BAR HARBOR AND BOSTON.
Well, we have really celebrated our twentieth anniversary! Twenty
consecutive phaeton trips! Nearly eight thousand miles driving through
the New England States, New York and Canada! Our phaeton looks a little
past its prime, and yet does not seem to feel its age. If, in these
days of mysterious communication, it could have a tete-a-tete with
the “one-hoss shay,” and compare notes, what a garrulous old couple
they would be! Some people thought we ought to have a guardian on
our first journey, and had we anticipated a twentieth, we ourselves
should have felt as if by that time we should need a corps. If all our
wanderings had been revealed to us as we drove along the Connecticut,
on that first trip, they would have seemed more improbable than Camille
Flammarion’s excursions among the solar systems; but we live now in
an age which has ceased to wonder beyond—what next? and time and
space are both out of fashion in the realms we are exploring, when not
limited to the range of a phaeton; so a twenty years’ look ahead now
seems but a passing moment of time.
“Well, well,” do I hear you say, “tell us where you went.” Do not be
impatient; if you travel with us, you must be content to go as we go,
and we never know where we are going until we have been. It would spoil
the whole story if we should tell you now, for it would seem as if we
knew all about it when we started off that lovely afternoon the last
of June, with maps of Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, but without the
faintest idea which we should use.
If we were to have a journey, we must go somewhere for the first night;
and we decided on Groton, as we have been asked so many times if we
have ever stayed at the cosy inn kept by two sisters. We found it as
pleasant as had been described to us, and it seemed a good opening for
our twentieth to find such a pretty new place for our first night. But
where next?
Does it seem strange to you, to go off for a three weeks’ trip without
the slightest idea whether you are bound for mountain or sea shore?
Well, our experience is that the best journeys make themselves, as the
best books write themselves, for they accomplish what we should never
think to plan.
Once more we spread our maps, as we have done so many times, just to
find a place for the next night. We pinned Maine on to New Hampshire
and Massachusetts, and how big it looked! Surely if we once got into
Maine we could roam at will, with no fear of being lost over the
borders. It looked very tempting too, for it was a new map, and the
colors were bright, while the other maps were faded and worn. As we
traced one possible route after another, it really seemed as if Maine
was our destination, unless we should encounter the “green-heads,”
which would send us flying, for Jerry would be frantic. We folded the
maps after deciding on Andover for the second night. On our way we left
cards at a friend’s house in Westford, bought a box of strawberries at
Lowell, and had our first camp by the wayside.
At Andover we studied the “way to Maine,” as if it was the lesson
assigned. Thirty-one miles took us to Hampton, N. H., via Haverhill,
where we said “Good morning” to a friend, and later took our luncheon
in a pretty grove by a lake.
At Hampton our journey seemed to begin in earnest, for here we began
to follow the coast, driving on every beach accessible; Boar’s Head,
Rye Beach, Jenness Beach, Straw’s Point, Foss Beach, and passing
“The Wentworth,” which last took us a mile or two out of the direct
route, and gave us a look at the old portions of Portsmouth, so like
Marblehead in its quaintness. All these favorite resorts we took in on
our way from Hampton to York, winding up with the new shore road from
York Harbor to Hotel Bartlett on York Beach, where we went for the
third night.
A good supper, brisk walk on the beach, refreshing sleep, and another
lovely morning dawned. The view of the beach and surf is very fine
from “Bartlett’s,” but we are birds of passage, and fly on, mentally
photographing all the beauties by the way, to be recalled and enjoyed
at our leisure. Instantaneous views had to suffice for that day, for
the next was Fourth of July, and we wanted to reach Ferry Beach,
where Jerry as well as ourselves could spend it peacefully, not being
inclined to join in the festivities of the bicyclists at Saco. Jerry
made easy work of the nearly forty miles, perhaps owing to the three
miles’ brisk trot on Wells Beach. Just as we left the beach, came the
dense fog which hung along the coast for days, but we soon drove out of
it into the bright sunshine, and realized, more fully than ever before,
that the sun is always shining beyond the clouds. We dined and made
a call in Kennebunk, but had to send our thoughts to our hospitable
friend a mile away, and pass by the port rather than overtask Jerry.
Biddeford and Saco were alive with preparations for the Fourth. We got
our letters, our first word from home, and gladly turned towards Ferry
Beach.
Bay View was spick and span, and Mrs. Manson, the efficient hostess,
welcomed us, and gave us her best room. We are almost sure a woman
should reign supreme in a hotel as well as in a home. Who would want
a man for a housekeeper! There was a homelike look from the bright
carpeted office, with a work-basket and sewing-chair, to the easy nook
in the upper hall, with the tastefully arranged plants behind the lace
draperies.
How we slept, after a two-miles’ walk on the beach! Not a cannon,
cracker, bell or tin horn, and the morning was like an old-fashioned
Sunday. After dinner the children had a few torpedoes and crackers, so
we knew our peace was not owing to prohibition. We never knew a hotel
where children seem to have so much liberty, which is never abused,
as at Bay View. Is this, too, owing to a woman’s tact? In the evening
we watched the fireworks at Old Orchard, two miles away, and wondered
whether we should keep to the coast, or follow up the Kennebec to
Augusta, and go home through the mountains.
We got all the information we could, and having rested on the Jewish
Sabbath, we drove on Sunday nearly thirty miles, dining at Portland,
and spending the night at Royal Rivers, a comfortable little hotel
at Yarmouth. We got our only wetting on that Sunday afternoon in a
spasmodic shower, but we think it cannot be considered a retribution in
this enlightened age.
The next day’s drive took us through Brunswick to Bath. Here we were
at three o’clock, Jerry too tired to go farther, time on our hands,
and the Kennebec so alluring! Our letters had not come, and how could
we order them forwarded, when we did not know where we were going?
We must wait. We shall always feel indebted to that bright girl in
the post office, who told us we could go down to Popham Beach for the
night, as the Boston boat stopped there daily, leaving Bath at six
o’clock. A night away from our phaeton involves quite a little planning
and repacking, and where could we do it? We could leave Jerry at a
good stable very near the boat landing, but there was no hotel in the
vicinity. We had an hour or two, and decided we would see Bath, and
when we came across a rural back street we would repack in the phaeton.
Bath is more of a city than we hoped, and despairing of finding an
uninhabited back street, after we had driven on and up, in and out,
without success, we stopped under a tree in a triangular space, and
went to work regardless of the few passers-by. Very soon big bags,
little bags, shawl cases and writing-tablet were all ready, some to be
taken, others left; and we retraced with some difficulty our crooked
ways. We bade Jerry good night at the stable, and then had a most
delightful sail of an hour and a half down the Kennebec to Popham Beach.
Really, the Boston papers had not exaggerated the charms of that summer
resort, and we were glad we were there, even when we learned the
morning boat left at quarter to seven, instead of eight or nine as
we were told in Bath. There was no time to be lost, and we hardly did
justice to the very delicate fish supper, in our haste to skip down the
rocky path to the beach, where we must have walked two or three miles
back and forth, not returning until it was quite dark.
We were to breakfast at six instead of eight as usual when we are
driving, so retired early. The hotel is on a very high bluff, a “corner
lot,” where the Kennebec meets the ocean, and we had a corner room. At
three o’clock our eyes opened as if by magic, and rested on the most
beautiful sky imaginable, stretching out over the ocean, and reflected
in the lovely Kennebec. We marked the spot where the sun was soon to
rise, and resolved to see him, but the provoking fellow popped up when
our eyes had closed for a bit.
The morning sail was as fine as the evening. How we would like to row
as well as that sun-browned girl, who signalled the boat with her
handkerchief, and, with her three companions, was pulled aboard as
they came alongside, the boat being towed to the next landing. We were
tempted to go to Augusta, it was so delightful, but Jerry was waiting
for us.
Our next point was Boothbay Harbor. We could have reached there in an
hour and a half by boat from Bath, but Jerry could not be transported.
This was no disappointment, however, as we are always glad to resume
our driving. We were assured of a long, hard twenty-five miles, but
if we were to “do” the coast, Boothbay must not be passed by. Letters
came that morning, and soon we were off, fortified with oats and
well-filled lunch basket, ready to enjoy the day. What a drive it was
over rickety toll-bridges, winding and twisting about, up and down such
stony pitches, skirting the ragged edges of a bay! We took our lunch on
a rocky bluff overlooking the water, and Jerry was invited into a barn
and treated to hay. As we were wending our way towards the coast in the
afternoon, feeling as if we had left the world behind us, a carriage
came in sight, and as it passed a voice shouted to the driver, “Stop!”
We, too, stopped, as a young man leaped from the carriage. We were glad
to see anyone so glad to see us, even if we did not recognize at first,
in the young man on a business tour through Maine, a boy who used to
live almost next door to us. He surprised us again two or three days
later, rushing out from a hotel as he saw us driving by.
Boothbay Harbor was delightful from our window in the little hotel,
which looked as if it had dropped accidently sidewise into a vacant
spot on a side hill, and never faced about. After supper we walked up
to the top of the hill for a view, through a pasture, to see what was
beyond, and back to the hotel by the rocky shore, watching the boats of
every description anchored in the harbor.
Writing was next in order, and the tablet was opened, but where was the
pen-holder? Gone, surely, and it must have slipped out when we repacked
under the tree in Bath! A pen-holder may seem a small loss, but that
one was made out of the old Hingham meeting-house, and has written all
the Transcript letters and thousands of others. We grieved for it, but
could only console ourselves thinking of the fable we read in German
long ago, “Is a thing lost when you know where it is?” We replaced
it with a Boothbay pen-holder, a bright red one for five cents, which
is now trying to tell you of our journeyings as was the wont of the
Hinghamite.
It just poured that night at Boothbay, and there were no signs of
cessation in the morning. We decided to stay until after dinner, and
not divide our drive that day. Suddenly it cleared, and we went out on
the street to make some inquiries at the boat office about Bar Harbor,
for we were getting interested in the coast, and felt inclined to go
on indefinitely. A small boy came along with a poor horse and shabby
carriage, calling, “Have a ride? See round the Harbor for ten cents!”
We had time, and nothing else to do, so jumped in and “did” the Harbor.
The afternoon drive to Damariscotta was very pleasant, and we found
the old brick hotel full of hospitable comfort, for all it had such
a forbidding exterior. We might have been tempted to stop a bit in
Damariscotta if we had known what we learned a few days later, about
some recent excavations of interest, but we were within twenty-five
miles of Penobscot Bay, and impatient for our first glimpse of it.
We camped that day by a country school-house. Two little fellows were
much amused when we stopped there, thinking we had come to see the
teacher in vacation time. They were greatly interested in Jerry during
the unharnessing and tying to a tiny bush. We were interested in the
wild strawberries they had picked in the tall grass over the wall, and
one of the little fellows finally concluded he rather have the money
offered him than the berries, although he had nothing else for his
dinner. His eyes glowed as he took the money and went to the field
again, returning in a little while to ask us if we would not like
another quart.
We fared well at Rockland that night, except our room had one too many
doors, and our slumbers were disturbed by an impatient rattling of a
door key in the spare one. We aroused to the situation just in season
to surprise the well-meaning but mistaken man by a hasty closing of
the door, with an authoritative request to him to lock it, when his
exclamation revealed his discovery of the blunder. When we paid our
bill we quietly suggested to the clerk that it is well to have bolts as
well as locks on unused doors.
And now comes one of the finest drives we ever had,—twenty-eight miles
along Penobscot Bay through Camden and Northport to Belfast. How could
anything be more lovely! Crosby Inn, so fine in all its appointments,
was in harmony with the day’s drive. We had a pleasant chat on the
piazza with fellow travelers, who had been following our route for a
day or two. These ladies were traveling with a pair of horses and a
man, so of course took it for granted we would drive the thirty-five
miles to Bangor next day and spend Sunday there. We did not tell them
our plans, because we had none; we were only hoping we should find a
quiet country hotel before we got to Bangor,—we like it so much better
for a Sunday rest.
On we drove, leaving the beautiful bay, and winding along Penobscot
River, through Searsport, Stockton, Frankfort and Winterport, but
saw no place that tempted us to stop, except a little summer house
in a grove, where we rested at noon. We took note of a singular
advertisement over a watering-trough; “An Open Secret, that —— sells
Furniture, Burial Caskets, and Shrouds at Lowest Prices.”
Hampden was next and last. Unless we found a place there we must go to
Bangor. The last part of the drive was very lovely, and we began to
wonder what Hampden had in store for us. The main street, with most
of the houses facing the river, was very pleasant for a mile before
we came to a forlorn-looking old building with a faded sign, “Hampden
House,” over the door. We passed by, hoping to find a more attractive
place, but no—that was the only hotel in Hampden. We recalled our
delightful experiences in hotels with dilapidated exterior, both in
Canada and the States, and retraced our way to the Hampden House,
though with some misgivings we confess. A very pleasant woman met us
at the door, which is always a good omen, and sent her little girl to
call her father to take the horse. He came leisurely along from the
stable, and when we asked him if we and our horse could be cared for,
he answered, “I don’t know any reason why you can’t.” To our question,
“will all these things be safe in the phaeton?” he as dryly answered,
“This carriage may be stolen tonight—never has been one taken.” His
words were few, but his manner was reassuring, and we already felt at
home.
The floor looked old, and the stairs were well worn, but when we and
our bags were deposited in the upper front room, we looked about and
exclaimed, “This is just one of our places for a Sunday rest!”—rag
mats, high bed where you are sure to sink low in feathers, and a
purely country outlook. We had the dining-room all to ourselves, and
as our hostess served our supper, she told us how they had come there
recently for her husband’s health, and taken this old house, which
had so run down that no one would stop there. They were intending to
fix it up, but had been delayed by sickness, etc., but she told her
husband she could keep it clean. She was called away, for the ice cream
patrons began to come; and we went out for a twilight stroll on the
river bank, which was very high, and gave us a fine view. We next went
westward to see the sun set, and a proposition was made to go into the
Saturday-night prayer meeting in a little church we passed, but it was
not unanimously received, and we returned to our room and books.
The night was as peaceful as Fourth of July at Ferry Beach, and we
opened our eyes on a bright Sunday morning, refreshed. Our memory was
awake too, and we were sure Hampden, Maine, was one of the places
friends used to visit. We asked our hostess some questions, but she
knew little of the people. Later in the morning she came to our room
and said there was an old sea captain down stairs who knew everybody
who ever lived in Hampden. We went down into the little parlor and had
a very pleasant hour with him. He told us various stories of Hannibal
Hamlin, who had so recently gone, and all about the families we were
interested in,—where they were from, had lived, married and died. He
told us of one old lady still living, whose house we passed as we came
into town.
We went back to our room, and were next interested in watching the
coming together of the men in Sunday attire, to hold a “service” on
the steps of the grocery store opposite the hotel. It seemed to be a
general conference meeting, and the sentiments were wafted upward on
the curling smoke from cigar and pipe.
Dinner came next in order. Our hostess apologized for its simplicity,
owing to our coming late Saturday night, but fortunately we do not
spend overmuch thought on “the table,” and after the ceremony is over
it matters little to us. The unexpected ice cream gave a nice finishing
touch to our repast that day.
The afternoon passed all too quickly with our books and letter writing,
and the Hampdenites began to assemble for evening service. Men only
attended, and one by one they came until there were fifteen in a row on
the grocery steps. Presently a humpbacked man appeared, dragging Jerry
along, looking meekness itself, to the town pump. Suddenly Jerry gave a
spring, which greatly surprised the old man, and called forth sallies
from the grocery steps, which led us to think they had not advanced to
universal brotherhood. Directly attention was withdrawn from the poor
old man by the remark, “He’s from Boston,” referring to Jerry, and
immediately rapt attention was given to our friend the sea captain, who
looked like a genial presiding elder with his broad hat, white collar
and linen duster. Evidently he was entertaining them with some of our
driving exploits which had interested him in the morning. Finally one
impatient voice broke in with “Well, how did they happen to light on
Hampden?”
At this point we walked out of the hotel in face of the whole
“congregation,” for it was getting late for us to go in search of the
“old lady,” whom we really wished to meet. We sauntered along down the
pretty country road for nearly a mile before we came to the house that
answered the description given us. A young woman came to the door, and
told us Mrs. —— had gone “down the road.” When we told her who we
were, and that we came because we knew her friends, she said we must
come in and wait while they sent for her. We were shown into the little
parlor, and the hour of waiting passed more than pleasantly as one
after another of the household came in to chat with us. Presently it
was announced that grandma had come, and would be in soon.
We were entirely unprepared for the overwhelming reception she gave
us, all because we knew her friends, for she had never heard even our
names. The sea captain had spoken of her as an old lady, and to be
sure her hair was white as snow, but all thought of years vanished
when she entered the room with the grace and vivacity of youth, her
white fluffy hair like a crown of glory, and the old-fashioned crescent
which fastened the soft black handkerchief about her neck, flashing in
rainbow tints,— and came towards us with open arms. How the time and
our tongues did fly! She told us how she celebrated her seventy-sixth
birthday, but was she not mistaken? Had our eyes been shut, we should
have declared her sixteen, and when we finally said we must go, she
seized the lantern her son brought to guide us through the chairs and
hammocks in the front yard, and refusing any wraps, or even her son’s
hat, she put her arms around us and insisted upon escorting us up
the road. On we went for a full half-mile, and then walked back and
forth, girl fashion, for she would not let us go back with her, until
we had parted so many times she had at last exclaimed, “Well, we shall
get tired kissing each other,” and with another parting and promise
to write to her, we watched her as she turned down the dark, lonely
country road with her lantern at ten o’clock at night. What a charming
time we did have! And if we should tell you whose “Aunt Sarah” that
was, every reader of the Transcript would know; but we are not going to
say another word about it, except that she had the promised letter. We
like to keep just a few things to ourselves.
Have we told you we were on the way to Bar Harbor? Hampden has put
everything out of our minds. We could have crossed the river lower
down, but thought we might as well see Bangor when we were so near,
and then take the main road straight down to the island, a distance of
about sixty miles. We took a last look at Hampden, and after a brisk
drive of six miles reached Bangor, where we got our mails, filled our
lunch basket, drove about the city a little, and then were off full
of anticipation, for we had been told repeatedly that the drive from
Bangor to Bar Harbor was “magnificent.”
It was a pretty drive over the hills and through the vales to
Ellsworth, where we spent the night, and we found a pleasant camping
spot at noon. Our Ellsworth proprietor gave us much helpful information
about Bar Harbor, and we left, sure that the twenty remaining miles
were to surpass anything we had ever seen. It was hot, the first
really uncomfortable day since we left home, and it grew hotter as
we came nearer the island. The tide was out as we crossed the bridge
connecting Mt. Desert with the mainland, and our enthusiasm was so far
abated by the general unattractiveness, that we wondered if the name
Mt. Desert did not originally mean something. We were still hopeful,
however, but hope waned when we were fairly on the island, shut out
from every breath of air, in the midst of stubbed evergreens. Be
assured the signboard pointing to “The Ovens” did not tempt us from our
main course that morning.
“What unappreciative people!” I fancy Bar Harbor enthusiasts
exclaiming. But just wait a minute. Remember we are not there yet. Now
we round a corner and the scene changes. The beautiful harbor is before
us, dotted with yachts gayly decked, and boats of every description.
Lovely villas and charming grounds have supplanted the primitive huts
and stubbed evergreens. Fine turnouts, bright girls in tennis, yachting
and driving costumes, and now and then a real dude, not forgetting
the “men of money” and stately dowagers,— all are here, yes, and
processions of four-seated buckboards with liveried drivers seeking
patronage,—everything in fact that goes to make a fashionable summer
resort is found at Bar Harbor. The great charm of all is the grand
combination of mountain and ocean.
As our time was limited, we gave the afternoon to a round trip in
Frenchman’s Bay, our special object being to touch at Sullivan, where
friends declared they looked for us and Jerry every day last summer. We
did think about it, and looked it up on the map, but decided it was
quite too far for us to drive. Now here we were, but our friends were
far away. No wonder they were charmed with their summer at Sullivan.
Really, aside from its own charms the view of Bar Harbor would
compensate one. We touched at several points in the bay, changed boats
twice, and were delayed an hour just at sunset, which we enjoyed from
the upper deck, and thanks to the delay, had a view of Bar Harbor
electric-lighted. Our obliging host had a special supper awaiting
us, and our day of varied experience ended with a long look at Green
Mountain in the starlight from our window.
While we were waiting for Jerry the next morning, the clerk rehearsed
enthusiastically the attractions of Bar Harbor, and asked us if we did
not think the drive from Ellsworth very fine. He looked aghast when we
frankly told him that, with the exception of the last mile or two, it
was the least interesting twenty miles of our two weeks’ driving—three
hundred and fifty miles. We can readily imagine, however, how
delightful it must seem to people who have been pent up in the city,
and we do not doubt it would have had more charm for us if it had been
a little cooler and the water had been at high tide.
Even the mists, that would not be dispelled, could not dampen our
enthusiasm on the famous ocean drive, although we almost despaired of
seeing the ocean, and began to think it was like some river drives we
have taken, without a river to be seen. When we at last came to the red
rocky bluffs, so wonderfully beautiful, and then followed our winding
way through a real mountain notch, we were in full sympathy with Bar
Harbor enthusiasts.
We must now think of turning homeward. If inclination had been
considered, we would give you an account of a glorious return via
Moosehead Lake, Dixville Notch and the White Mountains; but our time
was limited by other plans, and we had already strayed too far from
home to return even as we came. We must test Jerry as a sailor; and it
seemed wise to make sure of a pleasant day, and not delay, for a storm
was anticipated. The Olivette, a beautiful boat, ran from Bar Harbor
direct to Boston, leaving at six in the afternoon, but we could leave
at one o’clock on the Lewiston, and have the delightful sail along the
coast to Rockland, and then change for the Bangor boat, due in Boston
in the morning, at the same time as the Olivette. The Lewiston was said
to have better accommodations for horses too, and Jerry is always the
majority with us. We packed oats for his supper, and a gay Bar Harbor
blanket to insure his comfort, in the phaeton, and the man at the wharf
tied up everything securely. We were weighed, because a man said we
must be—everybody was weighed before leaving Bar Harbor—then went on
board, everything promising a most delightful afternoon.
We were full of anticipation, with map in hand ready to observe every
point. Within ten minutes we were in a dense fog, and rolling as if
we were in mid-ocean. We could barely discern the rocky bluffs along
the ocean drive, which we so longed to see. It was clear in Southwest
Harbor, and we had a few views of the island as we touched at several
points, for it was bright sunshine on shore; then we sailed into the
fog again denser than ever. A row boat came alongside, and we went
on to the upper deck to see passengers taken aboard. The wind blew
furiously, and the deck was deserted with the exception of a bridal
couple, whom we had seen three times before,—meeting them as we went
to Belfast, and again driving off the island as we drove on. They
were on the wharf at one of the places we touched at Frenchman’s Bay,
and here they were again, having retraced their steps, the bridegroom
told us, to take the sail along the coast once more, because his wife
enjoyed it so much. The fog, however, was no respecter of persons, and,
brides or not brides, we were all doomed to the same fate; an afternoon
sail with nothing to be seen but ourselves, and a rolling and tossing
that called forth ominous prophecies from pessimistic passengers. We
are glad we indulged to the utmost in optimistic hopes, for that was
all there was bright about it.
At Rockland we changed boats, and gladly, feeling that somehow the
change of boats would change the atmosphere and still the restless
waters. When our bags and wraps were deposited in our stateroom, we
went down to see Jerry. Any misgivings we had indulged in as to his
state of mind were dispelled when we went towards him with the oats. He
was all right surely.
We went out on deck, but how the wind did blow! And the rolling,
creaking and groaning increased as we went out to sea. More than
once it seemed as if the boat fell from our feet, and left us
standing amid air. One by one the passengers disappeared, and among
the last stragglers, we took refuge in our stateroom. There was no
inclination for preliminaries. We threw our hats on the upper berth,
and camped down for the night’s entertainment. The pessimists had the
satisfaction of being true prophets, but we still believe in optimism.
The night was long, measured off by the fog horn, and our breath
stopped once when suddenly the boat stood still and the machinery was
silent. It was a real relief when the creaking and groaning began
again, and we rolled on, resuming the tooting. We would not believe we
slept a wink but for the fact we dreamed that, as we came near home,
after our Bar Harbor to Boston sail, Jerry was independent and wayward,
and swung round suddenly. One said, “Never mind, let it be a turn to
the house the other way,” but before we got there he swung round again,
and then the driver was “up,” and said, “He has got to mind, if I can
make him.” She drew up the reins with a grip that would have turned
the Lewiston, and the result was that after much creaking and groaning
of the old phaeton, Jerry was rolled up like a kitten in front of the
carriage, and the “driver” was prostrate under the back wheels. The
dreamer extended a hand to Jerry, and he touched it as graciously as
any lord of the land, then arose and we three stood upright, unharmed;
and so we did, after our three hundred miles’ water trip, on the wharf
in Boston at eight o’clock.
The boatman attempted to harness Jerry, and the optimistic dreamer,
sitting in the phaeton, had full faith in his land wisdom, but the
driver came back from the boat office just in time to help him out of a
very perplexing dilemma. He had placed the saddle, and was diligently
searching for a place to put the crupper aiming towards the ears. The
driver with some difficulty suppressed her amusement, as she readjusted
the saddle. With a cheery “Good-by, Jerry,” the boatman returned to
his sphere, and we were soon off for breakfast.
Jerry was quite at home at the familiar stable in Mason street. After
breaking our fast we gave the morning to shopping, and early in the
afternoon we began a round of calls in Boston and vicinity, which kept
us busy several days. We could not think of ending our delightful
journey so abruptly as to be in Bar Harbor one day and in Leominster
the next, as we might have done.
We visited thirteen suburban towns, and could write a letter almost as
long as this one without exhausting the charms of the Wayside Chapel
in Maplewood, and the home of its owner under the same roof, which we
enjoyed through a friend, who exclaimed as we called, “Oh, you are
just in season to attend our daily fifteen minutes’ service.” It is
the embodied long-cherished idea of a helpful woman, and is full of
the work of her own hands and brain, from the embroidered carpets and
draperies, the allegorically painted walls, and fitting mottoes, to
many of the books on her shelves. But all this you can go and see, for
it is open to whomsoever wills to go in, without money and without
price; a church with a creed of one word—Love.
After this unexpected visit and service, we started off in pursuit of
a hotel, and at sunset found ourselves at Woburn. This was not at all
our intention; we were not ready to go home yet, and drove back towards
Boston the next morning for more calls, then faced about and took a
two days’ round-about for home, passing the old Wayside Inn in Sudbury
on our way. We took our last dinner at the Lancaster House, called on
friends, then drove around by Spec Pond, surprised the campers, and
had a fine row in the “G. W.,” whose hold on our affections is only
strengthened by absence. We took Jerry camping for a week, later in the
season, and he was a great acquisition to camp life, but we must pass
by the delights of that week, even our visit to the Shakers, and hasten
home over Rice hill. The view was never so lovely as in that sunset
glow. Our journey ended in golden glory, but we still feel it was not
complete; and from the queries of some of our friends, it would seem as
if they thought we did not have “much of a journey,” but it was one of
our very best, and at Bar Harbor we were just the same distance from
home in miles and time as we were at Berthier, Canada, two summers ago.
It is all owing to that abrupt return by water, and sometime we hope
to tell you how we drove to Boston, put Jerry on board boat for Bar
Harbor, then finished up our Twentieth Phaeton Trip.