LAKE MEMPHREMAGOG.
We did not think to give you a report of this journey, but the day
before we left home little books called Wheeling Notes were given
us, with pages for day, route, time, distance and expense, and pages
opposite for remarks.
These little books we packed in our writing tablet, and Friday
afternoon, June 30th, we began our journey. Besides the note-books
we had an odometer and a carriage clock, in addition to our usual
equipment. Naturally we were much absorbed in our new possessions, and
the remarks, in diary form have become so interesting to us that we
gladly share them.
July 2—Rainy. Dropped in a back seat in a village church; only
nineteen present. The little minister is a Bulgarian, and inquired for
two classmates in Leominster. We practiced all day on pronouncing his
name, and could say it quite glibly by time for evening service. He is
very loyal to his adopted country, and urged all to make as much noise
as possible all day on the Fourth. Not a boy or girl was there to hear
such welcome advice, and we wondered if the parents would tell them.
July 3—Drove all day. Mr. Radoslavoff’s advice must have sped on
wings, for the noise began early, and kept up all night. Three huge
bonfires in front of the hotel at midnight made our room look as if on
fire.
July 4—Somewhere between the southern and northern boundary of New
Hampshire there is a park, the fame of which reached us several years
ago, and we have had in mind to visit it some time. This year seemed to
be the time, as, by our map, it was right on our way north. On making
inquiries, we found it would give us five or six miles extra driving
to go through the park, and the day being hot it took considerable
wise arguing to make the vote unanimous. Importunity, however, will
sometimes bring about at least acquiescent unanimity.
Suffice to say, we went through the park and now we are truly
unanimous, and will give you the benefit of our experience. There
is probably no town in New England that has not attractions enough,
within reach of a walk or short drive, to last all summer for those
who go to one place for recreation and change. But if you are driving
the length of New Hampshire, Vermont or any other state, do not be
beguiled by accounts of pretty by-roads, cascades, water-falls,
whirlpools or parks, even one of 30,000 acres, with 26 miles of wire
fence, 180 buffaloes, 200 elks, 1000 wild hogs, moose, and deer beyond
counting. You may do as we did, drive miles by the park before and
after driving five miles inside, and see only twelve buffaloes, one
fox, a tiny squirrel and a bird—yes, and drive over a mountain beside,
the park trip having turned us from the main highway. For a few miles
the grass-grown road was very fascinating, but when we found we were
actually crossing a mountain spur and the road was mainly rocks, with
deep mud holes filled in with bushes, we began to realize the folly
of leaving our good main road for a park. To be sure, we might not see
buffaloes, but we do see partridge, woodchucks, wild rabbits, snakes,
golden robins and crows, and once, three deer were right in our path!
And really we think we would prefer meeting a drove of cattle on the
main road, to having a big moose follow us through the park, as has
occurred, and might have again, if it had not been at mid-day, when
they go into the woods.
Finally, our advice is, in extended driving, keep to the main highway,
with miles of woodsy driving every day, as fascinating as any Lovers’
Lane, with ponds and lakes innumerable, and occasional cascades so near
that the roaring keeps one awake all night. Then we have a day’s drive,
perhaps, of unsurpassed beauty, which no wire fence can enclose, as
along the Connecticut River valley on the Vermont side with an unbroken
view of New Hampshire hills, Moosilauke in full view, and the tip of
Lafayette in the distance, the silvery, leisurely Connecticut dividing
the two states and the green and yellow fields in the foreground
completing the picture. No State Reservation or Park System can compete
with it.
July 5—We were in a small country hotel, kept by an elderly couple,
without much “help,” and our hostess served us at supper. When she came
in with a cup of tea in each hand, we expressed our regret that we did
not tell her neither of us drink tea. She looked surprised and said she
supposed she was the only old lady who did not take tea.
“O wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!”
July 6—Received our first mail at Wells River, Vt., and as all was
well at home, we began to plan our journey. For a week we had simply
faced north day after day. If we kept right on we would come to Newport
and Lake Memphremagog, which to us means the Barrows camp, but we need
a month for that trip. A bright idea solved the problem. We drove north
until we reached St. Johnsbury, left our horse there and took a morning
train for Newport, where we connect with the Lady of the Lake for
Georgeville, P. Q.
At the boat landing at Newport we met Mr. and Mrs. Barrows just
starting for Europe. They insisted that we must go on to Cedar Lodge
for the night, and make a wedding call on their daughter, recently
married in camp, and forthwith put us in the charge of camp friends,
who were there to see them off. The sail to Georgeville was very
delightful. We were then driven two miles to the camp in the forest of
cedars, and presented to the hostess, a niece of Mrs. Barrows, who gave
us a friendly welcome.
The attractions of Cedar Lodge are bewildering. The one small log cabin
we reveled in a few years ago is supplanted by a cabin which must be
sixty or seventy feet in length, with a broad piazza still wearing the
wedding decorations of cedar. Near the center is a wide entrance to a
hallway, with a fireplace, bookcase, and hand loom, the fruits of which
are on the floors, tables, couches, and in the doorways. At the right
is the camp parlor, called the Flag room, draped with colors of all
nations. It is spacious, with a fireplace, center reading table, book
shelves, pictures, writing desk, typewriter, comfortable chairs, and
a seat with cushions, the entire length of the glass front facing the
piazza and lake.
On the left is the Blue China or dining room. Here is a very large
round table, the center of which revolves for convenience in serving,
a fireplace with cranes and kettles, and a hospitable inscription on a
large wooden panel above. The telephone, too, has found its way to camp
since we were there.
Not least in interest, by any means, is the culinary department.
Instead of a cooking tent, where Mrs. Barrows used to read Greek
or Spanish while preparing the cereal for breakfast, and a brook
running through the camp for a refrigerator, there is a piazza
partially enclosed back of the Blue China room, with tables, shelves,
kerosene stoves, and three large tanks filled with cold spring water,
continually running, one of which served as refrigerator, tin pails
being suspended in it. The waste water is conveyed in a rustic trough
some distance from the cabin and drips twenty feet or more into a mossy
dell, where forget-me-nots grow in abundance.
Just outside the end door of the Flag room are flights of stairs to
the Lookout on the roof. This stairway separates the main cabin from a
row of smaller cabins, designated Faith, Hope, and Charity, in rustic
letters. (We were assigned to Hope, and hope we can go again some time.)
These cabins are connected by piazzas with several others, one being
Mrs. Barrows’ Wee-bit-housie. A winding path through the woods leads to
Mr. Barrows’ Hermitage, or study, close by the lake, and another path
up the slope back of the cabins leads to a group of tents called The
Elfin Circle.
We went to the bath wharf, followed the brook walk through the cedars,
strolled to the hill-top cabin to see the friends who escorted us from
Newport, and then we all met at supper, on the broad piazza, seventeen
of us. The last of the wedding guests had left that morning. After
supper we descended the steps to the boat landing, and our hostess
and the best man rowed us to Birchbay for the wedding call. Though
unexpected we were most cordially received, served with ice cream, and
shown the many improvements in the camp we first visited years ago.
We walked to the tennis court and garden, where the college professor
and manager of Greek plays were working when no response came from the
repeated telephone calls to tell them we were coming. We rowed back by
moonlight.
We cannot half tell you of the charms of Cedar Lodge, but when we were
driven from Georgeville a bundle of papers was tucked under the seat,
which proved to be Boston Transcripts, containing an account of the
wedding. A copy was given us and it is such an exquisite pen picture we
pass it along to you:
_From the Transcript, July 6, 1905._
A CAMP WEDDING.
On the last Wednesday of June Miss Mabel Hay Barrows, the daughter of
Hon. Samuel J. Barrows and Mrs. Isabel C. Barrows, two very well-known
figures in the intellectual life of Boston and New York, was married
to Mr. Henry Raymond Mussey, a young professor at Bryn Mawr. And the
ceremony, which took place at Cedar Lodge, her mother’s summer camp,
was one of the most original and picturesque which it is possible to
imagine. Miss Barrows herself is a girl with a refreshingly individual
outlook upon life, and with a great variety of interests, as well as
a strong dramatic instinct, and every one who knew her well looked
forward to this wedding as promising to be an occasion at once unique
and beautiful. And they were not disappointed, those eighty odd guests,
who traveled so far, from east, west, north and south, to the little
camp snuggled away among the sympathetic trees bordering the Indian
Lake, beyond the Canadian border.
Cedar Lodge, the Barrows’ camp, crowns a beautiful wooded slope above
the lake, a steep climb by a winding path bringing one to the log
cabin, with its broad piazza facing the sunset and overlooking the
lake, through misty tree tops which still wear the tender freshness
of hymeneal June. At either end of this ample balcony the guests were
seated at four o’clock of that perfect Wednesday, leaving space in the
center for the bridal party, of which there was as yet no visible sign.
Promptly at four one heard, far below, echoing poetically from the
lake, the first notes of a bugle sounding a wedding march. It was the
signal that the bridal party was approaching, and the guests began
to tingle with excitement. Nearer and nearer, came the bugle, and at
last through the green birch and alder and hemlock came the gleam of
white—a living ribbon winding among the trees. As the procession
approached, zigzagging up the steep path, it was very effective,
suggesting an old Greek chorus, or a festival group from some poetic
page, as why should it not, the bride being herself an ancient Greek
in spirit, with her translations of the classics and her profession as
stage manager of Hellenic dramas? The bridal party, a score and eight
in number, was all in white, with touches of red, camp colors. First
came the bugler, blowing manfully. After him two white flower girls,
scattering daisies along the path. Then followed the two head ushers,
white from top to toe, with daisy chains wreathing their shoulders in
Samoan fashion. Next, with flowing black academic robes, a striking
contrast of color, climbed the two ministers—one the bride’s father,
the other a local clergyman, whose word, since this was a “foreign
country,” was necessary to legalize the bond. Two more ushers preceded
the groom and his best man in white attire; and bridesmaids, two and
two, with a maid of honor, escorted the bride, who walked with her
mother.
As for the bride herself, surely no other ever wore garb so quaint
and pretty. Her dress was of beautiful white silk, simply shirred and
hemstitched, the web woven by hand in Greece and brought thence by Miss
Barrows herself during a trip in search of material and antiquarian
data for her Greek plays. The gown was short, giving a glimpse of white
shoes and open-work stockings—part of her mother’s bridal wear on her
own wedding day, of which this was an anniversary. The bridal veil was
a scarf of filmy white liberty, with an exquisite hand-painted border
of pale pink roses. It was worn Greek fashion, bound about the head
with a fillet, garland of red partridge berries and the twisted vine.
In one hand she carried a bouquet of forget-me-nots and maidenhair; in
the other an alpenstock of cedar, peeled white, as did the rest of the
party. As they wound slowly up through the beautiful wild grove, with
the lake gleaming through the green behind them and the bugle blowing
softly, it was hard to realize that this was Canada in the year 1905,
and not Greece in some poetic ante-Christian age, or Fairyland itself
in an Endymion dream.
So with sweet solemnity they wound up to the crest of the hill, passed
through the cabin, and came out into the sunlit space on the balcony,
the flower girls strewing daisies as a carpet for the bridal pair, who
advanced and stood before the minister, the other white-robed figures
forming a picturesque semi-circle about them.
The ceremony was brief and simple; the exchange of vows and rings; a
prayer by each of the clergymen and a benediction; the hymn “O Perfect
Love” sung by the bridal party. Then Mr. and Mrs. Mussey stood ready to
receive their friends in quite the orthodox way. But surely no other
bride and groom ever stood with such glorious background of tree and
lake, ineffable blue sky and distant purple mountains, while the air
was sweet with the odor of Canadian flowers, which seem to be richer
in perfume than ours, and melodious with the song of countless birds,
which seemed especially sympathetic, as birds in Fairyland and in
ancient Greece were fabled to be.
After a gay half hour of congratulations, general chatter and
refreshments, came word that the wedding party was to move once more,
this time to escort the bride and groom down to the lake, where waited
the bridal canoe.
Again the white procession passed the green slope, but this time
merrily, in careless order, escorted by the guests, who were eager to
see the wedded couple start upon their brief journey. For the honeymoon
was to be spent at Birchbay, another camp hidden like a nest among the
trees a mile farther down the lake. The bridal canoe, painted white and
lined with crimson, wreathed with green and flying the British flag
astern, waited at the slip. Amid cheers and good wishes the lovers
embarked and paddled away down the lake, disappearing at last around
a green point to the south. A second canoe, containing the bride’s
father and mother, and a bride and groom-elect, soon to be elsewhere
wed, escorted the couple to their new home, where they are to be left
in happy seclusion for so long as they may elect. And so ended the most
romantic wedding which Lake Memphremagog ever witnessed; a wedding
which will never be forgotten by any present—save, perhaps, the
youngest guest, aged two months.
On the following morning the little company of friends gathered in
that far-off corner of America—a most interesting company of all
nationalities and religions, professions and interests—began to
scatter again to the four quarters of the globe—to California,
Chicago, Boston, Europe, Florida and New York, and in a few days only
the camps and their permanent summer colony will tarry to enjoy the
beauties of that wonderful spot. But whether visible or invisible to
the other less blissful wights, the bride and groom still remain in
their bower, among though not of them. And Romance and June linger
along the lake, like a spell.
A. F. B.
July 8.—The Cedar Lodge bird concert aroused us betimes, and after
breakfast in the Blue China room, we were driven to Georgeville. The
morning sail was even finer than that of the afternoon before. The car
ride of forty-five miles from Newport brought us to St. Johnsbury in
season for a drive of ten miles to Waterford, for our last night in
Vermont.
July 10.—Camped two hours on the top of Sugar Hill, with a glorious
view of the mountain ranges and surrounding country, then drove down to
Franconia for the night, near the Notch.
July 11.—Everything perfect! Cooler after the successive days of heat,
the fine roads through the woods freshened as from recent showers. Echo
Lake, the Profile House and cottages, Profile Lake and the Old Man,
whose stony face is grand as ever, the Pemigewassett, clear as crystal,
tumbling over the whitened rocks, the Basin, Pool and Flume—all these
attractions of the Franconia Notch drive were never more beautiful.
We left our horse at the Flume House stables and walked the mile to
the end of the Flume, along the board walks, through the narrow gorge
where the boulder once hung, and climbed higher yet the rocks above the
cascade. The afternoon drive of seventeen miles through North Woodstock
and Thornton brought us to Campton for the night.
July 12.—Drove from Campton to the Weirs. We well remember the zigzag
roads from Plymouth up and down the steepest hills, and today they
seemed steeper and longer than ever, for thunder showers were all about
us. We stopped an hour at a farmhouse, thinking they were surely coming
near, and from this high point watched the scattering of the showers,
by the lake and high hills. We then drove into one, concealed by a
hill, and got our first and only wetting on the journey. Two beautiful
rainbows compensated.
We were cordially welcomed at the Lakeside House at Weirs, where we
have been so many times and always feel at home. Here we found our
second mail, and sent greeting to many friends associated with Lake
Winnipiseogee.
July 14.—Spent the night at Sunapee Lake, where we were refreshed by
cool breezes. A year ago this date we were at Sebago Lake, Me.
July 15.—A brisk shower just after breakfast made our morning drive
one of the pleasantest, the first five miles through lovely woods, with
glimpses of the lake. We spent an hour at a blacksmith shop before
going to the hotel at Antrim for the night, and had to ask to have
the buggy left in the sun it was so cool! While there we read of the
disastrous thunder showers everywhere, except on our route, which had
broken the spell of excessive heat.
July 16.—A perfect Sunday morning and a glorious drive—lonely, we
were told, and perhaps so on a cold, dark day, but no way could be
lonely on such a day. The roads were narrow, sometimes grass-grown,
with the trees over-reaching, and a profusion of white blossoms
bordered the roadside.
Exclamations of surprise greeted us as we drove to the cottage by the
lake, where we spent the rainy Sunday two weeks ago. We took snap shots
of our friends and left messages for those soon to join them for the
summer. We do not tell you where this restful spot is, for somehow
we feel more in sympathy with our friends who like the seclusion,
than with the man who would like to “boom” the place, and asked us to
mention he had land to sell.
July 17.—Another bright day! What wonderful weather! And how lovely
the drive over Dublin hills overlooking the lake, with beautiful summer
homes all along the way and varying views of Monadnock!
July 18.—Took a parting snap shot of Monadnock, for the sun shone on
this last day of our journey, as it has done on every other—except
that first rainy Sunday, when stopping over for the rain brought us at
just the right time at every point on the trip.
According to record of distances in Wheeling Notes, we have journeyed
five hundred and forty miles, over four hundred by carriage, and the
time record is two weeks and five days. If odometers and carriage
clocks had been in vogue from the beginning of our journeying, the sum
total recorded would be about 14000 MILES, and nearly two years in
time. A journey now would seem incomplete without a note-book tucked
behind the cushion, for remarks along the way.
POSTSCRIPT.
BUGGY JOTTINGS OF A SEVEN HUNDRED MILES DRIVE.
CIRCUIT OF THE NEW ENGLAND STATES.
Postscripts in general are not considered good form, but this one is
exceptional, and may be pardoned by virtue of its length. This book did
not exist to “material sense,” until after this journey, but it existed
in mind, and even more tangibly in the manuscript, which we took along
with us for the final reading before placing it in the printer’s hands.
We had guarded the precious pages for some weeks, many times having
tied it up with the diary, ready to be snatched at an earthquake’s
notice.
Book-reading had been a lifetime pleasure, but book-making was entirely
new to us, and we were greatly interested in the work of detail—the
preparation of manuscript, form of type, Gothic or old French style,
paper, modern and antique, leaves cut or uncut, “reproduction of
Ruskin,” everything in fact from cover to copyright.
The notes of more than 14000 miles in addition to the seven hundred
miles driving made this journey one of unusual interest.
As usual we had no plan beyond going north for a month’s drive, a
longer time than we have taken for several years. At the last moment,
as it invariably happens when we have had some particular direction
in mind, we decided to go south, spend Sunday with friends in Rhode
Island, and take a turn in Connecticut before facing north.
We left home on the afternoon of June 22, Friday being a day of good
omen to us, surprised friends in Chapinville with a carriage call,
spent the night at Westboro, telephoned our coming from Woonsocket,
and were with our friends in Pawtucket before six o’clock Saturday
night. Our horse rested Sunday, but our cousins gave us a long and very
enjoyable drive, showing the places of interest about the city suburbs,
giving us a glimpse of Narragansett Bay, a fine view of Providence, and
a general idea of their drives, so different from our home drives with
the many hills.
We were advised to go to Providence, four miles south of Pawtucket, to
get the best roads westward, for our turn in Connecticut. Had we been
really wise we would have followed this advice, but being wise in our
own conceit only, we followed our map, and took a course directly west,
aiming for the Connecticut River. We started early Monday morning. As
we drove on, we were directed one way and another to strike better
roads, until after a day’s drive we brought up at a hotel in North
Scituate, just ten miles from Providence! Then we realized our folly in
not going to Providence in the morning, wondered why we were so opposed
to going there, and after discussing the problem as we sat in the
buggy in the stable yard, for it was too late to go to the next hotel,
we concluded our journey would not be complete unless it included
Providence. A happy thought then struck us. We recalled the landlord,
who had left us when we seemed so undecided, secured rooms for the
night, deposited our baggage, and took the next car, which passed the
hotel, and in an hour left us at Shepherd’s rear door in Providence. We
went about the wonderful store, got the glass we wanted so much, and
took the return car, being extremely fortunate in standing all the way
in the vestibule with only twelve, the inside being much more crowded,
owing to a circus. We faced the open window, and thoroughly enjoyed the
ride in the bracing breeze, which restored our much disturbed mental
equilibrium and made us declare that things come out right, if you let
them alone.
We fully appreciated the late supper served by our obliging hostess,
passed a very comfortable night, and again with the same dogged
persistency faced westward. We crossed the state line, which was as
definitely marked by the instant change in the general character of the
roads, as by the pink line which divides Rhode Island from Connecticut
on our map. We were thinking of going straight west until we reached
the Connecticut River, then driving northwest to Norfolk, the second
Lenox we discovered three years ago, and from there to Great Barrington
and up through Stockbridge, Lenox, and all those lovely Berkshire towns.
After several miles of cross-roads we began to consider and wondered
if we were not foolish to go so far west just to go through the
Berkshires, which we knew by heart already. We decided to compromise,
and turn north earlier, going to Springfield and up the Westfield River
to the northern Berkshire region. A few miles more of criss-cross roads
and we experienced full conversion, and said, “Why go further westward,
when by turning north now we will see some towns we do not know?”
We were delighted with this new plan, especially when we came to
Pomfret street, which seemed to us a second Norfolk, and when after
being sent from one place to another for the night, we found ourselves
at Mrs. Mathewson’s “Lakeside” in South Woodstock, with Mrs. Mott as
present hostess. We now fully believed what we have often suspected,
that we do not always do our own planning. You will not find this place
on the advertised lists, but those who have been there for twenty
summers, and those who are drawn there as we were, keep the house more
than full.
For the first time we had the pleasure of meeting with one who had
passed the century mark. He said he should like to apply as our driver!
They were interested in our wanderings, and Mrs. Mathewson exclaimed,
“Why don’t you make a book?” How could we help confessing that was just
what we were going to do on our return? “Oh, I want to subscribe,” she
said. We were much gratified, and told her she would be number three,
and represent Connecticut. Before we left home a Michigan cousin, who
was east for the Christian Science church dedication in Boston, had
begged to head the list, and a mutual cousin in Pawtucket asked to
represent Rhode Island.
We sat on the piazza with the other Lakeside guests until a late hour,
and all the ophies and isms, sciences, Christian and otherwise, were
touched upon.
The turn in Connecticut ended most satisfactorily, and the next
morning’s drive took us over another State line, but just when we
entered our native state we do not know, for we missed the boundary
stone. We were aiming for Keene, New Hampshire, eager for our first
mail, and as we passed within a half day’s drive of our starting
point, in crossing Massachusetts, we felt as if the loop of one hundred
and sixty miles was a sort of prologue to our journey. We had a wayside
camp with a stone wall for a table, and we washed our spoons at the
farm house where we got milk.
At the hotel where we spent our first night last year, we were
remembered and most cordially received. After breakfast the next
morning our hostess showed us their rare collection of antiques.
Showers threatened and we took dinner and wrote letters at the
Monadnock House, in Troy, New Hampshire, having crossed another State
line, then hurried on to Keene, where we found a large mail, full of
good news.
Among the letters was one from a nephew, adding four subscriptions to
our book for the privilege of being number four, and so you see our
list was started and growing as our plans are made, not altogether by
ourselves.
While reading our letters we noticed our horse rested one foot, and
as we drove away from the post office, she was a little lame. We had
eleven miles of hilly driving before us, and as the lameness increased
in the first half mile, we returned to a blacksmith, remembering
Charlie and the sand under his shoe, which came near spoiling one
journey. Again sand was the trouble, which was remedied by the
blacksmith, and once more we started for Munsonville and Granite Lake,
for a glimpse of friends from New York, Canada and Texas.
The welcome at Mrs. Guillow’s cottage in the village was cordial, as
was promised last year, when we were there at both the beginning and
end of our journey. Again we brought a rainy day, and wrote all the
morning, as there was not time between showers to drive to our friend’s
new studio and cottage, but after dinner we decided to walk the mile
and a half round the lake, through the woods, and risk the rain. We
surprised our friends as much as we can surprise any one who knows of
our wanderings.
After we had enjoyed the lake views from the broad piazza, a fire
was built on the hearth for good cheer, in the huge room which was
reception-room, dining-room and library, all in one, with couches here
and there, bookcases galore, and altogether such a room as we never
before saw, but a fulfilment of Thoreau’s description of an ideal
living-room in one of his poems. A broad stairway led from this room
to the floor above, where every room was airy and delightful, and the
floor above this has no end of possibilities. The studio is a small,
attractive building by itself.
We started to walk back the other way, making a circuit of the lake,
but had not gone far, when a driver with an empty carriage asked us to
ride. In the evening two young friends, who were away at a ball game in
the afternoon, rowed across to see us.
Never lovelier morning dawned than that first Sunday in July. We
should have enjoyed hearing another good Fourth of July sermon by Mr.
Radoslavoff as we did last year, but we had already stayed over a day,
and must improve this rare morning for the “awful hills” everybody
told us were on our way north. So with more promises of hospitality
from Mrs. Guillow, an invitation to leave our horse with her neighbor
opposite any time, and pleasant words from friends of the students who
are attracted to this growing Summer School of Music, we retraced three
miles of the lovely Keene road, then up we went, and up some more, then
down and up again. We walked the steepest pitches, and the day ended at
Bellows Falls as beautiful as it began. We were now in Vermont. Fifth
state in ten days!
From Bellows Falls to Rutland by rail is not to be spurned, but by the
hilly highways, it is a joy forever. We always anticipate that superb
bit of driving through Cavendish Gorge before we reach Ludlow, where
once more we enjoyed the comforts of the old Ludlow House, spick and
span this time. Then came another perfect day for crossing Mt. Holly
of the Green Mountain range, and we chose the rough short cut over the
mountain, ignoring the smooth roundabout way for automobiles. Miles of
wayside, and whole fields, were radiant with yellow buttercups, white
daisies, orange tassel-flower, red and white clover, and ferns. The
views are beyond description. We stopped on the summit to give our
horse water, and never can resist pumping even if the tub is full. A
woman seeing us came from the house bringing a glass, and we made a new
wayside acquaintance; and still another when we camped by a brook at
the foot, and got milk for our lunch.
We reached Rutland at four o’clock, just as demonstrations for the
Fourth were beginning, and once in our room at The Berwick, with three
large windows front, we could have fancied we were at Newport, New
Hampshire, where we were last year the night before the Fourth. The
program of entertainment was fully equal; nothing was missing but the
bonfire of barrels. We watched the street panorama until ten o’clock,
then examined the fire rope, but concluded a fire was necessary to make
one know how to use it, packed our things ready for quick action, and
slept serenely.
We waited until the early morning firing was over before we ordered
our horse, and then found by some mistake she had had an extra feed of
oats, which was quite unnecessary, for the crackers, common and cannon,
furnished sufficient stimulus. Clouds were heavy, the wind strong, air
cool, and we thought the list of prophecies for that week might be at
hand all at once. Singularly, none of them came to pass on the dates
given!
When at Bellows Falls, something prompted us to write our Fair Haven
friends we were on the way, which we rarely do. Had we not, we would
have been disappointed, for we found the house closed. A note pinned on
the door, however, we were sure was for us. They were at the Country
Club, Bomoseen Lake, for a few days, and asked us to join them there.
We first called on the cousin from New York State, whose address was
given, and whom we had not seen in many years. She gave us direction
for the four miles’ beautiful drive to the lake, and as we followed its
lovely shores to the Country Club, we recalled how many times we had
read on the trolley posts from Rutland, “Go to Bomoseen.” We say to all
who have the chance, “Go to Bomoseen.”
All the Fair Haven cousins were there, the “Michigan Subscriber” too,
and for another surprise, our cousin, the story-writer, who had just
finished a book. After a row on the lake, we returned to the Country
Club piazza over the bluff, to enjoy the exquisite views of the hills
on the opposite shore—mountains, we called them—until we were called
to the tempting supper served by the caretaker and presiding genius of
the culinary department. He was unceasing in his attention, even to the
lemonade served at a late hour, after the fireworks were over, and the
literary works compared, as we watched the lake by moonlight from the
piazza, or sat by the open fire. Vermont was now represented on our
list.
The sun rose gloriously across the lake, just opposite our window.
Another perfect day! No wonder all regretted it was their last at the
Country Club. While some were packing, and others down by the lake, or
out with the camera, two of us walked through the woods to the top of
the hill, but at noon we all met at the pleasant home in Fair Haven for
dinner.
Benson was our next destination, and our visit there had been arranged
by telephone. The nine miles’ drive over the hills in the afternoon of
that glorious day was a joy and we gathered wild-flowers on the way
for our ever young cousin who always welcomes us at the homestead.
The “first subscriber” and the “authoress” followed by stage, and a
tableful of cousins met at supper in the heart of the hills, as on the
border of Lake Bomoseen the night before. After supper we all went to
“Cousin Charlie’s” store, and he made us happy with taffy-on-a-stick.
Our special artist “took” us, taffy in evidence, being careful to have
our ever-young chaperone in the foreground. By this same leading spirit
we are always beguiled to the cream of conversation, and the morning
visit amid the flowers on her corner piazza is so well described by
the “story-writer,” who asked for three minutes just as we were ready
to resume our journey after dinner, that we will share it.
Lines on Departure:
The Fannies have come and the Fannies are going
Of mirth, metaphysics, we’ve had a fair showing.
We’ve all aired our fancies, our pet point of view,
If we only could run things the world would be new.
We all know we’re right, and the others mistaken,
But we’ve charity each for the other relation.
So we join hearts and hands in the fraternal song:—
The right, the eternal, will triumph o’er wrong.
Whatever is true, friends, will live, yes, forever,
So now we will stop—and discuss the weather.
We had written in the guest book, “Every day is the best day of the
year,” adding “This is surely true of July 6, 1906.” The parting lines
were read to us as we sat in the carriage, and we had driven out of
sight of the corner piazza when we heard a good-by call from the cousin
who came in late the night before from his round of professional
visits, feeling quite ill. He looked so much better we wondered if
the “Michigan subscriber” had been sending wireless messages to her
“materia medica” cousin.
The visiting part of our journey was now over, and we started anew,
with no more reason for going to one place than another. We had spent
so much time on the preliminary “loop” in Rhode Island and Connecticut
that we could not go as far north in the Adirondacks as we want to
some time, but a drive home through the White Mountains is always
interesting. How to get there was the problem, when the Green Mountains
were between. You can drive up and down New Hampshire and Vermont at
will, but when you want to go across, the difficulties exceed those
of the roads east and west in Rhode Island and Connecticut. We knew
the lovely way from Benson to Bread Loaf Inn in Ripton, then over the
mountains, and along the gulf roads to Montpelier, but we inclined to
try a new route. You drive through the White Mountains but over the
Green Mountains.
With a new route in mind, from Benson we drove over more and higher
hills to Brandon Inn for the night. The Inn is very attractive, but
remembering the warm welcome from our many friends, the inscription
over the dining-room fire-place hardly appealed to us:
“Whoe’er has traveled this dull world’s round,
Where’er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he yet has found
His warmest welcome at an inn.”
The next day we crossed the mountain, hoping to take a fairly direct
course to the Connecticut River, but on first inquiry, were told
we must follow down White River forty miles before we could strike
anything but “going over mountains” to get north.
It matters not whether you drive north, south, east or west, among the
Green Mountains. It is all beautiful. Even the “level” roads are hilly,
with a continuous panorama of exquisite views. Crossing the mountains
we are in and out of the buggy, walking the steepest pitches to the
music of the lively brooks and myriad cascades, letting our horse have
a nibble of grass at every “rest,” which makes her ambitious for the
next one. We do not care how many automobiles we meet, but on these
roads they are conspicuous by their absence days at a time.
As we revel in these mountain drives and walks, we think of our friends
who say we must be “tired to death,” who would not be “hired” to go,
and again of the one who likes to have a horse and “amble along,” not
forgetting the one who wrote she had just come in from an automobile
ride, and that “to shoot through miles of beautiful country, eyes
squinted together, and holding on tightly was a punishment,” and still
another automobilist who said it did seem rather nice to go with a
horse, and stop to “pick things.”
The forty miles down White River in order to get north was truly
following a river, and a charming drive as well as restful change,
after the mountain climbing. As we journeyed we found genuine
hospitality at the hotels in Stockbridge and West Hartford, small
country towns in Vermont, and everywhere the phonograph, the R. F. D.
and telephone, bringing the most remote farm house in touch with the
outer world.
We left White River with real regret, but after cutting a corner by
driving over a high hill, we started north along the Connecticut, and
at first should hardly have known the difference. In the course of
twenty-five miles we realized we had faced about, as the hills gave
place to mountains. We found very pleasant accommodation at the hotel
in Fairlee, which was being renovated for summer guests. We remember
the bevy of young people we saw there last year, as we passed.
The river fog was heavy in the early morning, but cleared later, and
all day long we reviewed the views we have reveled in so many times;
the river with us, and the New Hampshire mountains in the distance.
For two or three miles we were on the lookout for a parting “camp” in
Vermont. We almost stopped several times, and once began to unharness,
then concluded to go a little further. When we reached the highest
point on the hill, a large tree by the roadside, and a magnificent view
of the river, hills, and mountains, assured us this was the spot we
were being led to. Nan usually takes her oats from the ground, after
she has made a “table” by eating the grass, but here they were served
from a bank. We had taken our lunch, added a few lines to the journey
report, which we write as we go, harnessed, and were ready to drive
on, when a man came to the fence, from the field where he had been at
work, and resting on his hoe said, “Well, ladies, you are enjoying
yourselves, but you might just as well have put your horse in the barn,
and given her some hay.” We thanked him, saying she seemed to enjoy
the camping as much as we do, and was always eager for the grass. He
then told us we had chosen historic ground. Our camp was on the road
spotted by Gen. Bailey and Gen. Johnson to Quebec for the militia. He
gave several interesting anecdotes. At one time in Quebec he was shown
a small cannon, which they were very proud of, taken from “your folks”
at Bunker Hill. His wife replied, “Yes, you have the gun, and we have
the hill.”
We shall have to take back some things we have said about river roads,
for that day’s drive completed more than one hundred miles of superb
river driving, in turn close by White River, the Connecticut, Wells
River, and the Ammonoosuc, which roared like Niagara, as it rushed
wildly over the rocks under our window at the hotel in Lisbon, New
Hampshire.
It rained heavily during the night, but the sun was out bright in
the morning. We surprised friends with a very early call, and then
went on, taking our river along with us. At Littleton we found a
generous mail, and all was well, so still on we went, camping at noon
by our Ammonoosuc but parting with it at Wing Road, for it was bound
Bethlehem-ward, and we were going to Whitefield, where we found a new
proprietor at the hotel, who at one time lived in Leominster.
Jefferson was our next objective point, and there are two ways to go.
We wanted that lovely way marked out for us once by a Mt. Washington
summit friend, who knew all the ways. We took a way that we wish to
forget. We called it the ridgepole road between the White Mountains and
the mountains farther north. There were mountains on all sides, but
some of them were dimly discerned through the haze, which threatened to
hide them all. We went up until we were so high we had to go down in
order to go up more hills. The road was full of mudholes, and swamps or
burnt forests on either side, instead of the fine road and exquisite
views we remembered that other way. We had not been so annoyed with
ourselves since we did not go to Providence to start westward. That
came out all right, however, and we went to Providence after all. We
had to trust to providence to pacify us this time, for we could not go
back as we did then.
For immediate diversion we considered our homeward route. The
“ridgepole” must be our northern limit for this journey. From Lake
Memphremagog last year we drove home through Franconia Notch, and from
the Sebago Lake trip two years ago through Crawford Notch. It was
Pinkham’s turn. Yes, and that would give us that unsurpassed drive from
Jefferson to Gorham. How easy it was to decide, with the thought of
that drive so close to the mountains which are never twice alike, and
North Conway would be a good mail point.
Before we got to Jefferson Highlands, we suddenly recognized a pleasant
place where we camped several years ago, in a large open yard, facing
the mountains. Once more we asked permission, which was cordially
granted, with assurance we were remembered. In the hour and a half
we were there, we kept watch of the clouds as we were writing in the
buggy. They had threatened all the morning, and now we could distinctly
follow the showers, as they passed along, hiding one mountain after
another. They passed so rapidly, however, that by the time we were on
our way again, the first ominous clouds had given way to blue sky, and
before long the showers were out of sight, and the most distant peak
of the Presidential range was sun-glinted. The bluish haze, which so
marred the distant views, entranced the beauty of the outlines and
varying shades, when so close to this wonderful range. Later in the
afternoon the sun came out bright, and the “ridgepole” and clouds were
forgotten, as once more we reveled in the beauty and grandeur of Mts.
Washington, Adams, Jefferson and Madison, with the Randolph hills in
the foreground. We know of no drive to compare with this drive from
Jefferson to Gorham.
As we came into Gorham, we saw the first trolley since we left Fair
Haven, Vermont, and had a glimpse of the Androscoggin River. The old
Alpine House where we have always been was closed, but The Willis House
proved a pleasant substitute.
Twenty miles from Gorham to Jackson, through Pinkham Notch, and we had
forgotten the drive was so beautiful! Everything was freshened by the
showers we watched the day before, and the mountains seemed nearer
than ever. A river ran along with us over its rocky bed, the road was
in fine condition, and we could only look, lacking words to express
our enthusiasm. The little house in the Notch by the A. M. C. path to
Mt. Washington summit, where the woman gave us milk and cookies, and
the strange little girl had a “library,” was gone, not a vestige of
anything left. We took our lunch there, however, as evidently many
others had done. We had barely unharnessed, when a large touring car
shot by, and we were glad the road was clear, for in many places
it is too narrow to pass. We followed on later, and gathered wild
strawberries, as we walked down the steep hills towards Jackson.
The showers evidently did not make the turn we made at Jackson for Glen
Station, for here it was very dusty. We have stayed so many times in
North Conway, that we proposed trying some one of those pleasant places
we have often spoken of on the way. We drove by several, but when we
came to Pequawket Inn, Intervale, we stopped with one accord. Somehow
we know the right place when we come to it. This was another of those
we note, and remember to make come in our “way” again. When we left in
the morning our friendly hostess assured us that the lovely room facing
Mt. Washington should always be “reserved” for us.
She gave us directions for Fryeburg, for having been by turn in
Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont and
New Hampshire again, we wanted to complete the circuit of the New
England States by driving into Maine. We left New Hampshire at Conway,
and thought we took our mid-day rest in Maine, and remembering the
hospitality of some years ago, were not surprised when a miss came from
the house near by, and asked if we would not like a cup of tea. When
we went later for a glass of water, we learned we were still in New
Hampshire, and concluded hospitality was universal, and not affected by
State lines.
We had not time to explore the “wilds” of Maine, but it was
sufficiently wild and uninhabited where we did go. Many of the houses
were deserted, and hotels were scarce. One night we had to ask to
stay at a small country house. We knew they did not really want us,
but when we told them how far we had driven, they quickly consented.
Thinking we would appreciate it supper was served on china one hundred
and twenty-five years old, after which a whole saw-mill was set in
operation for our entertainment. Buried in the hills as we were, we
could have “called-up” our friends in Boston, New York or elsewhere.
We were getting away from the mountains, but there were so many high
hills, and one a mile long, that we did not miss them very much. We
were in Maine; that was enough. The wooded roads were very pretty, too.
We would walk up a steep hill, then get in the buggy, write a sentence
or two, and out again for a walk down a pitch. In number, steepness and
length of hills, Franconia, Crawford and Pinkham Notches do not compare
with these drives. The roads being grass-grown for miles indicates that
all tourists do not take our route. As we came into Springvale, we saw
automobiles for the first time since we left North Conway.
As we drove on towards the coast, we were delighted to find it would
come just right to spend a night at Green-Acre-on-the-Piscataqua, where
we found so much of interest to us two years ago, and were greatly
disappointed when we arrived at the inn, to find there was no possible
way of caring for our horse, as the stable near the inn was closed. We
did not want to go on to Portsmouth, and the manager of the inn assured
us of good care for ourselves and horse, if we would go back to Mrs.
Adlington’s cottage, which he pointed out to us on a hill up from the
river. Before the evening ended we could have fancied ourselves on the
piazzas of the inn, for the subjects that came up and were discussed
by summer guests from New York, Philadelphia, Boston and Saco would
have furnished a program for the entire season at the Eirenion. We were
shown an ideal study in the cottage connected, where a book is to be
written. Indeed, we seemed to be in an atmosphere of book-making, and
again we were questioned until we confessed, and the “representative
list” was materially increased.
Regrets for the inn were quite forgotten, and we felt we were leaving
the Green Acre “Annex” when we said good morning to all the guests and
went first to find Miss Ford in her summer study to secure a copy of
her book, “Interwoven,” sure to interest us, after the enthusiastic
comments.
We got our mail as we passed through Portsmouth, made a call at The
Farragut, Rye Beach, and were invited to spend the night, but we had
planned to go to Salisbury Beach, and thought best to go on. We took
the boulevard, and were full of anticipation for the drive along the
shore to Salisbury, via Boar’s Head and Hampton. Here we drove on the
beach for a time, then returned to the boulevard, the beach flies
becoming more and more troublesome, until our horse was nearly frantic.
Our fine road changed to a hard sandy pull, and we were glad to get on
the Hampton River Bridge. All went smoothly until we were nearly across
the longest wooden bridge in the world, a mile, when obstructions
loomed up, the trolley track being the only passable part. Workmen came
forward, and said, rather than send us so many miles round, they would
try to take us across. They unharnessed Nan, and led her along planks
in the track, and put down extra planks for the buggy. We followed
on over the loose boards. This difficulty surmounted, another soon
presented itself. The boulevard ended, and the remaining two miles’
beach road to Salisbury was nothing but a rough track in the sand. We
were advised to go round, though double the distance.
When we made the turn from the beach, we faced thunder clouds, which
we had not seen before. We do not like to be on the road in such a
shower as threatened, and there was no hotel within four or five miles.
There were only small houses dotted along, but when the thunder began,
we resolved to seek shelter in the first house that had a stable for
Nan. We asked at the first two-story house, if there was any place
near where transients were taken. No one offered to take us, but
directed us to a house a little farther up the road, but there the
old lady said, “Oh no, I couldn’t!” As an apology for asking her, we
told her we understood she did sometimes take people. The thunder was
increasing, the clouds now getting blacker, and we urged her a little,
but she told us to go to the “store” a little way up, and they would
take us. Reluctantly we went and asked another old lady who looked
aghast. “I never take anybody, but you go to the house opposite the
church; she takes folks.” By this time the lightning was flashing in
all directions, and we felt drops of rain. Imagine our dismay to find
the house was the one we had just left. (Ought we to have stayed at
the Farragut?) We explained and begged her to keep us, promising to be
as little trouble as possible. She said she was old and sick, and had
nothing “cooked-up,” but she would not turn us out in such a storm, she
would give us a room, and we could get something to eat at the store.
We tumbled our baggage into the kitchen, hurried Nan to the barn, and
escaped the deluge. We were hardly inside when a terrific bolt came,
and we left the kitchen with the open door, and stole into the front
room, where windows were closed and shades down. The grand-daughter
came in from the “other part,” with several children, and we all sat
there, until a cry came, “Something has happened down the road!” We all
rushed to the open door and word came back that a tree was struck in a
yard near the house where we made our first inquiry for shelter, and a
man at an open window was prostrated and had not “come to.” One of the
children had run away down the street and was brought back screaming
with fright, and asking if the thunder struck him! The shower was very
severe, but passed over rapidly, and when the golden sunset glow came
on, we began to think of making a supper from the crackers, nuts,
raisins and pineapple in our lunch box, thinking how much better that
was than standing in the “breadline” at San Francisco. But while we
were still watching the sunset, we were called to supper, and the lunch
box was forgotten. Our good lady finally told us she boarded the school
masters for thirty-five years, and “took” people, but now she was alone
she did not like to take men, having been frightened, and she always
sends them to a man a little way up the road, but does not tell them he
is the “select-man.” When they ask there, they are offered the lock-up.
“If you had been two men I should have sent you there!” We talked until
nearly dark, before taking our things upstairs.
Breakfast was served in the morning, and our hostess seemed ten years
younger, declaring we had been no trouble. When we gave her what we
usually pay at a small hotel, she accepted it reluctantly. We promised
to send her the report of our journey, and she asked if we should come
the same way next year.
It was all right that we did not stay at the Farragut, for that hard
drive would have shortened our visit in Newburyport, and dinner with a
friend at the Wolfe Tavern.
We found a large mail at Newburyport, and then looked up a way home.
Really, the only fitting terminal route to such a fine journey was to
follow the coast to Boston, and then home via Concord. At Hamilton we
found the family tomb of Gail Hamilton, and took a snap-shot of her
home.
The miles of driving along the coast, and the boulevards of the Park
Reservation through Beverly, Salem, Marblehead, Swampscott, Lynn,
Revere Beach and Winthrop, were a striking contrast to the miles of
hills. We found friends along the way, and stayed one night close by
the shore, then drove into Boston, where Nan fell into line on Atlantic
avenue as unconcerned as when in the solitude of the mountains. We
made a call or two as we passed through the city to Cambridge, and
on through Arlington and Lexington to Concord, where we spent the
last night at the Old Wright Tavern, built in 1747. It is full of
souvenirs and reminders of the Revolutionary times. Framed illuminated
inscriptions hung on the walls of the dining-room.
We began our last day very pleasantly, after leaving our cards at a
friend’s house, by calling on the Chaplain of the Concord Reformatory,
and finding in his home friends from Chicago, who asked about the
revolver, which reminded us we had not taken it from the bottom of the
bag in which it was packed before we left home.
At noon it began to rain, and we had the first cosy rainy drive,
enjoying it as we always do. We did not regret, however, missing the
deluge which came just as Nan was hurrying in to her stall. She knew
all the afternoon where she was going, and was impatient with every
delay. We did not blame her, for she had taken a great many steps in
the seven hundred miles and more, and been equal to every demand,
traveling every day but two in the whole month. The miles of this
journey swell the number to nearly 15000, but we will not change the
title of our book, for 14000 is a multiple of the mystic number 7, and
also of the 700 miles of this Postscript.
14000
MILES
A CARRIAGE AND TWO WOMEN
BY
FRANCES S. HOWE
This book is privately printed and the edition is limited. It contains
reports of an unbroken series of annual drives through New England, New
York State and Canada. Copies will be sent on receipt of price, $1.50,
and 15 cents additional for express or postage.
Address, Leominster, Mass.
MISS F. S. HOWE,
60 Mt. Pleasant Ave., or
MISS F. C. ALLEN,
5 Park Street.