ON HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS. 1894 to 1904.
In response to many requests to share this journey with our friends as
we used, the spirit has moved us to give you first an inkling of our
annual trips for the ten years since our last report.
This is easily done, for we have a book in which is recorded the name
given to each journey, the name of every town we pass through, with
distance from place to place, and the sum total of time, distance and
expense of each journey. This goes with us, and is a valuable book of
reference. The revolver still goes with us, too, the one thing we take
but never use. Our electric hand-lamp, on the contrary, is very useful.
The Kennebec journey was followed by our first visit to Nantucket,
leaving our horse at New Bedford, and once again prolonging the return
trip to Leominster by driving to Boston. This journey had a memorable
postscript: We drove to Boston for a day or two in the autumn and were
detained eleven days by that terrific November snow storm, and even
then the last thirty miles of the return trip it was good sleighing!
A September mountain trip, “The Figure 8” we named it, comes next
in order, followed by a Jefferson and Jackson trip, and then a
Massachusetts journey, which is always delightful.
The three ranges of the Green Mountains, with their “gulf” roads,
was a journey unsurpassed, and from Cape Ann to Mt. Tom was another
interesting journey in our own state, followed by a Cape Cod trip,
which completed the coast for us from New Haven to Bar Harbor.
By this time we were ready for another journey to Lake George,
Saratoga, and the Berkshires, and the next trip through the mountains
was exceptionally fine, as we returned via Sebago Lake, Portland and
the coast, being just in time for the September surf.
The following journey “capped the climax,” seemingly, when we crossed
the Green Mountains, ferried Lake Champlain to Ticonderoga, and drove
to Eagle, Paradox and Schroon Lakes in the Adirondack region, returning
to Lake George, thence to the Berkshire towns and as far south as
Hartford, Connecticut, a superb drive of five hundred miles.
Most of our journeys have covered more than four hundred miles, and we
are frequently asked if we have done all this with one horse. No, there
was handsome black Charlie, Old Nick, who liked to lie down in harness
now and then, bay Charlie, who had the longest record—ten years—and
was best loved and least trusted, faithful, serious Jerry, whose long
strides took us so easily through the country, saucy and exasperatingly
lazy Bess, who could do so well, and altogether worthy Nan, whose two
journeys have not revealed a fault.
“Do you plan your journeys?” is another question often asked. Never,
except the Cape Cod trip, and we observed the innovation by having a
letter party. Imagine the pleasure of receiving thirty or more letters
at the tip end of Cape Cod, and of mailing an answer to the last one
at Plymouth on the way home! We have many times driven from home to
the post office packed for a three or four weeks’ journey, without
the faintest idea where we should go, and even sat there in the buggy
fifteen or twenty minutes trying to decide which way we would leave
town.
Our journeys make themselves and we thought this summer’s journey
was not going to be worthy of mention, but would simply preserve the
record unbroken. We could spare but two weeks, and we were never more
at a loss what to do with it. Maine came to mind most frequently, and
we finally faced in that direction, spending the first night at the
Groton Inn. Of course, facing Maineward the Isles of Shoals lay in our
way as a side attraction, and as it was many years since we had been
there, we left our horse at Portsmouth, and took the boat to Appledore,
where we found the friends we hoped to meet. After dinner and a walk
to Celia Thaxter’s resting place, we returned on the afternoon boat to
Portsmouth. Our horse was waiting for us at the wharf, and we drove on
to Eliot, Me., where Green-Acre attracted us.
A visit to Green-Acre alone would be enough for a summer’s outing, even
if one were limited to the exoteric interests of life—this beautiful
acre of green on the banks of the Piscataqua River, the finely located
Inn, with its hospitality, and the glorious sunsets—what more could
one desire? But if you have chanced to be, or wish to be, initiated
into the esoteric mysteries, what a feast!
Unfortunately Miss Farmer, the organizer and secretary of Green-Acre,
was away for a few days, but we had a brief sunset meeting sitting on
the river bank, a very fine reading in the parlor in the evening, from
Longfellow and Lowell, an early morning gathering on the piazza of the
Eirenion—House of Peace—when Browning and Emerson were beautifully
read and interpreted, and a later session under Lysekloster Pines, a
half mile away through the fields, where the meetings of the Monsalvat
School are held. This was a novel experience, sitting on the dry brown
needles, under the low, broad-spreading branches of a mammoth pine,
listening to the wisdom of an Indian teacher.
We were loth to leave the tempting program, “The Oneness of Mankind,”
by Mirza Abul Fazl, and Mirza Ali Kuli Khan, next morning in the Pines,
and later “Man, the Master of His Own Destiny,” by Swami Rami; in truth
a whole summer’s feast of reason and music, but our journey was waiting.
We had scarcely left the Inn after dinner, before muttering thunder
gave us warning, and a shower came up so quickly we barely had time to
drive under a shed back of the village church before the floods came
down. The shower was violent, but did not last very long, and when the
rain was over, we drove on. We were utterly in doubt where we were
being led until at the first glimpse of a distant mountain peak our
entire journey was revealed to us—a trip through Sebago Lake, then
on to Jefferson Highlands, and home through Crawford Notch and Lake
Winnipiseogee! We had not a doubt or misgiving after the revelation. We
had at last struck our trail!
According to the revelation, Sebago Lake was the first point of note,
but the incidents along the way, the pretty woodsy roads, the ponds and
brooks, the camping near a farmhouse at noon, and the small country
hotels, with their hospitable hosts, make up by far the larger part
of a carriage journey. When we answered our host, who asked where we
had driven from that day, he said, “Green-Acre? That’s the place where
Buddhists confirm people in their error,” adding “there’s only one kind
of good people—good Christian men and women.”
We were packing up wraps and waterproofs after a shower, when a
white-haired farmer came from the field and asked if we were in
trouble. We told him we were “clearing up” so as to look better. “Oh,
pride, is it?” he said, and asked where we came from. He seemed so
much interested that we also told him where we were going—it was just
after the “revelation.” He was very appreciative and wished us a hearty
Godspeed. The incident was suggestive of the universal brotherhood to
be, in the millennium. At a point on the Saco we saw logs leaping a dam
like a lot of jubilant divers—singly, and by twos and threes.
We had an early drive of eight miles to meet the boat at Sebago Lake,
and on the way there was a slight break in the harness. We drove back
a short distance, hoping to find the rosette lost from the head band,
and finally tied it up with a string. This delayed us more than we
realized and when we drove to a hotel near the wharf and were waiting
for the proprietor, we asked a guest of the house what time the boat
was to leave. He answered quickly, “Now! run! I will take care of your
horse!” We ran, and not until we were fairly on board did it occur to
us that we had not told him who we were, where we came from, or when
we should return. It did not matter, however, as the names on whip and
writing tablet would give all that was needful in case of necessity or
curiosity.
The day was perfect, there was a pleasant company on board the
Longfellow, Sebago Lake was all one could wish for a morning’s sail,
and the Songo River, with its twenty-seven turns in six miles, although
only two and a half miles “as the bird flies,” fascinating beyond all
anticipation. Passing through the locks was a novelty and the Bay of
Naples as lovely as its name suggests. Then came the sail through Long
Lake to Harrison, the terminus, where the boat stayed long enough for
us to stroll up the street and go to the post office, and then we had
all this over again, enjoying the afternoon sail even more than that of
the morning.
This was a round trip of seventy miles, and it was too late when we
returned to drive farther, as we had planned, but we were off early
next morning, the buggy scrupulously clean, and with a new head band
and rosette. We hoped Nan’s pride was not hurt by wearing a plain A on
one side of her head, and an old English S on the other!
We drove up the east side of Sebago Lake, passed the Bay of Naples, and
on through the various towns on Long Lake, and at night found ourselves
at the Songo House, North Bridgton, just a mile and a half across the
end of the lake from Harrison, where we posted cards the day before at
noon.
The following day we turned our thoughts from lakes, bays and rivers,
and faced the mountains, which are never more enjoyable than when
approaching them. We retraced our route of two years ago, but there is
a great difference between driving towards the mountains and away from
them. As we drove on through the Waterfords, Albany, West Bethel and
Gilead, the views were finer every hour, and at Shelburne we had a most
beautiful sunset, and watched the after-glow a long time from a high
bluff.
The rain clouds of the night vanished after a few sprinkles, leaving
only delicate misty caps on the highest peaks, and the day was
perfect for the famous drive from Gorham to Jefferson, so close to
the mountains of the Presidential range, along through Randolph. The
afternoon drive over Cherry Mountain to Fabyan’s was never more lovely.
We feasted on wild strawberries as we walked up and down the long hills
through the woods.
That this was the tenth time we had driven through the White Mountains
did not in the least diminish their charm for us. On the contrary, they
have become like old friends. To walk up and down the steep pitches
through Crawford Notch, leading the horse, listening at every turnout
for mountain wagons, and this year for automobiles, would be a delight
every year. Our youthful impression of a notch as a level pass between
two mountains was so strong, the steep pitches are a lovely surprise
every time.
The old Willey House was one of our favorite resting places. We are
glad the driveway and barn were spared when the house was burned, and
we still stop there to give our horse her noon rest.
After the “pitches,” the rest at old Willey, and a snap shot at the
ruins, come the miles and miles of driving through the dense woods,
with high mountains on either side, the way made cheery by the sunlight
glimmering through the treetops, and the music of the babbling brooks.
At Bartlett we received a large forwarded mail, the first for ten days,
which we read as we drove on to North Conway, and we were grateful for
the good news which came from every direction.
After leaving North Conway and getting our first glimpse of Chocorua’s
rugged peak, there was no more regretful looking backward. Chocorua in
its lofty loneliness is all-absorbing. We had an ideal mid-day camp on
the shores of the beautiful Chocorua lake at the base of the mountain.
After two hours of concentrated admiration of the rocky peak, what
wonder we were hypnotized, and that on leaving the lake with one mind
we confidently took the turn that would have led us to the summit in
time! Having driven a distance which we knew should have brought us to
the next village, we began to suspect something was wrong. There was
nothing to do but to go on, for there was not a turn to right or left,
and not a house in sight. We were surely on a main road to somewhere,
so we kept on, until we met a farmer driving, who brought us to our
senses. We were miles out of our way, but by following his directions
in the course of the afternoon we arrived safely at our destination
for the night.
Immediately we took our books and writing-tablet, and climbed to a
summer house on a knoll just above the hotel, commanding a magnificent
view of Chocorua, also Passaconaway, White Face, Sandwich Dome, and
several others of the range. After supper we returned to the knoll
for the sunset, and later were interested in what was thought to be
a bonfire at the Appalachian camp on the summit of Passaconaway,
lingering until the outlines were lost in the darkness.
We were up before six o’clock and went to the hammock in the summer
house before breakfast, and if it had not been such a beautiful day
for the sail through Lake Winnipiseogee, we would have been strongly
tempted to stay over at this homelike place, the Swift River House,
Tamworth Village, New Hampshire, opened only last year, and already
attracting lovers of fishing and hunting.
A drive of seventeen miles with Chocorua in the background, and
raspberries in abundance by the wayside, brought us to Centre Harbor,
where we took the boat for Alton Bay. A trip through Lake Winnipiseogee
sitting in the buggy in the bow of the Mt. Washington, is an
indescribable pleasure, and even our horse seemed to enjoy it, after
she became accustomed to the new experience. On the way we had our
parting glimpses of Mt. Washington and Chocorua.
With this glorious sail the “revelation” was fulfilled, and the one
hundred miles—or nearly that—between us and home was like the quiet
evening after an eventful day.
For more than two hundred and fifty miles we had been away from the
trolleys, and the busy world, among the mountains and lakes, and
recreation lovers everywhere, from the tent on the river bank to the
large mountain houses. Now came the familiar ways through the country
towns and villages, the gathering and pressing wild flowers for
Christmas cards, catching a pretty picture with the camera, and a drive
along the Merrimac in the cool of the morning, the atmosphere clear as
crystal after another dry shower, when clouds threatened but gave no
rain.
Then there were the lovely camping places at noon, the hospitable
farmers, and the pleasant chats in the kitchen while our spoons were
being washed—the souvenir spoons that were presented to us with a poem
after our twenty-fifth journey. One bright young woman discovered the
silver we left when we returned the milk pitcher and glasses, and came
after us, forcing it into our hands, telling us not to dare leave it,
but come again and she would give us a gallon. At another place where
we asked permission to stop in a little grove, the farmer came out and
set up a table for us, and gave us use of a hammock. We prolonged our
stay to the utmost limit—nearly three hours—reading in the buggy and
hammock under the fragrant pines, our horse tied close by, nodding and
“swishing” the flies. We have an amusing reminder of that camp, for we
had posed Nan for the camera, and just as it snapped she dashed her
nose into one of the paper bags on the table.
A notable experience in the latter part of every journey is a visit to
the blacksmith, and it came, as often before, unexpectedly on the way.
The chatting that goes with the shoeing would be good material for Mary
Wilkins.
At last came a rainy day, without which no journey is quite complete.
We had a leisure morning with our books, and after an early dinner
enjoyed an easy, comfortable drive in the rain, which ended our journey
of more than four hundred miles in two weeks and two days.