BOSTON, WHITE MOUNTAINS AND VERMONT.—A SIX HUNDRED MILE DRIVE.
In self-defence we must tell you something of our seventeenth annual
“drive,” for no one will believe we could have had a good time, “on
account of the weather;” and really it was one of our finest trips. We
regret the sympathy, and pity even, that was wasted on us, and rejoice
that now and then one declared, “Well, I will not worry about them, for
somehow they always do have a good time, if it does rain.”
If two friends, with a comfortable phaeton and a good horse, exploring
the country at will, gladly welcomed and served at hotels hungry for
guests, with not a care beyond writing to one’s friends, and free to
read to one’s heart’s content, cannot have a good time, whatever the
weather may be, what hope is there for them?
Why has no one ever written up the bright side of dull weather? The sun
gets all the glory, and yet the moment he sends down his longed-for
smiles, even after days of rain, over go the people to the other side
of the car, the brakeman rushes to draw your shutter, the blinds in
the parlor are closed, and the winking, blinking travelers on the
highway sigh, “Oh, dear, that sun is blinding,” and look eagerly for a
cloud. Then, if the sun does shine many days without rain, just think
of the discomfort and the perpetual fretting. Clouds of dust choke
you, everything looks dry and worthless, the little brooks are moping
along, or there is only a dry stony path that tells they once lived,
and the roadsides look like dusty millers. Now, fancy a drive without
the sunshine to blind your eyes, no dust (surely not, when the mud
fairly clogs the wheels), every tree and shrub glistening and all the
little mountain streams awakened to life and tearing along, crossing
and recrossing your path like playful children; indeed, all Nature’s
face looking like that of a beautiful child just washed. Really, there
is no comparison.
Perhaps you are thinking that is a dull day drive. Now, how about a
drive when it pours. Oh, that is lovely—so cosy! A waterproof and veil
protect you, and the boot covers up all the bags and traps, and there
is a real fascination in splashing recklessly through the mud, knowing
you have only to say the word and you will come out spick and span in
the morning.
We have purposely put all the weather in one spot, like “Lord” Timothy
Dexter’s punctuation marks, and now you can sprinkle it in according to
your recollection of the September days, and go on with us, ignoring
the rain, as we did, excepting casual comments.
Our journey was the fulfilment of the longing we felt for the
mountains, when we were driving home from our Narragansett Pier and
Newport trip one year ago. Perhaps you remember those hazy, soft-tinted
days, the very last of September. The air was like summer, as we drove
along through Framingham to Southboro, gathering those gorgeous sumacs
by the wayside, and wishing we could go straight north for two weeks.
The morning of Sept. 6th, 1888, was very bright, just the morning to
start “straight north,” but with our usual aversion to direct routes
we turned our faces towards Boston. We could not stop at Stow this
time, for the old hotel, where we slept so sweetly our first night one
year ago, is gone, and only ashes mark the spot. Waltham had a place
for us, however. A cold wave came on during the night, and we shivered
all the way from Waltham to Hull, except when we were near the warm
hearts of our friends on the way.
The ocean looked cold, but nothing could mar that quiet drive of
five miles on Nantasket Beach just before sunset. We were lifted far
above physical conditions. We were just in season to join in the last
supper at The Pemberton, and share in the closing up. We were about
the last of the lingering guests to take leave in the morning, after
dreaming of driving through snowdrifts ten feet deep, and wondering if
we should enjoy the mountains as well as we had fancied. The weather,
however, changed greatly before noon, and it was very sultry by the
time we reached Boston. Prudence prompted us, nevertheless, to add to
our outfit, against another cold wave. We found all we wanted except
wristers. Asking for them that sultry afternoon produced such an effect
that we casually remarked, to prove our sanity, that we did not wish
them to wear that day.
Night found us at Lexington, pleading for shelter at the Massachusetts
House. Darkness, rain and importunity touched the heart of the
proprietor, and he took us into the great hall, which serves for parlor
as well, saying all the time he did not know what he should do with
us. We wanted to stay there, because we do not often have a chance to
stay in a house that has traveled. The signs are over the doors just
as when it stood on the Centennial grounds, and many things seem quite
natural, although we did not chance to be among the distinguished
guests entertained under its roof when in Philadelphia.
Our stay there was made very pleasant by a lady who gave us interesting
accounts of her journeys by carriage with “Gail Hamilton” and her
sister.
Here ended our one hundred miles preliminary, and bright and early
Monday morning we were off for the mountains. The day was just right
for a wayside camp, and just at the right time we came to a pretty pine
grove, with seats under the trees. We asked a bright young woman in the
yard opposite if we could camp there, and were given full liberty. She
said Jerry might as well be put into the barn, then helped unharness
and gave him some hay. Jerry was happy.
He does not have hay—which is his “soup,” I suppose—when he camps. We
went to the grove with our little pail filled with delicious milk, and
a comfortable seat supplied by our hospitable hostess. When we went to
pay our bill, everything was refused but our thanks. We said then, “If
you ever come to Leominster you must let us do something for you.”
“Oh, do you live in Leominster? Do you know ——?”
“Oh, yes, she is in our Sunday-school class.”
This is only one of the many pleasant incidents of our wanderings.
We spent that night at Haverhill and had one more camp, our last for
the trip, this time on the warm side of a deserted barn.
Two and a half days’ driving up hill and down to Dover, and over a good
road through Rochester and Farmington, brought us to Alton Bay, where
we all went on board the Mt. Washington for the sail of thirty miles to
Centre Harbor. Jerry was tied in the bow, and as we got under way the
wind was so strong we should have had to wrap him up in our shawls and
waterproofs if the captain had not invited him inside. We braved it on
deck, for Lake Winnipiseogee is too pretty to lose.
We “did” Centre Harbor some years ago, so drove on directly we landed.
At Moultonboro we stopped to make some inquiries, and while waiting,
the clouds grew very mysterious, looking as if a cyclone or something
was at hand, and we decided to spend the night there. The people were
looking anxiously at the angry sky; and the Cleveland flag was hastily
taken down; but no sooner were we and the flag under cover than the sun
came out bright, dispelling the blackness. We wished we had gone on as
we intended, and looked enviously on the Harrison flag, which waved
triumphantly, not afraid of a little cloud.
We saw a large trunk by the roadside as we drove through the woods next
morning. We gave all sorts of explanations for a good-looking trunk
being left in such an out-of-the-way place, but, not being “reporters,”
we did not “investigate” or “interview,” but dismissed the matter with,
“Why, probably it was left there for the stage.” We do not feel quite
satisfied yet, for why any one should carry a trunk half a mile to take
a stage when we had no reason to think there was any stage to take, is
still a mystery.
We got all over our disappointment at stopping early for the cloud, for
the drive, which was so lovely that bright morning, would have been
cold and cheerless the night before. It seemed as if we went on all
sides of Chocorua, with its white peak and pretty lake at the base. Why
has somebody said—
“Tired Chocorua, looking down wistfully into
A land in which it seemed always afternoon.”
One might spend a whole summer amid the charming surroundings of North
Conway, but we had only a night to spare. There were many transient
people about, as is usual in the autumn. The summer guests had
departed, and now some of the stayers-at-home were having a respite.
We wished all the tired people could try the experience of an old lady
there, who said she “could not make it seem right to be just going to
her meals and doing nothing about it.”
Oh, how lovely that morning at North Conway! This was the day we were
to drive up Crawford Notch; and what about all the prophecies of our
seashore friends? Where were the snowdrifts we dreamed of? The air was
so soft we put aside all wraps, and, as we leisurely drove along the
bright, woodsy road, I wonder how many times we exclaimed, “This is
heavenly!” We fairly drank in the sunshine, and fortunately, for it was
the last we had for a full week.
We dined at the hotel in Bartlett, and strolled about the railway
station near by, so tempting to travelers, having a pretty waiting-room
like a summer parlor, with its straw matting and wicker furniture.
We took our time so leisurely that we found we could not get to the
Crawford House in season to walk up Mt. Willard, as we had planned, so
stopped at the old Willey House, this side. It was quite too lovely to
stay indoors, and, after we had taken possession of the house, being
the only guests, we took the horn our landlady used to call the man
to take care of Jerry, and went down the road to try the echo, as she
directed us. It was very distinct, and after we got used to making such
a big noise in the presence of those majestic mountains, we rather
liked it. We gathered a few tiny ferns for our diaries, and took quite
a walk towards the Notch, then came “home,” for so it seemed. We had
chosen a corner room in full view of Mt. Webster, Willey Mountain, and
the road over which we had driven, and where the moon would shine in at
night, and the sun ought to look in upon us in the morning. The moon
was faithful, but the sun forgot us and the mountains were veiled in
mists.
Will there ever be another Sunday so long, and that we could wish many
times longer? We had the warm parlor to ourselves and just reveled in
a feast of reading, watching the fluffy bits of mist playing about
Mt. Webster, between the lines. Just fancy reading “Robert Elsmere”
four hours on a stretch, without fatigue, so peaceful was it away from
the world among the mountains. After dinner we drove to the Crawford
to mail a letter and back to the Willey, having enjoyed once more in
the short one hour and a half one of the grandest points of the whole
mountain region, the White Mountain Notch. We were now fresh for
another long session with Robert and Catherine. It was raining again,
and steadily increased through the night until it seemed as if there
would not be a bridge left of the many we had crossed the day before.
We were interested in the fate of the little bridges, for we were to
retrace our steps, seventeen or eighteen miles, to Glen station. We had
driven up through the Notch because—we wanted to; and we were going
back all this distance because we wanted to go on the Glen side of the
mountains; for with all our driving, we had never been there. What a
change from the drive up on Saturday! How lively the streams; and the
little cascades were almost endless in number.
The foliage looked brighter, too. The roads were washed, but the
bridges all stood. We dined once more at Bartlett, then on to Jackson
via Glen Station. We had not thought of Jackson as so cosily tucked in
among the mountains.
Again we were the only guests at the hotel, and the stillness here was
so overpowering, that it required more courage to speak above a whisper
in the great empty dining-room than it did to “toot” the horn in Willey
Notch.
We usually order our horse at nine, but when it pours, as it did at
Jackson, we frequently dine early and take the whole drive in the
afternoon. These rainy stop-overs are among the pleasant features of
our journeys. Who cannot appreciate a long morning to read or write,
with conscience clear, however busy people may be about you, having
literally “nothing else to do”? It does not seem to trouble us as it
did the old lady at North Conway. It was cool in our room, and we took
our books down stairs, casually remarking to the clerk, who apparently
had nothing to do but wait upon us, that we had been looking for the
cheery open fire we saw in the reception room the evening before. He
took our modest hint, and very soon came to the parlor, saying we would
find it more comfortable in the other room, where there was a fire.
Early in the afternoon we were off, full of anticipation of a new
drive, and by many the drive from Jackson to Gorham through Pinkham
Notch and by the Glen House is considered the finest of all. The
foliage was certainly the brightest and the mud the deepest of the
whole trip, and we enjoyed every inch of the twenty miles. We fully
absorbed all the beauty of the misty phases of the mountains, and did
not reject anything, thinking instead how we would some time reverse
things and drive from Gorham to Jackson on a pleasant day.
Another famed drive is the one from Gorham to Jefferson. Part of
this was new to us, too, and we must confess that the “misty phases”
were too much for our pleasure that time. Not a glimpse of the peaks
of the Presidential range was to be had all that morning. Even the
Randolph Hills were partly shrouded in mists. We dined at Crawford’s
at Jefferson Highlands, and one of the guests said Mr. Crawford had
promised a clear sunset, but what his promise was based on we could not
imagine.
It does not seem as if anything could entirely spoil the drive from the
Highlands to the Waumbek at Jefferson, and from Jefferson to Lancaster
the views are wonderfully beautiful. The clouds relented a little as
we slowly climbed the hills, and just as we reached the highest point
we turned back once more for a last look at the entire White Mountain
range, and we had a glimpse of the peak of Mt. Washington for the first
time since the morning we left North Conway.
A moment more, and the Summit House glistened in sunlight, a stray ray
from behind a cloud. As we began to descend, what a change of scene!
Sun-glinted Washington was out of sight behind the hill, and before
us were threatening clouds, black as midnight, and the mountains
of northern New Hampshire looked almost purple. The sky foreboded
a tempest rather than Mr. Crawford’s promised sunset, but while we
were thinking of it there was a marvelous change. Color mingled with
the blackness, and as we were going down the last steep hill into
Lancaster, there was one of the most gorgeous sunset views we ever
witnessed. We drove slowly through the broad, level streets to the
outer limit of the town, and then turned back, but did not go to the
hotel until his majesty dropped in full glory below the horizon.
The sun set that night for the rest of the week, and the clouds were on
hand again in the morning. We went to Lancaster just for a look towards
Dixville, but we made this our turning-point. The drive to Whitefield
is very like the one just described, only reversed. There were no
sun-glints this time, but memory could furnish all the clouds refused
to reveal, for that ride was indelibly photographed on our minds.
From Whitefield we drove to Franconia, and as we went through Bethlehem
street we thought it seemed pleasanter than ever before. The gray
shades were becoming, somehow.
Having driven through Franconia Notch five times and seen the “boulder”
before and after its fall, we did not fret about what the weather might
be this time. We had been through in rain and sunshine, in perfect,
gray, and yellow days, and never failed to find it charming. This
time it poured in torrents. We dined at the Flume House, and watched
those who were “doing” the Notch for the first time, and almost envied
them as they gayly donned their waterproofs and were off for the Pool
and Flume. One party declared they had laughed more than if it had
been pleasant, and all in spite of that ruined Derby, too, which the
gentleman of the party said he had just got new in Boston, and intended
to wear all winter. They had passed us in the Notch in an open wagon,
with the rain pelting their heads.
The drive to Campton that afternoon was one of those “cosy” drives. It
never rained faster, and the roads were like rivers. Memory was busy,
for it is one of the loveliest drives in the mountains. It was dark
when we reached Sanborn’s, at West Campton, but it is always cheery
there, and the house looked as lively as in summer.
One might think we had had enough of mountains and mists by this time,
but we were not yet satisfied, and having plenty of time, we turned
north again, just before reaching Plymouth, with Moosilauke and the
Green Mountains in mind. A happy thought prompted us to ask for dinner
at Daisy Cottage in Quincy, and unexpectedly we met there one of the
party who braved Franconia Notch in winter a few years ago, and who
told the tale of their joys and sorrows in the Transcript. We mailed
our cards to the friends whose house was closed, and then on to Warren,
near Moosilauke. We experienced just a shade of depression here,
perhaps because the hotel, which had been full of guests all summer,
was now empty and cold, or possibly the sunshine we absorbed at North
Conway—“canned” sunshine, Mr. Shayback calls it—was giving out. Be
that as it may, our enthusiasm was not up to the point of climbing a
mountain to see what we had seen for eight successive days,—peaks
shrouded in white clouds. The sun did shine in the early morning; but
it takes time to clear the mountains, and the wind blew such a gale
we actually feared we might be blown off the “ridge” on Moosilauke
if we did go up. We waited and watched the weather, finished “Robert
Elsmere,” and began for a second reading, and after dinner gave up
the ascent. By night we were reconciled, for we had the most charming
drive of twenty miles to Bradford, Vt., crossing the Connecticut at
Haverhill, and saying good-by to New Hampshire and its misty mountains.
A new kind of weather was on hand next morning, strangely like that we
have become accustomed to, but not so hopeless.
These dense fogs along the Connecticut in September are the salvation
of vegetation from frosts, we were told, but they are fatal to views.
We drove above and away from the fog, however, on our way over the
hills to West Fairlee, but it rested in the valley until nearly noon.
It was encouraging to learn that fair weather always followed.
A “bridge up” sent us a little way round, but we reached West Fairlee
just at dinner time, and while Jerry was at the blacksmith’s we
strolled about the village with friends. The afternoon drive to Norwich
on the Connecticut—a pretty, old university town—was very pleasant.
We were directed to the hotel, but when a lady answered the door bell,
we thought we must have made a mistake, and were asking hospitality at
a private mansion. There was no sign; the yard was full of flowers,
and the big square parlor, with the fire crackling under the high old
mantel, the fan-decorated music-room through the portieres—everything,
in fact, betokened a home. And such in truth it was, only, having been
a hotel, transients were still accommodated there, as there was no
other place in Norwich. When the very gallant colored boy ushered us
into a room the size of the parlor below, with all the homey touches,
we felt really like company. The delicious supper, well served from the
daintiest of dishes, confirmed the company feeling.
We started out in the densest of fogs from our luxurious quarters in
Norwich, but soon left it behind, and the drive along White River was
very lovely. We had to dine at a “putting-up” place, with another
fellow-traveler, in a kitchen alive with flies; and at Bridgewater,
where we went for the night, we were received by a woman with mop and
pail in hand—a little “come down” after our fine appointments. We must
not forget our pleasant hour in Woodstock that afternoon. We drove
through its pretty streets, called on friends, and took a look at the
fair grounds, for everybody was “going to the fair.”
Fine appointments are not essential to comfort, and when we were all
fixed in our little room, with a good book, waiting once more for it
to simply rain, not pour, we were just as happy as at Norwich. After
dinner we challenged the weather, and set forth for Ludlow. We overtook
the little Italian pedler, with what looked like a feather bed on his
back, who had sat at table with us, and was now ploughing his way
through the mud. His face was wreathed in the most extravagant smiles
in response to our greeting. The rain had spent itself, and we enjoyed
walking down the mountain as we went through Plymouth. It seemed an
unusual mountain, for there was no “up” to it, but the “down” was
decidedly perceptible.
Ludlow was as homelike as ever, and the Notch drive on the way to
Chester as interesting. The foliage, usually so brilliant at that
season, had changed scarcely at all; only a touch of color now and
then, but the streams were all up to danger point.
Bellows Falls was unusually attractive. We drove down the river, then
crossed to Walpole, N. H., for the night.
The washouts here were quite serious, and we repented leaving Vermont
to go zigzagging on cross-roads and roundabout ways in New Hampshire.
I wish we had counted the guideboards we saw that day that said,
“Keene eleven miles.” We had Brattleboro in mind, but after making
some inquiries at Spofford Lake, we decided to put Brattleboro out of
mind and Keene guideboards out of sight, and go to Northfield. We
dined that day in a neat little hotel in the smallest town imaginable,
and expected country accommodations at Northfield, but some of the
Moody Institute young ladies directed us to the new hotel “everybody
was talking about.” What a surprise to find ourselves in an elegantly
furnished hotel on a high hill, with a commanding view. The steam heat
and general air of comfort and luxury were truly delightful.
Another mountain was in our way, and the long, slow climb seemed
endless. Near the summit we saw an old lady who said she had lived
there twelve years, and added that it was pretty lonesome at the time
of the big snowstorm last winter, for the road was not broken out for a
week. We think we prefer a blockade at Southboro, in a warm car, with
plenty of company.
A gentleman, speaking of an extended tour by carriage some years ago,
said he thought Erving, Mass., the most forlorn place he was ever in.
We fully assent. We were cold after coming over the mountain, and that
dreary parlor, without a spark of fire or anything to make one in, and
a broken window, was the climax of cheerlessness. The dinner was very
good, but the waiting was dreary. We walked to the railway station, but
that was no better, so we went to the stable for our extra wraps, and
then tried to forget the dreary room and lose consciousness in a book.
This was not a good preparation for a long drive, but a little hail
flurry as we drove through Athol took some of the chill out of the air,
and the drive to Petersham was more comfortable. At the little hotel in
that airy town, fires were built for us up and down stairs, and Erving
was forgotten.
And now comes our last day’s drive, for although Jerry had traveled
already over six hundred miles on this trip, he was fully equal to the
thirty miles from Petersham to Leominster. We forgot to ask to have the
phaeton washed, and it looked so bad we stopped at a watering-trough in
the outskirts of the town and washed off the shields with newspapers.
After this we felt so respectable and self-confident that we did not
heed our ways, until a familiar landmark in the wrong direction brought
us to the certain knowledge that we were decidedly off our road.
We saw a young man and he knew we were wrong, but that was all he knew
about it, so we turned back and presently came across an older and
wiser man, who said, pityingly, “Oh, you are wrong, but if you will
follow me, I will start you right.” We meekly followed for a mile and
a half perhaps, but it seemed twice that, then he stopped and directed
us to Princeton. We had no more difficulty, but were so late at the
Prospect House that a special lunch was prepared for us, dinner being
over.
It grew very cold, and was dark before we got home, but Jerry knew
where he was going and lost no time. Although he had been through about
ninety towns, and been cared for at over thirty different hotels, he
had not forgotten Leominster and his own stall. Do you suppose he
remembers, too, his old Kentucky home?