CONNECTICUT, WITH SIDE TRIP TO NEW JERSEY.
Early in the afternoon of one of the hottest days in August, Charlie
and our cosy phaeton stood at the door waiting for us, and we had with
us our bags, wraps, umbrellas, books, the lunch basket, and never-used
weapon. “A place for everything and everything in its place,” is
verified in that phaeton, and in little time all were stowed away, and
we were off on our thirteenth annual drive.
We had expected that our drive must be omitted this year, and so
suddenly did we decide to go, that, to save trying to plan, we turned
towards Barre, where we spent the first night of our first journey,
thirteen years ago. It proved a pleasant beginning, for when we got up
among the hills of Princeton the air was cool and refreshing. We drove
very leisurely, and it was quite dark when we found our way to the
hotel.
After supper we began our geography lesson for the morrow. We had two
questions to answer—“Shall we drive on towards the western part of the
state, and visit some of the lovely spots among the Berkshire Hills,
which we did not see when we drove there some summers ago?” or, “Shall
we take a new direction, and turn southward?” After much deliberation,
for Berkshire is like a magnet, we decided to gratify the friends who
are always asking why we have never driven into Connecticut.
Our lesson having been disposed of, we slept soundly and awoke
reconciled to a wandering in Connecticut, only we wished we knew the
places of interest or had some reason for going to one place rather
than another. The wish was soon gratified by a friend we met before
leaving Barre, who spoke very enthusiastically of Tolland, as she
recalled a visit there many years ago. This was enough for us; we had a
connecting link with somebody, and took direction accordingly.
We rested Charlie at Ware, after our morning drive. We remembered the
pleasant driving in this vicinity, but towards Palmer it was new to
us. The thunder was muttering all the afternoon, and it was our good
fortune to find ourselves in a comfortable hotel at Palmer an hour
earlier than we usually stop, for we had only reached our room when the
rain fell in sheets, and the lightning flashed at random.
Palmer is so associated with the Boston and Albany railroad, that it
seemed as if only the spirit of opposition could prompt us to take a
short cut to Hartford without paying our respects to Springfield; but
we declare independence of railroads when we have our phaeton, and as
we “did” Springfield so thoroughly a few years ago, we did not diverge,
but aimed straight for Connecticut.
The morning was bright and fresh after the shower, and we left Palmer
early, with a little book sounding the praises of Connecticut, handed
us by the clerk, which proved quite useful. We drove on through
Monson, but before we got to Stafford Springs, where we intended to
stop, we came to a place too tempting to be passed by—such a pretty
rocky hillside, with inviting nooks under the trees, and a barn just
opposite, where very likely Charlie could be cared for.
“Oh, yes!” a woman said, when we asked her. “Leave your horse tied
there, and——will take care of him when he comes to dinner.” The rocky
hillside was also granted us, and we took our wraps and lunch basket
and prepared for a two-hours’ rest.
The time passed only too quickly, and on we drove, but saw no place
in Stafford Springs that made us regret our pretty camp; the time for
repentance had not come. “Seven miles to Tolland,” we were told, and if
we remember aright it was up hill all the way. Why have we always heard
people say “down” to Connecticut? Seriously, that is one reason we
never drove there before. “Up” to New Hampshire and Vermont sounds so
much cooler and nicer. We wondered then, and the farther we drove the
more we wondered, until one day we spoke of it, and a man said—“Why,
did you come to Connecticut expecting to find anything but hills?”
We like hills, and were very glad to find it was “up” to Tolland.
When we entered its one broad street, on a sort of plateau, and saw
all Tolland at a glance, we exclaimed, “Just the place we want for
Sunday!” And when we were cosily fixed in a corner parlor bedroom on
the first floor of a hotel, something like the old “Camperdown” on
Lake Memphremagog, we were confirmed in our first impression, and felt
perfectly happy. Comfort and an abundance of good things was the aim of
the kindly proprietor. We sat at the supper table, happy in thinking
all was well, perhaps, unconsciously rejoicing; for it was just at this
stage of our journey last year that Charlie became so lame, not from
rheumatism, strained cords, etc., as they said, but from sand under his
shoe. That was our first unpleasant experience, and a second was at
hand; for as we came from the dining-room, a man was waiting to tell
us our horse was very sick. We hurried to the stable yard, where he
lay in great distress, refusing to stand up. What could have happened
to him? Surely, that generous farmer at whose place we “camped” must
have over-fed him when he was warm. Now we repented in good earnest,
but little good that did Charlie. The proprietor was as thoughtful of
our horse as of us, and sent a man to walk him about. We followed on
and pitied him as he was kept moving, despite every effort he made to
drop upon the green grass. After a time he seemed a little better,
and the man took him back to the stable. We could not feel easy and
went to see him again, and finally took him ourselves and led him up
and down Tolland street for an hour or more (we could not have done
that in Springfield), answering many inquiries from the people we met.
By-and-by he began to steal nibbles at the grass and to give evidence
of feeling better, and when we took him back to his stall we were
assured he would be all right in the morning.
We arose early, for Sunday, for we could not wait to know if he was
well again. His call as we entered the stable told us our second
disagreeable experience was at an end. Now we began the day; read,
breakfasted, went to the little church around the corner, wrote
letters, walked and enjoyed every hour in that restful place, where it
is said no one locks the doors, for thieves do not break through nor
steal there. Perhaps it is because of the peculiarly moral atmosphere
that the county jail is located there. At any rate, even the man
who was hostler during the day and convict at night won our kindly
remembrance.
Monday morning, bright and early, we started for Hartford. Of course
there are many things of interest between Tolland and Hartford,
but they belong to every traveler, and we are only telling our own
experience. We asked at a hotel in Hartford if we could have our
horse cared for there, and were told we could by taking him around to
the stable; so we “took him round.” We then took a walk, instead of
stopping at the hotel as we had intended. After our walk we thought
we would call on a friend visiting in the city, but it occurred to us
that we were hardly presentable, for our dusters were not fresh, and we
could not take them off, for then the revolver would show, and we had
no place to leave them unless we “took them round” to the stable, too.
This matter settled, we wandered about again, and followed some people
into what we thought might be a church service, to find ourselves at an
art exhibition. Next we spied a park, and strolling through we came to
the new capitol building, which we examined from top to bottom.
Somebody we had met somewhere had suggested our spending a night at New
Britain, which was just enough off the main route to New Haven to send
us on a wrong turn now and then. Our attention was held that afternoon
in turn by pretty scenery, chickens, wrong roads and crows. The
last-mentioned were having a regular “drill.” We saw in the distance
a hill, black—as we thought—with burnt stumps; but soon a section
of these stumps was lifted into mid-air, and it was not until this had
been repeated several times that we could realize that the entire hill
was alive with crows. At regular intervals, and in the most systematic
order, section after section sailed aloft as one bird, each section
taking the same course—first towards the north, then with a graceful
turn stretching in line towards the south, at a certain point wheeling
about to the north again, and gradually mounting higher and higher
until lost to sight in the distance.
There was no such systematic order observed in the “best” room, which
was given us at a hotel in New Britain, and after such a lesson from
the crows we could not forbear making a few changes, so that the
pretty, old-fashioned desk should not interfere with the wardrobe door,
and the bureau and wash-stand should not quarrel for a place only
large enough for one of them, when vacant places were pleading for an
occupant. Our supper was good, and our room had quite a “best” look
after its re-arrangement. It rained all night, and we waited awhile in
the morning thinking it would clear away “before eleven,” but there
was seemingly no end to the clearing-up showers, and we had to brave
it. We do not mind rain, usually, but we were not accustomed to the
red mud, and it did not seem so clean as our home mud. We had driven
thirty miles the day before, and twenty-eight more were between us and
New Haven. We were at last on our way with “sides on and boot up,” and
a constantly increasing quantity of red mud attaching itself to the
phaeton. We stopped at Meriden two hours, and were very courteously
received at a hotel there. The afternoon was bright and sunny, and the
drive of eighteen miles very delightful. We entered New Haven by State
street just at dusk with our terra-cotta equipage, and drove direct
to the post office, so sure of letters that, when we found there were
none, we hardly knew what to do next. While waiting for letters, and
for Charlie to rest, we decided to take a peep at New York. The best
of care was promised for Charlie at a hotel, our letters were to be
brought to the house, and bags and wraps were locked up safely.
About nine o’clock we went to the boat, which was to leave at midnight.
The evening passed pleasantly, and we did not fully realize the
undesirable location of the best stateroom we could get until we were
under way, when the fog horn sounded directly before our window, and
the heat from the boiler, which we could almost touch, increased
too much for comfort the temperature of an August night. Sleep was
impossible, and we amused ourselves by counting between the fog alarms
and opening the window to let in fresh instalments of “boiling air.”
The intervals lengthened, and finally, when we had counted four hundred
and heard no fog horn, we looked out to find it was bright starlight,
and returned to our berths for a brief nap.
We landed at Pier 25, East River, just as the electric lights on
Brooklyn Bridge were disappearing like stars in the sunlight. At
seven we breakfasted on board the boat, and as we proposed spending
the day with a friend thirty miles out in New Jersey, our next move
was to find our way to Liberty street, North River. We did not need
a carriage, and might never get there if we attempted to go by cars,
so we concluded a morning walk would do us good. We crossed the ferry
to Jersey City, and were entertained by a company of men “drilling,”
and a company of young men and maidens dressed up in their best for
an excursion somewhere, until the nine o’clock train was announced.
An hour or more took us to Plainfield, where the day was given up to
visiting in good earnest. We enjoyed it all so much that we were easily
persuaded to spend the night.
At ten o’clock next morning we took the train for New York, where we
made a call, did a little shopping, walked over Brooklyn Bridge, and
spent the night with friends in the city. It rained the next day, and
as there was nothing to do we did nothing, and enjoyed it all the
morning. After luncheon we found our way to the boat again, and at
three o’clock were off for New Haven. It was a pleasant sail, in spite
of the showers, and we sat on deck all the way, enjoying everything,
and wondering how many letters we should have, and if Charlie was all
right. We were due at New Haven at eight o’clock in the evening, and
before nine we were at the hotel and had fled to our room, wondering
what it meant by our receiving no letters.
We requested everything to be in readiness for us directly after
breakfast next morning—Charlie shod, the terra-cotta covering removed
from our phaeton, axles oiled, etc. We lost no time on our way to the
post office. As we gave our names slowly and distinctly at the delivery
box, that no mistake might be made, out came the letters—one, two,
three, four—one remailed from Hartford. As the young man handed out
the last, he said, “Please have your mail directed to street and number
after this.” “We have no street and number, sir, we are tramps,” we
replied. “Why was not our mail put into the hotel box?” No satisfactory
explanation was offered, but when we got to the carriage and looked
over our letters, none was needed. Evidently they had not stayed in the
office long enough to get into anybody’s box. They had traveled from
pillar to post, had been opened and reopened, and scribbled over and
over in an effort to find an owner for them.
All was well when our letters were written, so we had only to decide
on the pleasantest route homeward. A friend in New York wished us to
visit Old Lyme, which was made so interesting in Harper’s a year or
two ago. This was directly in our course if we followed the advice to
go to New London before turning north. Charlie was at his best, and we
drove thirty miles through towns and villages along the coast, stopping
two hours at Guilford, and spending the night at Westbrook, a “sort
of Rumney,” our diary record says, only on the coast instead of up
among the mountains. The recollection uppermost in our mind is, that
everybody’s blinds were closed, which gave a gloomy look to every town
we passed through that day.
We felt a little constrained in Connecticut on Sundays, and thought
we should stay in Westbrook quietly until Monday morning; but after
breakfast, which we shared with the apparently very happy family,
the father asked if he should “hitch up” for us. We said not then,
but as it was so pleasant perhaps we might drive on a few miles in
the afternoon. He told us we should have to “ferry” the Connecticut
at Saybrook, but he “guessed our horse wouldn’t mind.” Our old black
Charlie was never happier than when crossing the Connecticut without
any effort on his part; but this Charlie has entirely different
ideas, and if we had known we could not cross by bridge as we did at
Hartford we should have deferred Old Lyme until another time. But it
was too late now, and we would not mar our lovely afternoon drive by
anticipating trouble. Rivers have to be crossed; and we philosophically
concluded “Do not cross a bridge until you get to it” is equally
applicable to a ferry. Five miles lay between us and the Connecticut
River, and we gave ourselves up to quiet enjoyment as if ferries were
unknown, until we reached Saybrook, when we had to inquire the way. A
few twists and turns brought us to the steep pitch which led to the
river, and at first sight of the old scow, with big flapping sail,
Charlie’s ears told us what he thought about it. With some coaxing he
went down the pitch, but at the foot were fishing nets hung up on a
frame, and he persistently refused to go farther. We were yet a little
distance from the shore, and the scow was still farther away at the
end of a sort of pier built out into the river. We got out and tried
to comfort Charlie, who was already much frightened; and yet this was
nothing to what was before him. What should we do? If it had not been
Sunday, there might have been other horses to cross, and he will follow
where he will not go alone. But it was Sunday, and no one was in sight
but the man and boy on the scow, and a man sufficiently interested
in us to hang over a rail on the embankment above watching us very
closely. Perhaps he thought it was wicked to help people on Sunday. At
any rate, he did not offer, and we did not ask, assistance. One of us
took Charlie by the bit, and trusted he would amuse himself dancing,
while the other ran ahead to the scow to see what could be done. The
small boy and barefooted old man did not look very encouraging, but we
still had faith there was a way to cross rivers that must be crossed.
We told our dilemma, and said, “What will you do with him?”
“Oh! he’ll come along; we never have any trouble.”
“No,” we said, “he won’t come along, and we shall be upset in the river
if we attempt driving him on this pier.”
We walked back towards the carriage, the old man saying, “I get all
sorts of horses across, and can this one if he don’t pull back. If he
does, of course I can’t do anything with him.”
This was small comfort, for we knew that that was just what he would
do. We asked about unharnessing him, but the old man objected. We knew
Charlie too well, however, and did not care to see our phaeton and
contents rolling over into the river. Our courage waning a little at
this point, we asked how far we should have to go to find a bridge.
“Oh, clear to Hartford! sixty miles!” When Charlie was unharnessed, the
old man took him by the bit, and said to one of us, “Now you take the
whip, and if he pulls back, strike him. Boy, you take the carriage.”
This was simply impossible without help. It was a grand chance for our
one spectator, but without doubt he believed in woman’s right to push
if not to vote, so we pushed, and a good push it had to be, too. We
did not envy those bare feet so near Charlie’s uncertain steps, but
the constant tingling of the whip so diverted him, and warned him of a
heavier stroke if he diverged from his straight and narrow way, that
he kept his head turned that side, and before he knew it he was on the
scow and had never seen the flapping sail. His head was then tied with
a rope. The phaeton followed with more difficulty, but less anxiety.
When that was secured, our voyage began, and it seemed never-ending;
for in spite of all the caressing and comforting assurances, Charlie
placed his fore legs close together and trembled just like a leaf as
the little sailboats flitted before his eyes. Then came the “chug”
into the sand as we landed. A kindly old man left his horse to help us
harness, and five minutes after we were off, Charlie was foamy white,
and looked as if he had swum the Atlantic.
We did not find the hotel at Old Lyme attractive, and had plenty of
time to drive farther; but, after all the trouble we had taken to get
to the place, we did not leave it without taking a look at the quaint
old town, its rocky pastures and cosy nooks so lovely in illustrated
magazines.
“Yes,” we said, “this is pretty; but, after all, where is the spot to
be found that cannot be made interesting by the ready pen and sketching
pencil of one who has eyes to see all there is to see in this lovely
world?”
Nothing could be more delightful than the crooked ten miles from Old
Lyme to Niantic. If you look at the map, and see all the little bays
that make the coast so rugged, you can imagine how we twisted about
to follow what is called the shore road. We say “called,” for most of
the shore and river roads we have ever driven over from Connecticut
to Canada are out of sight of water. A few glorious exceptions come to
mind, like the four miles on the border of Willoughby Lake in Vermont,
the Broad Brook drive near Brattleboro and seven miles by Newfound Lake
in New Hampshire. It was up and down, and now when “up” we could catch
a glimpse of the Sound dotted over with white sails, and when “down” we
found such flower-fields as would rival the boldest attempts at fancy
gardening—the cardinal flower, golden-rod, white everlasting and blue
daisies in richest profusion. We met the family wagons jogging along
home from church, and the young men and maidens were taking the “short
cut” along the well-worn footpath over the hills, with their books in
hand, that lovely Sunday afternoon; but where the church or homes could
be we wondered, for we saw neither. We knew nothing of Niantic, and
were surprised to find it quite a little seaside resort. It was early
evening, and it was very pleasant to have brilliantly lighted hotels in
place of the dark woody hollows we had been through the last half-hour.
We drove to the end of the street, passing all the hotels, and then
returned to the first one we saw, as the most desirable for us. It
was located close by the water, and our window overlooked the Sound.
Uniformed men were all about, and we soon learned that it was the
foreshadowing of muster. We slept well with the salt breezes blowing
upon us, and after breakfast we followed the rest of the people to the
garden which separated the house from the railroad station, and for a
half-hour sat on a fence, surrounded by tall sunflowers, to see the
infantry and cavalry as they emerged from the cars. “Quite aesthetic,”
one of the boys in blue remarked. We do not go to muster, but as
muster came to us we made the most of it, and watched with interest
the mounted men of authority as they gave their orders to the men, who
looked as if they would like to change places with them and prance
about, instead of doing the drudgery.
The morning hours were too precious for driving to be spent among
sunflowers and soldiers, and we got down from the fence and went in
search of the landlord. He gave us directions for getting to New
London when everything was ready, and we found that what we thought
was the end of the street was the beginning of our way, and a queer
way it was, too. No wonder we were asked if our horse was afraid of
the cars, for apparently the railroad was the only highway, as the
water came up quite close on either side. “Surely this must be wrong,”
we said; “there is no road here.” Although we had been told to follow
the railroad, we did not propose to drive into the ocean, unless it
was the thing to do. We turned off to the left but were sent back by a
woman who looked as if we knew little if we did not know that was the
only way to New London. Not satisfied, we stopped a man. “Yes, that
is the way,” he said. “But it looks as if we should drive right into
the ocean.” “I know it,” he replied, “and it will look more so as you
go on, and if the tide was in you would.” Luckily for us the tide was
not in, for even then the space was so small between the water and the
railroad that Charlie needed as much diversion with the whip as in
ferrying the Connecticut. Next came a little bridge, and as we paid the
toll, which was larger than the bridge, we asked if it was for keeping
the road we had just come over in repair. “Yes, it is washed twice a
day.” We asked if the ocean got the fees, and drove on.
It was only six miles to New London, and it was too early to stop there
for dinner, and it would be too late to wait until we got to Norwich;
so, after driving about the principal streets for a half-hour, we
filled our lunch basket and got some oats, trusting to find a place to
“camp.” Just at the right time to halt we came to a village church on
a little hill, all by itself, and we took possession of the “grounds,”
put Charlie into one of the sheds, taking refuge ourselves in the
shadow of a stone wall. We hung our shawls over the wall, for the
wind blew cool through the chinks, spread the blanket on the ground,
and gave ourselves up to comfort and books. The lofty ceiling of our
temporary parlor was tinted blue, and the spacious walls were adorned
with lovely pictures, for our little hill was higher than we realized.
We had taken the river road, and we knew that by rail from New London
to Norwich we followed the river very closely; but this was, like most
“river” roads, over the hills.
We reluctantly left our luxurious quarters and journeyed on to Norwich.
We had found on our map a town beyond Norwich which we thought would
serve us for the night; but when we inquired about hotels there, people
looked as if they had never heard of the place, and in fact there
was none by that name. We were advised to go to Jewett City. After a
little experience we learned that in many cases towns on the map are
but names, and if we wanted to find the places where all business
interests centred, we must look for a “city” or “ville” in small
italics touching the railroad. Niantic was an “italic” resort. This
lesson learned, we had no difficulty. The hotel at Jewett City looked
as if it would blow over, and if it had we think our room would have
landed on the railroad; but the breezes were gentle, and we had a safe
and restful night after our thirty-miles’ drive.
We were directed next morning via one “ville” to another “ville,” and
the delightful recollections of our “sky” parlor tempted us to try
camping again, and we got another bag of oats. We had not driven far
before we came to the largest lily pond we ever saw, and a railroad
ran right through it. It looked as if we could step down the gravel
bank and get all the lilies we wanted. We tied Charlie by the roadside,
and ran to the railroad bank to find they were just provokingly beyond
our reach. A company of men were working on the road, and one said,
“I would send one of my men to get you some; but a train is due in
ten minutes, and these rails must be laid.” His kindly words softened
our disappointment, and we went back to the carriage. It seemed as if
there was no end to the pond, and surely there was an endless supply
of lilies, but we knew that the stray ones so close to the shore
were only waiting to entice somebody over shoes, and perhaps more,
in water, and we passed them by. We camped on a stone wall under a
tree, a spot so perfectly adapted to our convenience that it developed
the heretofore latent talent of our “special artist,” and a dainty
little picture is ever reminding us of our pleasant stay there. We
spent the night at Putnam, and as a matter of course, we went for oats
just before leaving, as if we had always traveled that way, instead
of its being an entirely new feature. A pine grove invited us this
time, with a house near by where we bought milk, and we stopped for a
half-hour again in the afternoon, by a bewitching little brook, and
made ourselves comfortable with our books among the rocks and ferns,
for it was a very hot day. Our drive that day took us through Webster
and Oxford and brought us to Millbury for the night. Our remembrance of
that night is not so pleasant as we could wish, and we are going again
some time to get a better impression.
The next day was one of the hottest of the season, and we availed
ourselves of the early morning to drive to North Grafton, where we had
a chatty visit with a friend. We dreaded to begin our last twenty-five
miles, for it would be so hard for Charlie in the heat. We delayed as
long as we dared, then braved it. We drove very leisurely to Worcester,
and made one or two calls, then took the old road over the hill as we
left the city towards home. We seemed to be above the heat and dust,
and had one of the most charming drives of our whole journey. We are so
familiar with the road that we did not mind prolonging our drive into
the evening, with a full moon to illumine our way. The seven miles from
Sterling to Leominster were so pleasant we made them last as long as
possible. The moon was unclouded and it seemed almost as light as day;
the air was soft and we did not need the lightest wrap. We enjoyed just
that perfect comfort one dreads to have disturbed. But all things have
an end, it is said, and our pleasant journey ended about nine o’clock
that evening, but it was close on to the “wee sma’ hours” before the
“doings” in our absence were all talked over with the friends who
welcomed us home.
This story, written out in a week of Fridays, on the way to Symphony
Rehearsals, will assure you that a phaeton trip loses none of its
charms for us by many repetitions.