DIXVILLE NOTCH AND OLD ORCHARD.
A Colorado friend recently sent us a paper with an interesting account
of “Two Women in a Buggy—How two Denver ladies drove five hundred
miles through the Rockies.” Now, “Two Ladies in a Phaeton,” and “How
they drove six hundred miles through, beyond and around the White
Mountains,” would be laid aside as hardly worth reading, compared with
the adventures of two women driving through the “Rockies;” but, for
actual experience, we think almost everybody would prefer ours. We all
like ease, comfort and smooth ways, and yet disasters and discomfort
have a wonderful charm somehow in print. Our two weeks’ drive in
Connecticut last year seemed small to us, but we have been asked many
times if it was not the best journey we ever had, and as many times
we have discovered that the opinion was based on the hard time we had
crossing the Connecticut by ferry, the one unpleasant incident of the
whole trip. Now if we could tell you of hair-breadth escapes passing
“sixers and eighters” on the edge of precipices, and about sleeping
in a garret reached by a ladder, shared by a boy in a cot at that; or
better yet, how one day, when we were driving along on level ground
chatting pleasantly, we suddenly found ourselves in a “prayerful
attitude” and the horse disappearing with the forward wheels, the
humiliating result being that the buggy had to be taken to pieces, and
packed into a Norwegian’s wagon and we and it transported to the next
town for repairs—if we could tell you such things like the Denver
ladies, we should be sure you would not doubt our last was our best
journey. How we are to convince you of that fact, for fact it is, when
we did not even cross a ferry, is a puzzle.
Before we really begin our story we will tell you one or two notable
differences between the Denver tourists and ourselves. They took their
“best” bonnets and gowns, and such “bibbity bobbities” as “no woman,
even were she going to an uninhabited desert, would think she could do
without;” bedding and household utensils, too, so of course had baggage
strapped on the back of the buggy, and they had a pail underneath,
filled, “woman fashion, with everything, which suffered in the
overturns,” but, will you believe it, they had no revolver! Were they
to meet us, they would never suspect we were fellow travelers, unless
the slight “hump” under the blanket or duster should give them an
inkling that we had more “things” than were essential for a morning’s
drive. Helpless and innocent as we look we could warrant “sure cure”
to a horse whatever ill might befall him, and we could “show fire” if
necessary. The last need not have been mentioned, however, for like the
Denver tourists, we can testify that we receive everywhere the “truest
and kindest courtesy.”
You may remember that one of the peculiar features of our journeys is
that we never know where we are going, but last summer we thought we
would be like other people, and make plans. As a result we assured
our friends we were going straight to Mt. Washington via the Crawford
Notch, but, as Mr. Hale has a way of saying in his stories, “we did
not go there at all.” Why we did not fulfil so honest an intention we
will reveal to you later.
We started in good faith, Tuesday, July 7, driving along the familiar
way through Lunenburg and Townsend Harbor, crossing the invisible
State line as we entered Brookline, and spending the night, as we have
often done, at the little hotel in Milford, N. H., journeying next day
to Hooksett, via Amherst, Bedford and Manchester. Nothing eventful
occurred except the inauguration of our sketchbook, a thing of peculiar
interest to us, as neither of us knew anything of sketching. The book
itself is worthy of mention, as it is the only copy we have ever seen.
It has attractive form and binding, and is called “Summer Gleanings.”
There is a page for each day of the summer months, with a charming,
and so often apt, quotation under each date. The pages are divided
into three sections, one for “Jottings by the Way,” one for a “Pencil
Sketch,—not for exact imitation, but what it suggests,” and a third
for “Pressed Flowers.” As it was a gift, and of no use but for the
purpose for which it was intended, we decided it must be taken along,
although one said it would be “awfully in the way.”
We enjoyed camping at noon by the roadside so much last summer, when
the hotels were scarce, that we planned to make that the rule of this
journey, and not the exception. We thought the hour after luncheon,
while Charlie was resting, would be just the time to try to sketch.
Our first “camp” was under a large tree, just before we crossed into
New Hampshire. We looked about for something to sketch, and a few
attempts convinced us that, being ignorant of even the first rules
of perspective, our subjects must be selected with reference to our
ability, regardless of our taste. We went to work on a pair of bars—or
a gate, rather—in the stone wall opposite. We were quite elated with
our success, and next undertook a shed. After this feat, we gathered
a few little white clovers, which we pressed in our writing tablet,
made a few comments in the “jotting” column, and the “Summer Gleanings”
began to mean something.
We cannot tell you all we enjoyed and experienced with that little
book. It was like opening the room which had “a hundred doors, each
opening into a room with another hundred,” especially at night, when
our brains, fascinated and yet weary with the great effort spent on
small accomplishment, and the finger nerves sensitive with working over
unruly stems and petals, we only increased a thousandfold the pastime
of the day by pressing whole fields of flowers, and attempting such
sketching as was never thought of except in dreamland. A word or two
about the quotations, then you may imagine the rest. What could be more
apt for the first day of our journey than Shelley’s
“Away, away from men and towns
To the wild wood and the downs,”
or, as we came in sight of the “White Hills,” Whittier’s
“Once more, O mountains, unveil
Your brows and lay your cloudy mantles by.”
and
“O more than others blest is he
Who walks the earth with eyes to see,
Who finds the hieroglyphics clear
Which God has written everywhere,”
as we journey along the Connecticut. Especially apt were the lines by
Charles Cotton, when we had driven several miles out of our way to
spend Sunday in Rumney, because we remembered the place so pleasantly:
“Oh, how happy here’s our leisure!
Oh, how innocent our pleasure!
O ye valleys! O ye mountains!
O ye groves and crystal fountains!
How I love at liberty
By turns to come and visit ye!”
Once more, as we drove along the Saco—
“All, all, is beautiful.
What if earth be but the shadow of heaven.”
If you think we are writing up a book instead of a journey, let us tell
you that the book cannot be left out if the journey is to be truly
chronicled, for it was never out of mind, being constantly in sight,
nor was it any trouble. In this respect, too, we fared better than the
Denver ladies, for they were real artists, and never had any comfort
after the first day, for their “oils” would not dry, even when they
pinned them up around the buggy.
We should have been miserable if we had stayed in Hooksett all the
time we have been telling you about the sketch book, but we were off
early in the morning for Concord, and as we drove into the city,
Charlie knew better than we which turn to take to find the welcome
which always awaits us. The clouds were very black when we left our
friends at four o’clock, feeling we must go a few miles farther that
day; and when we had driven a mile or two a sudden turn in the road
revealed to us “cyclonic” symptoms. We saw an open shed, and asked
a portly old man if we could drive in, as it looked like rain. “Yes,
and quick too,” he said, hobbling ahead of us. We were scarcely under
cover before the cloud burst, and such a gust of wind came as it seemed
must have overturned our phaeton if we had been exposed to it. We threw
our wraps over our heads and ran to the house, where we were kindly
received, amid the banging of doors and crackling of glass. The rain
fell in sheets and the lightning flashes almost blinded us, but in an
hour, perhaps less, we were on our way again, dry and peaceful, the sun
shining and the clean, washed roads and prostrate limbs of trees simply
reminding us there had been a shower. We spent the night at Penacook,
formerly Fisherville.
By this time we had decided we would deviate from our straight course
to Mt. Washington just a bit, only a few miles, and spend a night at
Weirs. We remembered very well our last drive from Weirs to Penacook
via Tilton and Franklin, and thought to take the same course this time.
Franklin came to hand all right, but where was Tilton? We were sure
we knew the way, but were equally sure Tilton should have put in an
appearance. We inquired, and were much surprised when told we had taken
a wrong turn, or failed, rather, to take the right one seven miles
back. We had not only lost our way to Weirs, but we were off our course
to Mt. Washington, and there is no such thing as going “across lots” in
that part of the country. Not knowing what to do, we said we would have
luncheon, and take time to accept the situation.
At this point we discovered that our diary was left twenty miles back
at Penacook. Our first dilemma paled before this, for that diary means
something; indeed, it means everything. Without it, life would not be
worth living—even were it possible. We must have it. But how should we
get it? We went back to the man in the garden, and he told us a train
would go down directly, and we could get back the same afternoon, he
thought. We considered it only a moment, for having lost our way and
the diary, we feared losing each other or Charlie next. We returned
to the carriage, unharnessed Charlie, tied him to a telegraph pole,
then took our luncheon. After a good rest our way seemed clear, and we
started on towards Bristol, resolved that we would make no more plans,
but give ourselves up to the guidance of Fate. We find in the “jotting
column” for that day, “A criss-cross day.” Our honest intention to
go straight to Mt. Washington was overthrown, and we found ourselves
at night castaways on the shores of Newfound Lake, while our letters
awaited us at Weirs, and the diary was speeding its way to Plymouth, in
response to a telegram.
Eleven miles driving the next morning brought us to the Pemigewasset
House, Plymouth, just in season to telephone our mail from Weirs on the
one o’clock train. We felt like embracing the express boy who handed us
the precious sealed package from Penacook. Thanks and a quarter seemed
a poor expression of our real feelings. Perfect happiness restored,
where should we go to enjoy it over Sunday? Fate suggested Rumney,
and we quickly assented, remembering its delightful quiet, and the
lovely drive of eight miles. We could go across from Plymouth to Centre
Harbor, and thence to Conway, as we had planned, but we would not. We
had been defeated and determined to stay so. The drive along the valley
was as lovely as ever, and a look of pleasant recognition was on the
face of our hostess at the “Stinson House” in Rumney. After supper we
took our sketch book and strolled through the meadow to the river bank,
quite artist like. We spent the next day quietly in our room, reading
and writing, until towards night, then drove two miles to call on a
lady who had found us out through the Transcript, and assured us a
welcome if we ever drove to Rumney again. We had a delightful hour with
our new friends, and left them with a promise to return in the morning
for a few days.
It would fill the Transcript if we were to tell you all we enjoyed in
that little visit, the adventures, pedestrian excursions, camping on
islands, nights in caves and barns, related by our friends, which made
us long to explore for ourselves the region about Rumney. Some of the
Transcript readers may remember a letter two years ago (Feb. 15, 1884),
from one of a party of six who braved Franconia Notch in winter. We
read it with great interest at the time, and wondered from which house
in Rumney so brave and jolly a party started. Our curiosity was more
than gratified by finding ourselves guests in the hospitable home, and
by meeting several of the party, two of whom arrived from Boston while
we were there. One morning we bowled in the loft of the ideal barn,
and one rainy afternoon we had lessons in perspective. Miss D. proved
a good instructor, and we thought we were fair pupils as we talked
glibly of the station point, point of sight, base and horizontal lines,
and the vanishing point, and reproduced Mrs. Q.’s desk by rule.
We reluctantly left our friends to their camping preparations, while
we traveled over once more the route of the sleighing party. This was
our fourth drive through the Pemigewasset Valley, but its beauty is
ever new. We took two hours’ rest at the entrance of a cathedral-like
archway of trees, which now adorns our parlor in “oils.” We tried to
sketch properly, but, alas! all our points were “vanishing points”
without Miss D. at hand, and we returned to the ways of ignorance. We
spent the night at “Tuttle’s,” and heard from the cheery old lady and
“Priscilla” the story of the sleighing party who were refused shelter
at the Flume House, and though half-perished with cold had to drive
back seven miles to spend the night with them. She told us how sorry
she was for them, and how she built a roaring fire in the old kitchen
fireplace, and filled the warming-pans for them. We imagined how good
they must have felt buried in the hot feathers that cold night.
We did not visit the Flume this time, but just paid our respects to the
Old Man, took breath and a sketch at Echo Lake, and gathered mosses
as we walked up and down the steep places through the Notch. We spent
the night in Bethlehem, and enjoyed a superb sunset. We went several
miles out of our way the next day to see the Cherry Mountain slide,
which occurred the week before. We were introduced to the proprietor
of the ruined farm, caressed the beautiful horse, pitied the once fine
cow, which now had scarcely a whole bone in her body, and learned many
interesting details from the daughter, a bright girl. It was a forlorn
spectacle, and a striking contrast to the drive we had after retracing
our steps to Whitefield. Charlie had traveled far enough for such a hot
day, but we knew the Lancaster post office had something for us, and we
could not wait, so started leisurely, promising to help poor Charlie
all we could. He understood us well enough to stop at the foot of every
hill, and at the top of very steep ones, to let us get out and walk. We
were repaid a thousand times by the magnificent views of the Franconia
range until we reached the highest point, when the glories north opened
before us. We were now facing new scenes for the first time since we
left home, and yet we felt at home in Lancaster, for another Lancaster
is our near neighbor. The postmaster looked relieved to find owners
for his surplus mail, and as he handed out the seventh letter with a
look of having finished his task, we said, “Is that all?” for one was
missing. “I think that will do for once,” he said. Two weeks later we
sent him a card and the missing document came safely to hand down in
Maine.
Fate knows we like to drive north, and led us onward. We followed the
Connecticut through the lovely valleys, crossing it and driving in
Vermont one afternoon, enjoying the new country until we had left the
White Mountains sixty miles behind us. We then turned directly east,
and ten miles along the Mohawk River brought us to the entrance of
Dixville Notch. We were bewildered by its beauty, grander even than
the Franconia Notch. We reached the Dix House, the only habitation in
that wild spot, at three o’clock, and as soon as we could register our
names we hastened away for Table Rock, a narrow peak 800 feet above
the meadow in front of the Dix House and 3150 feet above the sea. It
was the roughest climb we ever attempted—almost perpendicular, and
everything we took hold of seemed to give way.
Once at the top we looked aghast at the narrow path, hardly four feet
wide, then with open arms rushed across and embraced the flagstaff on
Table Rock. It seemed as if the foundation was rocking beneath us, but
after a little time we went back and forth confidently. The air was
clear and the view very fine. Just below the summit, a tiny path, with
scarcely a foothold, led to an ice cave, and we refreshed ourselves by
looking into its cooling depths. When safely at the foot again we cut
some spruce walking sticks for souvenirs and stripped the bark as we
walked back to the Dix House.
It rained the next day and the mountains were visible through the
mist only now and then. We sketched Table Rock and the Notch profile
in instalments, reading and writing between times, and enjoyed the
very lonesomeness of the place. The clouds made way for the moon at
night, but we were disheartened next morning to find they had settled
down closer than ever, although the rain was over. We could not wait
another day, and packed up, hoping it would all come out right, as
many times before. Our wildest hopes were more than realized when we
entered the Notch, and found it clear ahead. The clouds had driven
through and settled about the meadows. It is two miles through the
Notch, and we walked nearly all the way. Everything is moss-grown and
marked with decay. The Notch has its Old Man, its Flume and Cascades,
and our exclamations burst forth at every turn. Such mosses, such high,
ragged bluffs, such babbling brooks, and all so fresh after the rain!
Was ever anything so beautiful? Suddenly we found ourselves in open
space again, and driving along the Clear Stream meadows, we passed the
little enclosure where are the graves of the first two inhabitants of
this lonely region. Six or eight miles more brought us to Errol Dam,
where we left Charlie in good care, while we took a five hours’ trip on
a tiny mail steamer. We thought we were to be the only passengers, but
a young woman with an invalid brother, bound for the Rangeley Lakes,
came at the last moment. We steamed along the Androscoggin River until
within a half mile of Lake Umbagog, then turned into the Magalloway. In
course of time the little Parmachenee pushed up against a bank and we
were landed in the glaring sun, to wait while the mail was carried two
or three miles, and the two men had dinner.
Fortunately we had a luncheon with us, or we should have had to content
ourselves with crackers and molasses, and “bean suasion” with the
brother and sister, at the only house in sight. We were back at Errol
Dam at four o’clock, and as we paid the four dollars for our little
trip the man said, “Too much, but we have to live out of you folks.”
There is a stage route from Errol Dam to Bethel, Me., but we preferred
to follow the Androscoggin, so that eventful day finished off with a
fourteen-miles drive through the forest, over a road badly washed,
with the river rushing madly along, as if bent on its own destruction,
then taking breath for awhile and looking placid as the Connecticut,
but directly in a turmoil again as the rocks obstructed its course.
Just as the sun dropped, we emerged from the forest into a broad plain,
and four houses, widely separated, were in sight—the first habitations
we had seen since we left Errol Dam. We knew one of them must be
Chandler’s, where we had been directed for the night. It was a lonesome
place, and we did not feel quite comfortable when we found ourselves
in a room on the first floor, having four windows and two doors, with
no means of fastening any of them, and a “transient” man in the room
adjoining. I am not sure but the Denver ladies’ “loft” and “boy” might
not have seemed preferable, only we had a revolver. Suffice it to say,
our experience since we left Dixville Notch in the morning had been
sufficiently fatiguing to insure rare sleep, in spite of open doors,
barking dogs and heavy breathing of the “transient,” and after a very
palatable breakfast we took our leave, grateful for such good quarters
in such a benighted country.
We drove thirty miles that day, following the Androscoggin all the
way. Berlin Falls and the Alpine Cascades, along the way, are worth
going miles to see. We camped at noon between Berlin Falls and Gorham
and had a visit from five boys of various nationalities, some with
berries and some with empty pails. They sat down on the ground with us
and showed much interest in our operations, jabbering in their several
dialects. “I know what she’s doing: she’s making them mountains,” one
whispered. We looked quite like traveling parties we have seen, with
Charlie munching his oats, and we asked them if they did not think we
were gypsies. “No, indeed, we never thought such a thing; we thought
you were ladies from Gorham.” With this compliment we drove on toward
Gorham, dropped our mail, and then turned directly eastward with the
Androscoggin, to enjoy for the first time the drive from Gorham to
Bethel, called the North Conway drive of that region. We spent a night
at Shelburne, almost as nice as Rumney, and another at Bethel.
With much regret we now parted from the Androscoggin, and aimed for the
Saco at Fryeburg. The heat was so intense that we stopped, ten miles
sooner than we intended, at Lovell, driving the next day to Hiram,
and the next to Hollis, so full of delightful recollections of the
wonderful hospitality of stranger friends a few years ago. That charmed
circle is now broken by death and change, but a welcome was ready for
us from those who had heard about our visit there, and we were at home
at once. There were many summer guests, but a cosy little attic room,
full of quaint things, was left for us. The Saco runs just before the
house, and we took the little walk to the “Indian’s Cellar” where the
river rushes through the narrow gorge, and it charmed us as much as
before.
We not only felt at home in Hollis, but really at home, for all between
us and home was familiar, whatever route we might take. We eagerly
drove towards Saco, for that was our next mail point, and the letters
that came direct, and those that followed us around the country, came
to hand there. We talked over their newsy contents as we drove miles
on Old Orchard Beach that afternoon. We spent the night at Bay View,
and part of the next day, for the thunder showers followed one after
another so closely, we could not get an order to the stable, and time
for a dry start in between. We finally ordered Charlie harnessed after
one shower, and brought to the door after the next. This plan worked
too well, for after all our hasty packing off, sides on, boot up, all
ready for a deluge, it never rained a drop. We called at the Saco post
office again, and then took a road we thought would take us by the
house of a friend in Kennebunkport, but it proved to be a lonely road
with neither friends nor foes, and before we knew it Kennebunkport was
left one side, and we were well on our way to Kennebunk. Despite our
muddy and generally demoralized condition, we called on friends there
before going to the hotel for the night. We drove thirty-seven miles
the next day, through Wells, York and Portsmouth, to Hampton. Ten miles
the next morning took us to Newburyport, where we stopped over Sunday
for a visit.
All was well at home, so we thought we would still follow the ocean,
as this was a sort of water trip. (We had followed the Merrimac,
Pemigewasset, Connecticut, Mohawk, Androscoggin and Saco rivers.) The
old towns, Newbury, Rowley, Ipswich and Essex, are always interesting,
and Cape Ann is so delightful we could not resist the temptation to
“round” it again, and have another look at Pigeon Cove, one of the
loveliest places we have ever seen.
We drove on through Gloucester to Rockport on the Cape, and there
passed the night. We were hardly out of sight of the hotel in the
morning before it began to rain, and the thunder rumbled among the
rocks as if it would unearth them. We did not enjoy it, and just as it
reached a point unbearable, and the rain was coming in white sheets, we
saw a private stable and begged the privilege of driving in. We were
urged to go into the house, but declined, thinking the shower would
soon be over. For a full half hour we sat there, rejoicing after each
flash that we still lived, when a man appeared and insisted we should
go in, as the rain would last another hour, and it would be better for
our horse to have his dinner. We declined dinner for ourselves, but the
delicious milk the good wife brought us was very refreshing, and if we
had not accepted that boiled rice, with big plums and real cream after
their dinner, it would have been the mistake of our lives.
Soon after noon the sun came out in full glory, and we left our kind
host and hostess with hearty thanks, the only return they would accept.
Everything was fresh after the shower, and the roads were clean as
floors. Full of enthusiasm we drove on and by some mistake, before
we knew it, Cape Ann was “rounded” without a glimpse of the “pretty
part” of Pigeon Cove. We had no time to retrace our way, so left
Pigeon Cove, and Annisquam friends, for the next time, and hurried
on through Gloucester, anticipating the wonderfully beautiful drive
of twenty miles before us. At Magnolia we inquired for friends, and
were directed to the cottage struck by lightning that morning. The
waves dashed angrily on the rocks at Magnolia Point, and the surf
at Manchester-by-the-Sea would have held us entranced for hours. It
was the time for driving and we met all the fine turnouts and jaunty
village carts as we went through Beverly Farms, with the tangled slopes
and bewitching little paths or cultivated terraces with broad avenues,
the stately entrances assuring you that both paths and avenues lead to
some princely “cottage.”
A night at Beverly was followed by a crooked wandering through Salem
and Marblehead Neck, then on through Swampscott and Lynn to Maplewood,
where we spent an hour or two, then drove into Boston. The city was
draped in memory of General Grant. We drove through the principal
streets down town, then over Beacon Hill and through Commonwealth
avenue to the Mill-dam, winding up our day’s drive of nearly forty
miles by pulling over Corey Hill on our way to Brighton, where we gave
Charlie and ourselves a day’s rest. As we were packing our traps into
the phaeton for the last time on this trip, for we usually drive the
forty miles from Boston, or vicinity, to Leominster in one day, our
friend gave the phaeton a little shake and said, “This will wear out
some day; you must have driven two thousand miles in it.” “Oh! yes,”
we said, and referring to that encyclopedic diary, exclaimed, “Why, we
have driven over five thousand miles!” He complimented its endurance,
but we thought of the “one hoss shay.”
It was a bright day, and the familiar roads seemed pleasant as we drove
along through Newton, Watertown and Stow, leaving Lexington and Concord
one side this time. We found a very pretty spot for our last “camp,”
and there we squared our accounts, named our journey and pressed a
bright bit of blackberry vine for the sketchbook. The afternoon drive
was even more familiar. We let Charlie take his own time, and did not
reach home until eight o’clock, and finding everybody and everything
just as we left them nearly five weeks before, gradually all that had
come between began to seem like one long dream.
“Summer Gleanings” lies on our table, and we often take it up and live
over again the pleasant days recorded there in “timely jottings,” crude
little sketches, and pretty wayside flowers, and then we just take a
peep into the possibilities of the future by turning over a leaf and
reading—
“To one who has been long in city pent,”
and think what a nice beginning that will be for our fifteenth
“annual.”