NARRAGANSETT PIER AND MANOMET POINT.
“Think on thy friends when thou haply seest
Some rare, noteworthy object in thy travels;
Wish them partakers of thy happiness.”
We thought of omitting our annual letter to the Transcript, believing
that vacations in everything are good; but, even before the journey
existed, except in mind, a report of it was assumed as a matter of
course, as the part belonging to our friends, who have not found
opportunity to travel in our gypsy fashion. Then, too, we remembered
the lines above, quoted by Andrew Carnegie, as we journeyed with him in
his “Four in Hand through Britain,” and still more delightful “Round
the World,” all in a hammock in those scorching July days, without a
touch of fatigue or sea-sickness. Even a carriage journey on paper has
some advantages, no dust, no discomfort of any kind; but we prefer the
real thing, and enjoyed it so much we will change our mind and tell
you a little about it. The places are all so familiar, and so near the
“Hub” of the universe, that when you get to the end you may feel, as we
did, as if you had not been anywhere after all. We did, however, drive
four hundred miles, and had a very delightful time.
Before we really start, we must introduce to you the new member of our
party. With deep regret and many tender memories we tell you we parted
with our Charlie last spring, and a big, strong Jerry came to take his
place. A friend in cultured Boston said, “Why, how will Jerry look in
the Transcript?”
We did not go until September, and, like every one else, you may
wonder why we waited so late, when we have often started as soon as
the “crackers” were fired off. Well, Jerry had not become used to our
climate, although July was hot enough for any Southerner. Then the
company season came, and various things made it advisable to wait
until September. We were quite reconciled, because you know all those
“conjunctions” of the planets were to culminate in August, and it
seemed likely the world was to be turned upside down. We thought it
would be so much pleasanter to be swallowed up by the same earthquake,
or blown away by the same cyclone as our home friends.
Jerry waxed in strength, the world still stood, the last summer guest
had departed, and on the afternoon of Sept. 8, we started for Stow.
“What on earth are you going there for?” and similar comments reveal
the impressions of our friends; but we knew why, and do not mind
telling you. We were going to Boston to begin our journey, and we could
not go beyond Stow that afternoon, without going farther than we liked
to drive Jerry the first day, for he is young and we were determined
to be very considerate of him. We knew we should be comfortable at the
little, weather-beaten hotel, and that Jerry would have the best of
care.
How lovely that afternoon drive! It was the day after those terrific
storms and gales, the final “conjunction,” probably, and there was an
untold charm in everything. As we drove leisurely along, gathering
flowers to press for “Summer Gleanings,” we thought of our friends
who were speeding their way back to New York just at the time when the
country is loveliest, and knew they were envying us. Still, somehow it
did not seem as if we were traveling, but only going to drive as we had
been doing all summer. Perhaps we missed the July heat and dust!
“Still as Sunday” gives no idea of the quiet of Stow. It seemed as if
one might live forever there, and perhaps one could, if permitted, for
just as we were leaving the hotel for a little stroll, our landlady was
saying to some “patent medicine man,” “We don’t have any rheumatism
here, nobody ever dies, but when they get old they are shot.”
We had not walked far before we came to a cemetery, and, remembering
the landlady’s remark, we went in to read the inscriptions. No allusion
was made to shooting, but if it was a familiar custom the omission is
not strange. We noted a few epitaphs which interested us:
“When I pass by, with grief I see
My loving mate was taken from me.
Taken by him who hath a right
To call for me when he sees fit.”
“A wife so true there are but few,
And difficult to find,
A wife more just and true to trust,
There is not left behind.”
“A while these frail machines endure,
The fabric of a day,
Then know their vital powers no more,
But moulder back to clay.”
“Friends and physicians could not save
My mortal body from the grave.”
There were six stones in close proximity bearing these familiar lines—
“Stop, traveler, as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I.
As I am now, so you must be.
Prepare for death and follow me.”
All that night was lost, for we never woke once. Was it the stillness?
or was it that cosy, bright room, with its very simple, but effective,
“homey” touches? Be that as it may, we were fresh as the morning, and
ready to enjoy every mile of the drive to Boston, gladdening our hearts
with the sight of friends as we tarried now and then. We in Boston and
our Boston friends in the country was something new, but a room at
the B. Y. W. C. A. is next to home, and we heartily recommend it to
homeless ladies traveling as we were, or on shopping expeditions. The
night, with the unceasing din of the horse cars, and the thousand and
one noises peculiar to the city, was a marvelous contrast to Stow, but
in time we became adjusted to our environments, and were lost in sleep.
How delightful to be in Boston, and know that there were only two
things in the whole city we wanted—a Buddhist catechism and a horn
hairpin. These procured, we went for Jerry and began the day, which was
to be devoted to making calls. We went spinning along over the smoothly
paved Columbus avenue on our way to the Highlands, and rattled back on
cobble-paved Shawmut avenue. Dinner over, off we started for Allston,
Somerville and Cambridge, and as it was not yet five o’clock when we
came back over the Mill-dam, we could not resist turning off West
Chester Park, and hunting up some friends in Dorchester, returning in
early evening. Jerry seemed perfectly at home; perhaps he has been used
to city life in Kentucky. The day was long and full of pleasant things,
but the diary record was brief; for just this once we will confess we
were tired. Secured the catechism and hairpin, and oh! we forgot, a bit
of embroidery we got at Whitney’s, and mailed to a friend who asked us
to do so if we “happened to be near there,” drove eighteen miles and
made twelve calls, that was all.
During the day we decided to stay over Sunday, as a cousin we wanted to
see was coming. Jerry rested all day, and we did, except the writing of
many letters, dining with a friend, and attending service at the only
church we saw lighted on the Back Bay in the evening. We thought of
many things to do and places to go to, and wondered how we should like
to take a carriage journey and spend all the nights in Boston. There
would be no lack of pleasant driving, and if we missed the variety
in hotels, we could easily remedy that by going from one to another.
Boston would supply that need for a while, and we are sure Jerry would
be more than glad to find himself at Nims’s in Mason street, day or
night. But we had other things in view for this journey, and, the
cousin’s whereabouts being wrapped in mystery, we left Boston early
Monday morning.
Now, we will take you by transit, hardly excelled in rapidity by
the feats of occultism, to Narragansett Pier, and while you are
taking breath in our charming room in that vine-covered hotel at the
jumping-off place, with the surf rolling up almost under the windows,
we will just tell you a bit about the journey as we had it; driving
all day in the rain on Monday and enjoying it, making hasty doorstep
calls, spending the night at Lake Massapoag House in Sharon, and on
through the Attleboros to Pawtucket the next day, dining Wednesday with
friends in Providence, then on to East Greenwich for the night. A drive
of twenty-one miles Thursday morning, and we are with you again at the
Pier, where our first exclamation was, “Oh! let’s stay here!” We like
the mountains, but the ocean is quite satisfying if we can have enough
of it, and as our host said, here there is nothing between us and
Europe, Asia and Africa. We wrote letters all the afternoon, with one
eye on the surf, and the next morning we drove to Point Judith, where
we investigated the wrecks, went to the top of the light-house, and
were much interested in hearing all about the work at the life-saving
station. We took a long walk, and visited the Casino in the afternoon.
We were still enthusiastic about the Pier, but the next morning was
so beautiful it seemed wise to enjoy it in Newport. The captain could
not take our horse across from the Pier, and we drove twelve miles
back to Wickford to take the ferryboat. It was quite cool, but with
warm wraps it was just right for a brisk drive. We had time for dinner
before going to the boat. The hour’s sail was very delightful, and at
half after two we were in Newport, with nothing to do but drive about
the city until dark. We saw all there was to be seen, even to the
hydrangea star described in the Transcript by “M. H.” We did not know
which was Vanderbilt’s and which Oak Glen, but that mattered little
to us, for to all intents and purposes they all belonged to us that
bright afternoon, and are still ours in memory. We fell into the grand
procession of fine turnouts on the prescribed ocean drive, but the
people generally did not look as if they were having a good time. They
had a sort of “prescribed” look, except one young lady we met several
times, perched in a high cart, with a bright-looking pug for company;
she really looked as if she was enjoying herself.
The charm of Newport fled when we were inside the hotel. The fountain
in the park below our window was very pretty, but it could not compete
with our ocean view at the Pier, and we had to sit on the footboard of
the bed, too, in order to see to read by the aspiring gaslight.
We walked around the Old Mill and went into the Channing Church and
then left Newport for Fall River. There we called on several friends,
then inquired for some place to spend a night, on our way to Plymouth,
and were directed to Assonet. We had never heard of Assonet before, but
we did not mind our ignorance when the widow, who “puts up” people,
told us the school committee man where her daughter had gone to teach
had never heard of it. Our good woman thought at first she could not
take us, as she had been washing and was tired, but as there was no
other place for us to go, she consented. When she saw our books, she
asked if we were traveling for business or pleasure, and as F——
drove off to the stable she remarked on her ability; she thought a
woman was pretty smart if she could “turn round.” We had a very cosy
time. People who always plan to have a first-class hotel lose many
of the novel experiences which make a pleasant variety in a journey
It is interesting occasionally to hear the family particulars and be
introduced to the pet dogs and cats, and walk round the kitchen and
backyard, where the sunflowers and hollyhocks grow from old-time habit,
and not because of a fashion.
The Samoset House at Plymouth seemed all the more luxurious after the
modest comforts at Assonet. We “did” Plymouth once more, this time
taking in the new monument, and having plenty of time, we drove down to
Manomet Point for a night. The Point is quite a resort for artists, but
as we have given up sketching, we did not delay there, but returned to
Plymouth and on to Duxbury. We did not ask Jerry to travel the extra
miles off the main route to take in Brant Rock and Daniel Webster’s old
home, as this was our second drive in this vicinity, and rather than
drive two miles to a hotel possibly open, we took up with the chances
near by. We found oats at a grocery store, but it was too cold to camp;
indeed, we did not have one of our wayside camps during the entire
journey. There was no hotel, no stable, no “put-up” place or available
barn, but the grocer, appreciating our dilemma, said he could easily
clear a stall back of his store, and while he was helping us unharness,
we saw a large house perched on a high bluff not far away. Although it
was a private boarding-house we made bold to cross the fields, mount
the many flights of steps and ask for dinner, which was willingly
granted.
You will surmise we are bound for Boston again, and will not be
surprised to find us with friends on the Jerusalem Road, after enjoying
the beauties of this road from Cohasset to Hingham, where we went for
a handful of letters only equalled by that parcel at Providence.
Oh, how cold it was the next day! The thought of Nantasket Beach made
us shiver, and preferring to think of it as in “other days,” we turned
our faces inland and drove a pretty back way to South Hingham. Of
course we could have driven right into Boston, but it was Saturday, and
we thought we would have a quiet Sunday somewhere and go into the city
Monday. After protracted consultation we agreed on a place, but when
we got there there was no room for us, as a minstrel troupe had taken
possession. Hotels four, eight and nine miles distant were suggested.
In consideration of Jerry we chose the four miles’ drive. We will not
tell you the name of the town, suffice it to say we left immediately
after breakfast. It was a beautiful morning—far too lovely to be
spoiled by uncongenial surroundings. We intended to drive to the next
town, where we had been told there was a hotel. We found none, however,
but were assured there was one in the next. So we went on, like one in
pursuit of the end of the rainbow, until the last man said he thought
there was no hotel nearer than the Norfolk House!
Here we were almost in Boston, Sunday, after all the miles we had
driven to avoid it. “All’s well that ends well,” however, and a little
visit with the “Shaybacks” at home, not “in camp,” could not have
been on Monday, and before we reached the Norfolk House we were taken
possession of for the night by a whole household of hospitable friends.
Monday morning we drove into the city proper, and hovered in its
vicinity several days, calling on friends we did not see before and
driving here and there, among other places to Middlesex Fells, so often
spoken of. We ended our journey as we began it, searching for our
clerical cousin, but all in vain. We did see so many of our friends of
the profession, however, from first to last, that privately we call it
our “ministerial” journey.
Everything must have an end, but we did wish we could go right on for
another month. The foliage was gorgeous and the yellowish haze only
made everything more dreamy and fascinating. We prolonged our pleasure
by taking two days to drive home, straying a little from the old
turnpike, and driving through Weston, spending the night in Framingham,
and then on through Southboro to Northboro, Clinton and Lancaster to
Leominster. The country was beautiful in contrast with flat, sandy
Rhode Island. We gathered leaves and sumacs until our writing tablet
and every available book and newspaper was packed, and then we put a
great mass of sumacs in the “boot.” Finally our enthusiasm over the
beauties along the way reached such a height that we spread our map and
traced out a glorious trip among the New Hampshire hills, and home over
the Green Mountains, for next year.
“Summer Gleanings” is now complete, and the last pages are fairly aglow
with the autumn souvenirs of our sixteenth annual drive.