DIXVILLE NOTCH AND THE NORTH SHORE.
“In a buggy”! How strange that sounds! Not half so nice as “in a
phaeton.” Even after such a delightful journey as we have had in a
buggy (there never was a more ugly name for anything so nice), we
grieve to tell you the dear old phaeton has gone; not to pieces, like
the one-hoss shay, but to be initiated into a new life, with new
associations and environments, which is often like the elixir of life
to people, and may give our phaeton another quarter of a century.
It went away a month before our journey, and every time we went to
drive in the new buggy we found ourselves making comparisons. The seat
is higher; it is not upholstered on the side, and it seems as if we
should fall out; the floor is narrower. How strange it seems without
shields—fenders, they say now! Then we would come to our senses and
say, How foolish! Really, this is luxurious—leaning back, which
we could not do comfortably in the phaeton, without a shawl for a
pillow—how much room there will be without the bags in front! We shall
enjoy it partly tipped back. How much lighter for Jerry! It is nice;
of course we shall like it. The old phaeton would look shabby enough
beside it, with the dilapidated top and faded brown cushions, but the
ease of a phaeton “hung round it still.” What good times we did have in
it!
And then we would wonder who would have it, and fancy some poor man
taking it, who lived a little out of town, and had somebody’s pet
horse to keep until he died a natural death. Would the “auras” of those
twenty journeys take shape as he jogged about? They would be there,
and if his eyes should be holden in his normal waking condition, we
felt sure, should he fall asleep on his way home some sultry summer
night, his dreams would be like a running panorama without geographical
order, if the pictures of our journeys appeared chronologically.
Along the Connecticut River, with a view from Mt. Holyoke, would be
followed by Lake Winnipiseogee and the Isles of Shoals, Newport,
Martha’s Vineyard, Boston suburbs, Berkshire Hills, Hudson River, Green
Mountains, Lake George, Saratoga, White Mountains, and Boston, Vermont,
Canada, Franconia Notch, Old Orchard Beach, New Jersey, Dixville Notch,
Catskill Mountains, Narragansett Pier and Bar Harbor! Would the poor
man be able to locate himself at once, when aroused by the familiar
sound of the horse’s hoof on the barn floor? Ought we to tell him about
it? We decided to entrust him to the manager of the panorama.
We had at last to stop thinking of the dear old phaeton and adjust
ourselves to the nice new buggy, for it required an entire change in
packing arrangements. Things would not place themselves in the buggy,
as they did in the phaeton from long habit. Bags must be found to fit
the “box,” and the wrench, oil and twine had to be put into what one
might call an emergency bag—a Corning is so different from a phaeton.
We made some half-curtains to use in rainy weather, which take up much
less room than the “sides,” and do not shut out the view. By the time
we were ready for our journey we almost wondered how we ever got along
without a place for bags, things seemed so compact and out of the way.
Why anyone should have mistrusted we were going farther than Spec Pond
or Fitchburg when we drove up to the post office on the afternoon of
June thirtieth we cannot imagine; but a reporter did, and seized the
opportunity to interview us. We did not wish to leave town with the
ill-will of anyone, and responded civilly to his many queries, but
the entire information gained made a very brief item. Now, if we had
told him we were going to Pepperell we should have falsified ourselves
at the outset. We did think of spending the first night there, but a
bridge up and a big thunder-cloud turned our course towards Townsend,
and we reached the hotel just in time to escape a heavy shower. It
cleared away, and after supper we drove on to Brookline, N. H., and
were farther on our way, if our way lay north, than if we had gone to
Pepperell.
It is a pretty drive of twenty-four miles from Brookline to Goffstown
through Amherst, where we stopped for dinner. At Goffstown the landlord
was not in, and even bells called forth no response, so we drove off
to view the town. A second bold effort was more successful and brought
to light the landlord, who had turned carpenter and was building a new
kitchen.
Twenty-eight miles the next day, through Concord, where we always spend
a pleasant hour with friends, took us to Shaker Village, on the top
of a hill, where we spent Sunday. When you have made one visit to the
Canterbury Shakers you will not wonder that we have been there four
times. It is a restful place, away from the world of turmoil, and the
sisters are pleasant hostesses. They are free to investigate in any
direction, and we talked of Theosophy and all the advanced ideas of
today. Sunday morning a sister brought in several books for us to look
over, and we lent her one, which she liked so much we left it with her,
taking some Shaker pamphlets in exchange at her suggestion.
We deemed it a special favor to be invited to attend meeting, as their
services are not open to the public. If we had not such a long journey
to tell you about, we would like to tell you of that meeting, which
interested us very much.
Last year we hurried along the coast to reach Old Orchard before the
Fourth of July, as Jerry sometimes objects to fire crackers. This time
we had fixed upon Weirs as a celebrating point, and after dinner with
the Shakers, we started off for the eighteen miles’ drive. We had not
driven an hour before a fearfully ominous cloud loomed up, which grew
blacker and blacker, and very ugly looking. We sped through the street
of Belmont, and barely got inside the little hotel when the rain fell
in sheets, and the lightning flashed in all directions. We watched the
storm until the rain fell moderately, and the thunder rumbled in the
distance, and then called for Jerry, for night would overtake us surely
if we delayed longer. We drove briskly to Laconia, and then came a hard
pull over roads repaired with sods. The sun was just setting when we
surveyed Lake Winnipiseogee from the top of the hill which leads down
to the Weirs, and the clock struck eight as we entered the dining-room
of the Lakeside House.
Here we were entirely at home, and spent the morning of the Fourth
strolling about to see the improvements and our friends, in their
lovely new cottage by the lake. Everything seemed quiet by three
o’clock, and after a consultation with Landlord Weeks, we decided the
time had come for us to go to Squam Lake, which we had passed by so
many times. Hundreds of people were enjoying that perfect day at Weirs,
but they had forgotten all else for the time, and were crowded on the
shore to see a man walk on the water. Jerry was not annoyed by a single
cracker. The drive was very lovely, and the sunset views from the
piazzas of the Asquam House, high above the lake, were not surpassed in
all our journey.
Our “way” evidently lay through the mountains, and we took a lingering
look at Squam in the morning, and then were off for Plymouth. We forgot
to tell you that we made a cricket for the new buggy, which was a great
luxury, but we were not satisfied with the covering. At Plymouth we got
a pretty piece of carpeting, and after our lunch by the wayside, near
Livermore’s Falls, we took the tacks and hammer from the “emergency
bag,” and upholstered it. The result was a great success.
Now we were ready for the Pemigewasset Valley for the sixth time. It
is a drive one can never weary of, for it is never twice alike. We
found a new place for the night at North Woodstock. The house stood
high above the street and commanded one of the finest views of the
Franconia Mountains we have seen. We could just distinguish the Flume
House, five miles away, where we met friends as we drove through the
Notch the next morning.
We are always interested in the excursionists we meet “doing” the
Notch, with its Flume, Pool and Basin, for the first time. We left the
carriage to have a good look at the Old Man of the Mountain. We hope
nothing will happen to the jagged rocks that make up that wonderful
profile. We climbed Bald Mountain for the first time, taking our lunch
on the way. Jerry had his dinner later at the Profile House farm. We
spent the night at Littleton.
A bright thought came to us here. How pleasant it would be to look in
upon our friends at Lake Memphremagog. Newport did not look far away
on our map, but remembering those swampy, corduroy roads in northern
Vermont, with stump-land for scenery, we decided we would drive the
twenty miles to St. Johnsbury and then go by rail forty-five miles to
Newport. It proved a very wise decision, for heavy rains had washed
the roads, and the corduroy must have been impassable. Moreover, when
we got to Newport we found for once our plans were frustrated, for no
boats had been running for two weeks, as the water was so high they
could not land anywhere on the lake. News travels slowly in northern
Vermont. We had made many inquiries at Littleton and St. Johnsbury, and
were told the boats were running twice a day. We spent the night at the
Memphremagog House, and gazed by moonlight towards Georgeville, twenty
miles into Canada, where we had expected to spend the evening with our
friends, and thought of those “best laid plans.”
A pleasure we did not expect came to us, however, on that little side
trip. Just as we stepped on the car at St. Johnsbury we were startled
by a “Hulloa, Auntie F.!” We turned and saw two veritable tramps, with
beaming faces. Who would have mistrusted they were college boys in
high standing, as they stood there, with caps pushed back, and tents,
knapsacks, spiders, canteens, and who knows what not, strapped on
their backs? We “four tramps” took possession of the rear of the car
and talked over the family news, for they had left home that morning,
and we had been driving a week. They were full of plans for tramping
and camping through Canada, and quite likely some of you may have read
their interesting letters telling of their experiences via Montreal to
New Brunswick. They camped at Newport that night and called on us at
the Memphremagog House the next morning.
We were prompted to go to the post office before leaving Newport and
got a letter which it seemed must have been projected by occult means,
for how otherwise could one have reached there so soon? That is always
a pleasure, and we took the train for St. Johnsbury, quite content, all
things considered, with an outing of ninety miles by rail. Later in the
season an office boy in a hotel in New Hampshire asked if he had not
seen us somewhere in northern Vermont. We told him we had been there.
“Well,” he said, “I thought you looked natural, and that I saw you
there canvassing for Bibles!”
We began our journey a week before by driving to Lunenburg, Mass., and
about three hours after parting with our two tramps at Newport, we
began it over again at St. Johnsbury, turning Jerry towards Lunenburg,
Vt. We thought we would try our chances next in northern New Hampshire.
We had driven perhaps half the twenty miles to Lunenburg, when another
of those ominous clouds appeared, and just at the right time we came to
a large barn on a farm, but no house was within a mile. At one end of
the barn facing the road was an open shed, with places to tie several
horses, and a large sign-board, “Public Shelter Shed.” At one side
was a fine water trough and another sign, “Nice Spring Water—Drink
Hearty.” The customary broken goblet was close at hand. Several
children were there, with quantities of wild strawberries. They sat
on the grass with their lunch, and after taking ours we added some
cultivated strawberries to their pails, and they started on the run for
the little station nearly a mile away. We hope they were safely under
cover before the shower came. As we waited there, while the thunder,
lightning and rain held high carnival, we sent winged thoughts of
gratitude to the thoughtful man to whom we were indebted for shelter.
Having been delayed by the shower, and finding Lunenburg so attractive,
we stopped there for the night instead of crossing the Connecticut
to Lancaster, N. H. Several years ago we explored Dixville Notch, a
little south of Connecticut Lake in northern New Hampshire, and have
ever since talked of going again to get some of that lovely moss for
Christmas cards. We shall never forget the lovely drive along the
Connecticut, after leaving the White Mountains many miles behind us.
Then we drove on the New Hampshire side and looked over into Vermont.
As we were now in Vermont we drove up on that side and looked across
into New Hampshire. A new railroad had taken the old road by the river
in many places, and the new road was cut high above, which gave us some
fine views. At one time we saw showers before us and back of us and
only a stray drop fell where we were.
We drove twenty-eight miles that day, and spent the night at North
Stratford. We slept very well, notwithstanding the cars almost grazed
our room as they rounded the corner.
The next morning we were off, with our eyes on the alert for the first
glimpse of “The Nirvana.” At Littleton we got a copy of “Among the
Clouds,” and were much interested in the description and picture of a
wonderfully fine hotel, fifteen hundred feet above the level of the
sea, at Colebrook, which was to open soon. We concluded we were not
fitted to enter Nirvana, for the terms were to be from $4 to $7 a day,
but we could look up to it as we passed by.
Long before we reached Colebrook we saw its towers and gables resting
against the sky, and from the old hotel in Colebrook, which had been
much improved since we were there, it looked just above our heads.
There is a fine drive completed to the top of the bluff; but while
waiting for dinner we strolled up the short path through the woods,
hardly five minutes’ walk. We found the house really “open,” for
money had given out when it was but a skeleton; but we reveled in
the possibilities of “The Nirvana.” We climbed ladders, and saw it in
embryo, lest we might not be admitted when in its perfected state.
Every room commanded most beautiful views. From one window we looked
along the Mohawk River to Dixville Notch, following the ten miles’
drive we were to have that afternoon.
A good dinner awaited us, when we came down to the hotel, and as we
drove along the Mohawk Valley, after Jerry’s rest, we turned back many
times for another glimpse of the beautiful outline against the sky.
Once in Dixville Notch, all else is forgotten in the stillness and
beauty. The hotel was undergoing repairs, and many attractions were
assuming form under the guiding hand of the landlady. We waited for a
bed to be set up in a room radiant in freshly tinted walls and Japanese
matting, and immediately fell into the spirit of repairs with the two
or three guests, who were continually lending a hand. The house is
supplied with water from a brook which comes tumbling down the mountain
just back of the house. You cannot imagine anything more fascinating
than the rustic camps that have been built by regular patrons of this
secluded spot, at a little distance apart quite a way up the glen, with
little bridges spanning the rocky stream. Hammocks and camp couches
with real springs, were suggestive of a miniature Nirvana, which is
more easily attained than Nirvana on the Heights.
The moon was in full glory that night, and the morning dawned fair for
the Notch drive. As Jerry was brought to the door, our hostess asked if
we would take a few circulars. The few proved fifty, and thereafter
we enclosed one in every letter. We have still a few left. We heartily
assent to all the good that is said of Dixville. Yes, we found more of
that moss, so lovely for Christmas cards. We walked most of the two
miles through the Notch looking for it.
We took dinner at a large three-story hotel in the wilderness kept
mainly for the “river drivers,” whom we were much interested to hear
about. The Androscoggin is full of logs, and river-driving in the
spring must be quite lively. We somehow missed the interpretation of
the guideboards, and pulled up a hill two and a half miles long on the
wrong road that hot afternoon. We were obliged to retrace our steps and
take the turn just the other side of the hotel where we dined. Then
came the well remembered fourteen miles along the Androscoggin, through
the woods, and a night at “Chandler’s,” one of the half-dozen houses to
be seen on the plain as we emerged from the woods.
Great improvements had been made since we were there seven years ago.
That was the place where we had a room on the first floor, without a
lock on window or door, and a “transient” in the room adjoining. Now
the two rooms were one, with a curtained arch between, and the front
room furnished as a parlor, with a piano. We reveled in our royal
apartments in this wild, river-driving country, and did not mind much
the smudge on the piazza to keep the black flies away. We delayed
starting away as long as we could in the morning.
Mrs. Chandler gave us lunch for ourselves and Jerry, and we looked for
a wayside camp; but not even the shady side of a rock could we find,
and it was very hot. It was getting late for Jerry, and in despair
of doing better, we asked permission to drive into a barn. We were
just unharnessing, when the owner drove in with his milk wagon, and
insisted on helping us, and was so urgent, that after taking our lunch
in the carriage, we went into the sitting-room, where we could be “more
comfortable.” He came in and rocked the baby, while his wife prepared
dinner, and when left to ourselves, we went out on the piazza, which
was like a conservatory. After their dinner, the man and his wife
brought out chairs, and we had quite a little visit. We had something
to talk about, for a boy who began his career very humbly near us, was
a high school teacher in that vicinity, and much esteemed as a citizen.
We were interested to hear of him.
Jerry fared as well as we did, and was fresh for the drive to Gorham,
where we received and answered our mail, watching a ball game at the
same time from our window.
The next morning was a bright one for our drive through Pinkham Notch.
We passed the Glen House too early for dinner, but had been told there
was a little place beyond where we could get something for ourselves
and Jerry, and visit Crystal Cascade. While waiting we came to a barn,
which looked inviting for Jerry, but our chance seemed small, when
we glanced into the open door of a tiny board cottage, where sat a
thin, pale woman with a wee baby, and a book. A little girl of daft
appearance, in a slow drawling tone, assured us that was the only
place, and spoke to her mother, who had not seemed to notice us. She
said her husband had gone to pilot a party to the Ravine, and she
had nothing but cookies in the house, but we could put Jerry in the
barn and find the oats, and she would make us hot biscuit. We did
not wish to trouble her so much, and asked if she could give us milk
with the cookies? It proved a delicious lunch. Such cookies and such
milk! We were charmed with the “campish” air of the room. The baby
had been put to sleep in a hammock, swung across one corner. Behind a
door we espied a bookcase well-filled, and spoke of it. The thin, pale
woman brightened up, full of interest, and said the books belonged
to the little girl who had just said to us, in that same drawling
tone, “I—like—to—play—ball—better—than—any—thing—else.” We
were amazed to learn of her passion for books, which had prompted
the mountain visitors to give them to her. A favorite book was “John
Halifax.” Our attention was attracted to another case containing a full
set of Chambers’s Encyclopædia. She said some thought the “Brittany”
was the best, but she liked that. In a closet were two more shelves of
books—all good books, too. Milk, cookies, a hammock and books! Another
Nirvana, to be sure.
We skipped up the path to Crystal Cascade, and there alone, a half-mile
from the cottage, sat a woman on a rock overlooking the cascade, with
her knitting and a book. Nirvana again? Her party had gone on to the
Ravine.
Two miles farther down the Notch we left the carriage and ran along the
walk, and up and down the flights of steps to take a look at Glen Ellis
Falls. All these side attractions of Pinkham Notch we missed when we
drove through on our September mountain trip, in deep mud and heavy
mist.
Jackson was at its best this time. We watched the twilight sky from the
piazza of a friend’s studio on the grounds of Gray’s Inn, and spent
a delightful hour in the morning with the beauties of nature brought
indoors by her skilful hand. It was an ideal studio, with its little
garden in front, and vine-covered porch.
We passed most of the day in Jackson, driving to North Conway in
the latter part of the afternoon. To shorten the drive of the next
day, we drove two miles beyond the town and stopped at Moat Mountain
House, a favorite place for lovers of fine scenery. Mt. Washington was
particularly fine from our window.
Thirty miles, via Tamworth and Madison, stopping at Silver Lake House
for dinner, brought us to Moultonboro. The hotel was closed, and we
will pass lightly over the accommodations (?) and experiences of that
night, assuring you we were ready for an early departure, to meet
the nine o’clock boat at Centre Harbor for a sail through the lovely
Winnipiseogee, to Alton Bay. This was Jerry’s treat, as well as ours.
He is a good sailor. The courteous captain looked out for his comfort
and for our pleasure, calling our attention to all points of interest.
We dined at Alton Bay and then Jerry was fresh for a brisk drive of
eighteen miles to Rochester, where we found pleasant quarters for
Sunday, fifty-three miles away from Moultonboro.
The mountains were now well behind us, and we turned our thoughts
towards Old Ocean, only thirty miles away. We spent a night at Dover,
calling on friends, and camped one noon in Greenland, an ideal farming
town. We tied Jerry to a fence by the roadside, and we took the liberty
to enjoy the shade of a tree the other side of the fence. As we were
taking our lunch, we heard a slight noise, and turned just in time to
see Jerry in mid air, leaping the bars. He believed in equal rights,
and having obtained them at the expense of so much effort, we let him
stay with us. A guilty conscience needs no accuser, and when we saw an
elderly woman guarded by two young people, coming down the road, we
were sure they were after trespassers, and went out to meet them. They
probably fancied Jerry running riot in their mowing, but we had kept
him with us under the tree, where the grass had not flourished. When we
told them how he came there, they were much interested, and we had a
very pleasant chat on his and our own exploits.
We got as near the ocean as possible, by spending the night at Boar’s
Head, enjoying the evening with a friend we found there; we divided our
attention between the ocean and the stars.
“Of course they will go to Boston,” had been quoted in a letter from
home. Well, why not? What could be more charming than a drive along the
North Shore from Boar’s Head to Boston? We could see our friends in
Newburyport and spend a night in Gloucester, and take again that superb
drive through Magnolia, Manchester-by-the-Sea and Beverly Farms, to
Salem. And so we did, and from Salem we drove to Swampscott, spending
a night most delightfully at the Lincoln House. The heat had been
intense, but here it was so cool we put on our jackets and walked the
piazza briskly to get warm.
What led us to brave the heat on Crescent Beach the next day we
cannot imagine, but to our regret we found ourselves there, watching
the whirling horses, and the rollicking bathers, while Jerry had his
mid-day rest. A hot drive in the afternoon, with a call in Maplewood on
our way to Boston, finished up the day begun so cool at Swampscott.
It was too warm to linger in a city, and we turned towards home, making
several calls on the way. We did not follow the old turnpike, but
digressed; and found a new place for the last night of our journey. We
found old friends in the new place, however; one, a prominent preacher,
was in a hammock under an apple tree, with a ponderous book—his
definition of Nirvana quite likely.
The small old-fashioned hotel had been modernized and made attractive
by colored service and “course” dinners. We were interested to learn
that the town has no Queen Anne houses, no telegraph, no telephone,
no fire department, no doctor, no minister, and no money-order office
within four miles. We will not break faith with the friends who
confided all this to us by giving the name of the remarkable place,
only sixteen miles from Boston, for they like it just as it is.
We took our last dinner at the Lancaster House, and recognized in
the proprietor the quaint old man who kept the hotel in Goffstown,
N. H., when we were there several years ago, and who did so much for
our comfort. More pleasant meetings with friends, and then we drove
to Leominster via Spec Pond, and had a row in the “G. W.” A sunset
drive over Rice Hill, which has a charm of its own, that even Mount
Washington cannot rival, was a fitting close to our truly delightful
journey.
Another six hundred and fifty miles to be added to the several
thousands we have driven up and down New England, with now and then a
turn in New York State and Canada!