered around the open fire in the large
parlor. At ten o’clock we all went out to see the moon rise over the
mountain. A gentleman coming up the mountain saw it rise several times,
and we got the effect of these repetitions by walking down a little way.
The morning was as lovely as the night, and the view simply beautiful,
satisfying in all moods. There was no sensation of awe or isolation,
but a feeling that one could be content forever. Kearsarge is about
three thousand feet high. We were already fifteen hundred feet up, and
directly after breakfast we started for the summit. No other parties
were ready for a climb that morning, so full directions for the bridle
path and walking sticks were given us, and with maps, drinking cup and
revolver strapped about us, we were ready for any emergency.
There is nothing more bewitching than an old bridle path, and we
enjoyed every moment of the hour it took us to reach the summit. If the
lovely, woodsy ascent and final scramble over the rocks had not fully
rewarded us, the view itself must have more than repaid our efforts.
With the aid of a little book we studied out the various mountain peaks
and traced our route along the country to Moosilauke. We drank our fill
of the beauty, then leisurely descended, and reached the Winslow House
just in season to prepare for dinner, which means to people traveling
without their wardrobe, a dash of water, a touch of the whisk broom and
a little rub on the dusty boots.
We were just tired enough to enjoy a drive of twenty miles to Bristol
in the afternoon—twelve miles up and down hills, and eight miles by
a beautiful river. Our remembrance of Bristol is that we slept in one
hotel and ate in another, that the moon rose two hours earlier than
on Kearsarge, and that by some unaccountable mistake we arose an hour
earlier than we thought, hastened to the office with our letters on the
way to our refreshment hotel, where we supposed we had the dining-room
to ourselves because we were last instead of first, wondered what could
have happened to our watch, and did not discover that the watch was
all right and we all wrong until we stopped, as we drove out of the
village, to inquire the way to Plymouth, which would take us seven
miles by the shore of Newfound Lake. It happened very well, however,
for if we had been an hour later we should have missed the guardianship
of that kindly couple who chanced to come along just in season to
accompany us in passing a large company of gypsies, whom we had been
following for some time, dreading to pass them in such a lonely place,
lest they should think we had something they might like.
We had a “way” now, if we were going to Moosilauke, and Plymouth was
eight miles out of our way, but we had to go there to get our letters.
One or two we expected had not arrived, and we requested the postmaster
to keep them until we called or sent for them. The good words we got
from home shortened the eight miles extra to Rumney, which proved to be
the loveliest part of our day’s drive.
Rumney is quiet and just the place we wanted for Sunday. We were the
only guests at the little hotel, and everything was cosy as possible.
We watched the people going to church, and after the last straggler had
disappeared we put on our hats and followed, taking seats in the back
pew of the smallest of the three small churches in that small place,
where we heard a thrilling discourse on the atonement.
Sunday night there was a heavy shower, and Monday was just the day
for Moosilauke, so bright and clear. Before we left Rumney we learned
the gypsies had traveled while we rested, and were again in our path.
We drove on, looking for them at every turn, and when we finally
overtook them no guardian couple came along, and we tucked our wraps
and bags out of sight, looked at the revolver’s hiding-place, and
decided to brave it. They were scattered all along the road with their
lumbering wagons, and Charlie pricked up his ears and refused to pass
them. Immediately a brawny woman appeared, and saying, “Is your horse
afraid?” took him by the bit and led him by the long procession. We
kept her talking all the way, and when she left us we thought, surely
this is the way with half the anticipated troubles in life; they
are only imaginary. At another point, a large tree had fallen across
the road during the rain and gale of the night. An old man was hard
at work upon it, and had just got to the last limb which obstructed
our way as we drove up; with a cheery word he drew it aside, and as
neither gypsies nor gales had succeeded in detaining us, we now looked
hopefully towards the summit of Moosilauke.
It is twelve miles from Rumney to Warren, and five miles from Warren to
the Breezy Point House, on the slope of the mountain. This hotel was
burned a few weeks after we were there; indeed, it has happened to so
many hotels where we have been in our journeyings, that one would not
wonder we never sleep when we travel, until we have packed “in case of
fire,” and when we are up very high, we plan our escape; then rest as
peacefully as if warranted not to burn.
The drive to Breezy Point House was very like that to the Winslow House
on Kearsarge—partly walking. We got there before noon, and again we
were the only persons to go to the top. As it takes three hours for the
drive to the summit, we had no time to wait for dinner, so had a lunch,
and a buckboard and driver were ordered for us. We had been warned to
take plenty of wraps, and before we went to lunch had laid them aside,
leaving the things we did not wish to take in the office. Everybody
was waiting to see us off as we came from the dining-room, and the
clerk said, “Your wraps are all right, under the seat.” We always envy
everybody on a buckboard, and now we had one all to ourselves, a pair
of horses equal to two mountain trips a day, and a chatty little
driver ready to answer all our questions. It was a perfect summer
afternoon, and we were delighted at every turn until we reached the
“Ridge,” when a cold blast struck us, and the soft breezes suddenly
changed to wind that threatened to take our hats off, if not our heads.
Now for the wraps; and will you believe it? the man had put in the
things we did not want, and those we did want were probably on the
chair in the parlor, where we had left them. Between us we had one veil
and one neckhandkerchief, with which we secured our hats and heads.
There were one or two light sacques and a basque! Thinking of our warm
wraps at the hotel did no good, so we dressed up in what we had, and
with a little imagination, were comfortable.
The narrow and comparatively level stretch, sloping on either side, and
the sudden ascent to the highest point on the mountain, suggest a ride
upon the ridgepole of a house and final leap to the top of the chimney;
once there, we went into the cosy house, something like the old one on
Mt. Washington, and tied everything a little tighter before we dared
face the gale. We then started out, and, actually in danger of being
blown away, we united our forces by taking hold of hands, and ran along
the daisy-carpeted plateau to what looked like the jumping-off place
to the north. There is a similarity in mountain views, but each has at
least one feature peculiar to itself. Mt. Washington has not even a
suggestion of the beautiful meadows seen from Mt. Holyoke; and from one
point on Moosilauke there is a view of mountain tops unlike any we have
seen; just billows of mountains, nothing else, and the hazy, bluish
tint was only varied by the recent land slides on Mt. Liberty and
Flume Mountain, which looked like silver cascades. Charming pictures
meet the eye in every direction, but none more lovely than that along
the Connecticut River near the Ox Bow.
We took mental possession of the whole scene in a very few minutes,
and, with a last look at the “billows,” sought shelter under some
rocks long enough to recover our breath and gather our pockets full of
daisies; then returned to the house. A very frail-looking elderly lady
was sitting by the fire, and we wondered how she ever lived through the
jolting ride up the mountain, and how she could ever get down again.
But our own transportation was the next thing for us, and we found some
impatient parties had started off with our driver and left us to the
mercy of another. We were disappointed at first, but when we found the
new driver was just as good and wise as the other, and that his was
“the best team on the mountain,” we were reconciled.
As we drove along the Ridge, he said he did not often trot his horses
there, but when the wind blew so hard he wanted to get over it as soon
as possible. We held on to each other and the buckboard, and believed
him when he told us that, a few days before, he took a young man up in
a single team, and the horse and buckboard were blown off the road, and
the breath of the young man nearly forsook him forever. We enjoyed even
that part of the ride, and when we got down a little way the frightful
wind subsided into gentle zephyrs, so warm and soft that not a wrap was
needed. Our driver was in no haste, and we stopped to gather ferns and
flowers by the way. The knotted spruce sticks he cut and peeled for
us now have bright ribbon bows, and adorn our parlor. We lost all fear
as we watched the horses step down the very steep pitches with as much
ease as Charlie takes a level road, and wished the ride was longer.
After a half-hour at the Breezy Point House, we packed our unused
wraps into the phaeton and prepared for our return drive to Warren,
where we spent the night. Practical people again advised us to return
to Plymouth if we wished to visit the Flume; but, remembering what
happened to Lot’s wife for turning back, we proposed to keep straight
on. The first time we stopped to make an inquiry, an old lady looked
sorrowfully at us and said, “There are gypsies ahead of you;” but we
borrowed no trouble that time, and wisely, for we did not see them.
We drove thirty-one miles that day, and for some distance followed
the Connecticut River and looked across into Vermont, where we could
follow the road we drove along on our way to Canada two years ago.
After leaving the river, we followed the railroad very closely. We were
once asked if our horse is afraid of the “track.” He is not, even when
there is an express train on it, under ordinary circumstances; but a
wooden horse might be expected to twinge, when one minute you are over
the railroad, and the next the railroad is over you, and again you are
alongside, almost within arm’s reach. In one of the very worst places
we heard the rumbling of a train, and as there was no escape from our
close proximity, we considered a moment, and decided we would rather
be out of the carriage; “just like women,” I can hear many a man say.
But never mind; our good Charlie had expelled us unceremoniously from
the carriage once since our last journey, and we did not care to risk
a repetition nearly two hundred miles from home. He rested while we
jolted up and down Moosilauke the day before, and all the morning his
ears had been active. A broken-down carriage with an umbrella awning
by the side of the road was an object of so great interest to him that
we had to close the umbrella, before he was even willing to be led by.
A boy said it belonged to a man who had met with an accident, and we
thought how much he might have escaped if he had “got out” as we did.
As the heavy train came thundering along almost over our heads, so
close is the road to the high embankment, controlling our horse seemed
uncertain; but to moral suasion and a strong hold on the curb he
peacefully submitted, and in a few minutes we were on our way again,
the carriage road, railroad and river intertwining like a three-strand
braid. Night found us at Lisbon, and a small boy admitted us to a very
new-looking hotel, and told us we could stay, before the proprietor
appeared, with a surprised look at us and our baggage, and said the
house was not yet open. That was of little consequence to us, as he
allowed us to remain; and, after being in so many old hotels, the
newness of everything, from bedding to teaspoons, was very refreshing.
We took the next day very leisurely, read awhile in the morning, then
drove Charlie to the blacksmith’s to have his shoes reset before
starting for Franconia via Sugar Hill, which commands as fine a view
of the Franconia Mountains as Jefferson affords of the Presidential
range. We remembered very pleasantly the house in Franconia where we
were cared for two years ago, when night overtook us on our way from
Littleton, and by two o’clock we were quite at home there again. It
is away from the village, and directly opposite the house is an old
wooden bridge. Sheltered by the high wooden side of the bridge is an
old bench, where one can sit hours, rocked by the jar of the bridge
to the music of horses’ feet, reveling in day dreams, inspired by the
lovely view of the mountains, peaceful rather than grand, and the
pretty winding stream in the foreground. We did not leave the charmed
spot until the last sunset-cloud had faded, and darkness had veiled the
mountain tops. We retired early, full of anticipation for the morning
drive from Franconia to Campton, which has such a rare combination of
grandeur and beauty, and is ever new. We drove up through the “Notch”
several years ago, but the drive down would be new to us, for when we
drove down two years ago, we might have fancied ourselves on a prairie,
were it not for the ups and downs in the road. Not even an outline of
the mountains was visible; everything was lost in the hazy atmosphere
which preceded the “yellow day.”
We took an early start, and passing the cheery hotels and
boarding-houses of Franconia, were soon in the Notch, of which Harriet
Martineau says, “I certainly think the Franconia Notch the noblest
mountain pass I saw in the United States.” However familiar it may be,
one cannot pass Echo Lake without stopping. We did not hear the cannon
which is said to be echoed by a “whole park of artillery,” but a whole
orchestra seemed to respond to a few bugle notes. At Profile Lake we
left the carriage again, to see how the “Old Man” looked when joined
to earth. He hung in mid-air when we saw him last—enveloped in mist.
We were too impatient to explore the new Flume to spare half an hour
for the Pool, which was still fresh in our minds; and leaving Charlie
to rest we started at once, with eyes opened wide to catch the first
change in the famed spot. For some distance all was as we remembered
it; but the scene of devastation was not far off, and we were soon in
the midst of it. We had heard it said, “The Flume is spoiled,” and
again, “It is more wonderful than ever.” Both are true in a measure;
before it suggested a miracle, and now it looked as if there had been
a “big freshet.” Huge, prostrate trees were lodged along the side of
the gorge high above our heads, and the mighty torrent had forced its
way, first one side, then the other, sweeping everything in its course,
and leaving marks of its power. Nothing looked natural until we got
to the narrow gorge where the boulder once hung, as Starr King said,
“Held by a grasp out of which it will not slip for centuries,” and now
it has rolled far down stream like a pebble, and is lost in a crowd of
companion boulders. The place where it hung is marked by the driftwood
which caught around it and still clings to the ledges. A long way below
we saw a board marked “Boulder” placed against an innocent-looking
rock, which everybody was gazing at with wonder and admiration, but we
also noticed a mischievous “A” above the inscription, which gave it
its probable rank. A workman told us he thought he had identified the
real boulder farther down amidst the debris; but it matters little,
for it was not the boulder which was so wonderful, but how it came to
be suspended so mysteriously. After seeing the Flume in its present
condition, the charm which always clings to mystery is lost, but one is
almost overpowered with the thought of the resistless force of Nature’s
elements.
After climbing over the rocks till tired, we found a cosy place away
from the many parties who were there, and in our little nook discovered
a new boulder more mysteriously hung than the old one. It was a little
larger than a man’s head, and firmly held between two larger rocks by
two small pebbles which corresponded to ears. A flat rock had lodged
like a shelf across the larger rocks, half concealing the miniature
boulder. The old boulder was no longer a mystery to us, for we could
easily imagine how, no one knows whether years or ages ago, a mountain
slide like the one in June rolled the old rock along until it lodged in
the gap simply because it was too large to go through. But for a time
this little one baffled us. When the mighty torrent was rushing along,
how could Nature stop to select two little pebbles just the right size
and put them in just the right place to hold the little boulder firmly?
We puzzled over it, however, until to our minds it was scientifically,
therefore satisfactorily solved; but we are not going to tell Nature’s
secret to the public. We call it “our boulder,” for we doubt if any one
else saw it, or if we could find it again among the millions of rocks
all looking alike. We longed to follow the rocky bed to the mountain
where the slide started, a distance of two miles, we were told, but
prudence protested, and we left that till next time. We stopped to
take breath many times on our way back to the Flume House, and after a
good look at the slides from the upper piazza, we sought rest in our
phaeton once more.
We forgot all about Lot’s wife this time, and looked back until it
seemed as if our necks would refuse to twist. The ever-changing views
as you approach Campton exhaust all the expressions of enthusiastic
admiration, but the old stage road through the Pemigewasset Valley has
lost much of its charm by the railroad, which in several places has
taken possession of the pretty old road along the valley, and sent the
stage road up on to a sand bank, and at the time we were there the
roads were in a shocking condition. The many washouts on the stage
and rail roads had been made barely passable, and there was a look of
devastation at every turn. We spent the night at Sanborn’s, always
alive with young people, and were off in the morning with a pleasant
word from some who remembered our staying there over night two years
ago.
From Campton to Plymouth is an interesting drive. We had a nice
luncheon by the wayside, as we often do, but, instead of washing our
dishes in a brook or at a spring as usual, we thought we would make
further acquaintance with the woman who supplied us with milk. We went
again to the house and asked her to fill our pail with water that we
might wash our dishes; she invited us into the kitchen, and insisted
on washing them for us—it was dish-washing time—which was just what
we hoped she would do to give us a chance to talk with her. She told
us about the freshets as she leisurely washed the tin pail, cups and
spoons, and laid them on the stove to dry. Our mothers had not taught
us to dry silver in that way, and we were a little anxious for the fate
of our only two spoons, and hastened our departure, with many thanks
for her kindness.
As soon as we reached Plymouth we went to the post office, eager for
our letters. The deaf old gentleman was at his post, and we asked
for letters and papers. He glanced up and down something, we do not
know what, then indifferently said, “There are none.” Usually there
is nothing more to be said; but not so in our case, for we were too
sure there ought to be letters, if there were not, to submit to such
a disappointment without protest. Perhaps he had not understood the
names. We spoke a little louder, and asked if he would please look
once more. He looked from top to bottom of something again, and with
no apology or the least change of countenance, handed out a letter.
This encouraged us, and we resolved not to leave until we got at least
one more. “Now,” we said very pleasantly, “haven’t you another hidden
away up there, somewhere?” He looked over a list of names and shook
his head. We told him our mails were of great importance to us as we
were traveling and could not hear from home often, and we were sure our
friends had not forgotten us, and there must be one more somewhere.
His patience held out, for the reason, perhaps, that ours did, and
he looked up and down that mysterious place once more and the letter
was forthcoming! The one or two witnesses to our conversation showed
manifest amusement, but there was no apparent chagrin on the part
of the obliging postmaster. We thought of the scripture text about
“importunity,” and went to the carriage to read our letters which had
barely escaped the dead-letter office. We were amused when we read that
a package had been mailed with one of the letters, and went to the
postmaster with this information. He declared there was no package, and
knowing that packages are frequently delayed a mail, we did not insist
on having one, but requested it forwarded to Weirs.
The annual question, “Shall we go to Weirs?” had been decided several
days before; and we now set forth on the zigzag drive which we cannot
make twice alike, and which always gives us the feeling of being on the
road to nowhere. The day was bright, and we did not need ginger cookies
to keep us warm, as we did the last time we took this drive, but there
was no less discussion as to whether we ought to go, and whether the
last turn was wrong or right. We always feel as if we had got home and
our journey was ended, when we get to Weirs. As usual, many familiar
faces greeted us, and it was particularly pleasant, for until we got
there we had not seen a face we knew since the day after we left home.
Even our minister was there to preach to us, as if we were stray sheep
and had been sent for. Lake Winnipiseogee was never more beautiful,
but looked upon with sadness because of the bright young man who had
given his life to it, and whose body it refused to give up. Although we
always feel our journey at an end, there is really one hundred miles of
delightful driving left us, and Monday morning, after the adjournment
of the grove meeting, we ordered our horse, and while waiting walked
to the station to have a few last words with our friends who were going
by rail and boat.
Directly we leave Weirs we go up a long hill, and are rewarded by a
very fine view of the lake and surrounding mountains. We drove into a
pasture to gain the highest point, saw all there was to be seen, then
down the familiar road to Lake Village and Laconia. At a point where
the road divided, two bright girls were reclining in the shade, and
we asked them the way to Tilton; one answered, “The right, I think,”
and in the same breath said, “We don’t know. Are you from Smith’s? We
are staying at ——’s, but we thought you might be staying at Smith’s,
and we want to know if that is any nicer than our place.” Their bright
faces interested us, and we encouraged their acquaintance by telling
them we were not staying anywhere, but traveling through the country.
This was sufficient to fully arouse their curiosity, and a flood of
questions and exclamations were showered upon us. “Just you two? Oh,
how nice! That’s just what I like about you New England ladies; now,
we could not do that in Washington. Do you drive more than ten miles
a day? Is it expensive? Where do you stay nights? Do you sketch?
Why don’t you give an illustrated account of your journey for some
magazine? Oh! how I wish I could sketch you just as you are, so I could
show you to our friends when we go back to Washington!” and so on until
we bade them good morning.
We crossed a very long bridge, and afterwards learned that it was to
be closed the next day and taken down, being unsafe. We found a man at
a little village store who would give Charlie his dinner. We declined
going into the house, and took our books under the trees just across
the way. A shower came up, and as we ran for shelter, we saw our
carriage unprotected; no man was to be seen, so we drew it into an open
shed, and there stayed until the sun shone again.
We went through Franklin and Boscawen to Fisherville, where we saw a
pleasant-looking hotel. We had driven twenty-six miles, and thought
best to stop there. We were hungry and our supper was fit for a king.
We went to bed in Fisherville, but got up in Contoocook, we were told.
What’s in a name? A five-miles’ drive after breakfast brought us to
Concord, where we passed several hours very delightfully with friends.
In the afternoon, despite remonstrances and threatening showers, we
started for Goffstown over Dunbarton hills. We remembered that drive
very well; but the peculiar cloud phases made all new, and disclosed
the Green Mountains in the sunlight beyond the clouds like a vision of
the heavenly city. We left the carriage once, ran to the top of a knoll
and mounted a stone wall. The view was enchanting, but in the midst
of our rapture great drops of rain began to fall, and we were back in
our carriage, the boot up and waterproofs unstrapped just in time for
a brisk shower. As we passed an aged native, radiant in brass buttons,
we asked him some questions about the mountains, but he knew nothing
of them, which reminded us of the reply a woman made whom a friend
asked if those distant peaks were the White Mountains. “I don’t know; I
haven’t seen nothin’ of ’em since I’ve been here.”
Shower followed shower, and we decided to spend the night in
Dunbarton. A few houses, a church, a little common, and a hotel labeled
“Printing Office,” seemed to comprise the town, but there must be
something more somewhere, judging from The Snowflake given us, which
was the brightest local paper we ever saw, and our landlord was editor.
We went through his printing establishment with much interest. We saw
no hotel register, but as we were leaving, the landlady came with a
slip of paper and a pencil, and asked us to write our names. After our
return home we received copies of The Snowflake containing an item,
every statement of which was actually correct, and yet we were entirely
unconscious of having been “interviewed” as to our travels.
It is said thirty-seven towns can be seen from Dunbarton; and our own
Wachusett, Ascutney in Vermont and Moosilauke in New Hampshire were
easily distinguished. We fortified ourselves with the fresh air and
pleasant memories of the heights; then asked directions for Shirley
Hill and the “Devil’s Pulpit,” in Bedford, near Goffstown, having
replenished our lunch basket, and Charlie’s also, for there was no
provision for Christian travelers near that sanctuary.
Shirley Hill commands a very pretty view of Manchester; and of the
“Pulpit” some one has said, “That of all wild, weird spots consecrated
to his majesty, perhaps none offer bolder outlines for the pencil
of a Dore than this rocky chasm, the ‘Devil’s Pulpit’. No famous
locality among the White Mountains offers a sight so original, grand
and impressive as this rocky shrine.” And then the writer describes
in detail the stone pulpit, the devil’s chamber, the rickety stairs,
the bottomless wells, the huge wash-basin and a punch bowl, lined
with soft green moss, and the separate apartments with rocky,
grotesque walls and carpets of twisting and writhing roots of trees.
An enterprising farmer has cut a rough road to this wonderful spot, a
half-mile from the highway, and by paying twenty-five cents toll we
were admitted “beyond the gates” and saw no living person until our
return. The same enterprise that built the road had left its mark at
the “Pulpit.” Cribs for horses were placed between trees, and a large
crib in the shape of a rough house, with tables and benches, served
as a dining-room for visitors. Every stick and stone was labeled with
as much care and precision as the bottles in a drug store, and there
was no doubt which was the “Devil’s Pulpit” and which the “Lovers’
Retreat.” It was a fearfully hot place, but that did not surprise
us, for we naturally expect heat and discomfort in the precincts of
his majesty. We unharnessed Charlie, and after exploring the gorge
thoroughly and emptying our lunch basket, we sat in the carriage and
read until we were so nearly dissolved by the heat that we feared
losing our identity, and made preparations to leave. It was an
assurance that we had returned to this world when the gate keeper
directed us to Milford and said we would go by the house where Horace
Greeley was born. He pointed out the house and we thought we saw it;
but as we did not agree afterward, we simply say we have passed the
birthplace of Horace Greeley.
It was nearly dark when we got to Milford, and we rather dreaded the
night at that old hotel, where we had been twice before. The exterior
was as unattractive as ever, but we were happily surprised to find
wonderful transformation going on inside, and we recognized in the new
proprietor one of the little boys we used to play with in our early
school days. We were very hospitably received and entertained, and the
tempting viands, so well served in the new, cheery dining-room, were
worthy of any first-class hotel. Our horse was well groomed, carriage
shining like new, and the only return permitted—hearty thanks.
“There is no place like home,” and yet it is with a little regret that
we start on our last day’s drive. A never-ending carriage journey might
become wearisome, but we have never had one long enough to satisfy us
yet. As we drove through Brookline and crossed the invisible State
line to Townsend, then to Fitchburg and Leominster, we summed up all
the good things of our three week’s wanderings and concluded nothing
was lacking. Perfect health, fine weather and three hundred and fifty
miles’ driving among the hills! What more could we ask? Oh! we forgot
Charlie’s days of affliction! But experiences add to the interest when
all is over.