We have heard it said that one of the charms, of Narragansett Pier is
that you can see Newport from it. The summer dwellers at the Pier talk a
good deal about liking it better than Newport; it is less artificial and
more restful. The Newporters never say anything about the Pier. The Pier
people say that it is not fair to judge it when you come direct from
Newport, but the longer you stay there the better you like it; and if
any too frank person admits that he would not stay in Narragansett a day
if he could afford to live in Newport, he is suspected of aristocratic
proclivities.
In a calm summer morning, such as our party of pilgrims chose for an
excursion to the Pier, there is no prettier sail in the world than that
out of the harbor, by Conanicut Island and Beaver-tail Light. It is a
holiday harbor, all these seas are holiday seas--the yachts, the sail
vessels, the puffing steamers, moving swiftly from one headland to
another, or loafing about the blue, smiling sea, are all on pleasure
bent. The vagrant vessels that are idly watched from the rocks at the
Pier may be coasters and freight schooners engaged seriously in trade,
but they do not seem so. They are a part of the picture, always to be
seen slowly dipping along in the horizon, and the impression is that
they are manoeuvred for show, arranged for picturesque effect, and that
they are all taken in at night.
The visitors confessed when they landed that the Pier was a contrast to
Newport. The shore below the landing is a line of broken, ragged, slimy
rocks, as if they had been dumped there for a riprap wall. Fronting this
unkempt shore is a line of barrack-like hotels, with a few cottages
of the cheap sort. At the end of this row of hotels is a fine granite
Casino, spacious, solid, with wide verandas, and a tennis-court--such a
building as even Newport might envy. Then come more hotels, a cluster
of cheap shops, and a long line of bath-houses facing a lovely curving
beach. Bathing is the fashion at the Pier, and everybody goes to the
beach at noon. The spectators occupy chairs on the platform in front of
the bath-houses, or sit under tents erected on the smooth sand. At high
noon the scene is very lively, and even picturesque, for the ladies
here dress for bathing with an intention of pleasing. It is generally
supposed that the angels in heaven are not edified by this promiscuous
bathing, and by the spectacle of a crowd of women tossing about in the
surf, but an impartial angel would admit that many of the costumes here
are becoming, and that the effect of the red and yellow caps, making a
color line in the flashing rollers, is charming. It is true that there
are odd figures in the shifting melee--one solitary old gentleman, who
had contrived to get his bathing-suit on hind-side before, wandered
along the ocean margin like a lost Ulysses; and that fat woman and
fat man were never intended for this sort of exhibition; but taken
altogether, with its colors, and the silver flash of the breaking waves,
the scene was exceedingly pretty. Not the least pretty part of it was
the fringe of children tumbling on the beach, following the retreating
waves, and flying from the incoming rollers with screams of delight.
Children, indeed, are a characteristic of Narragansett Pier--children
and mothers. It might be said to be a family place; it is a good deal so
on Sundays, and occasionally when the “business men” come down from the
cities to see how their wives and children get on at the hotels.
After the bathing it is the fashion to meet again at the Casino and take
lunch--sometimes through a straw--and after dinner everybody goes for a
stroll on the cliffs. This is a noble sea-promenade; with its handsome
villas and magnificent rocks, a fair rival to Newport. The walk, as
usually taken, is two or three miles along the bold, rocky shore, but
an ambitious pedestrian may continue it to the light on Point Judith.
Nowhere on this coast are the rocks more imposing, and nowhere do they
offer so many studies in color. The visitor's curiosity is excited by a
massive granite tower which rises out of a mass of tangled woods planted
on the crest of the hill, and his curiosity is not satisfied on nearer
inspection, when he makes his way into this thick and gloomy forest,
and finds a granite cottage near the tower, and the signs of neglect and
wildness that might mark the home of a recluse. What is the object of
this noble tower? If it was intended to adorn the landscape, why was it
ruined by piercing it irregularly with square windows like those of a
factory?
One has to hold himself back from being drawn into the history and
romance of this Narragansett shore. Down below the bathing beach is the
pretentious wooden pile called Canonchet, that already wears the air
of tragedy. And here, at this end, is the mysterious tower, and an ugly
unfinished dwelling-house of granite, with the legend “Druid's Dream”
carved over the entrance door; and farther inland, in a sandy and
shrubby landscape, is Kendall Green, a private cemetery, with its
granite monument, surrounded by heavy granite posts, every other one of
which is hollowed in the top as a receptacle for food for birds. And one
reads there these inscriptions: “Whatever their mode of faith, or creed,
who feed the wandering birds, will themselves be fed.” “Who helps the
helpless, Heaven will help.” This inland region, now apparently deserted
and neglected, was once the seat of colonial aristocracy, who exercised
a princely hospitality on their great plantations, exchanged visits and
ran horses with the planters of Virginia and the Carolinas, and were
known as far as Kentucky, and perhaps best known for their breed of
Narragansett pacers. But let us get back to the shore.
In wandering along the cliff path in the afternoon, Irene and Mr. King
were separated from the others, and unconsciously extended their stroll,
looking for a comfortable seat in the rocks. The day was perfect. The
sky had only a few fleecy, high-sailing clouds, and the great expanse of
sea sparkled under the hectoring of a light breeze. The atmosphere was
not too clear on the horizon for dreamy effects; all the headlands were
softened and tinged with opalescent colors. As the light struck them,
the sails which enlivened the scene were either dark spots or shining
silver sheets on the delicate blue. At one spot on this shore rises
a vast mass of detached rock, separated at low tide from the shore by
irregular bowlders and a tiny thread of water. In search of a seat the
two strollers made their way across this rivulet over the broken rocks,
passed over the summit of the giant mass, and established themselves
in a cavernous place close to the sea. Here was a natural seat, and
the bulk of the seamed and colored ledge, rising above their heads and
curving around them, shut them out of sight of the land, and left them
alone with the dashing sea, and the gulls that circled and dipped their
silver wings in their eager pursuit of prey. For a time neither
spoke. Irene was looking seaward, and Mr. King, who had a lower seat,
attentively watched the waves lapping the rocks at their feet, and the
fine profile and trim figure of the girl against the sky. He thought he
had never seen her looking more lovely, and yet he had a sense that she
never was so remote from him. Here was an opportunity, to be sure, if he
had anything to say, but some fine feeling of propriety restrained him
from taking advantage of it. It might not be quite fair, in a place so
secluded and remote, and with such sentimental influences, shut in as
they were to the sea and the sky.
“It seems like a world by itself,” she began, as in continuation of her
thought. “They say you can see Gay Head Light from here.”
“Yes. And Newport to the left there, with its towers and trees rising
out of the sea. It is quite like the Venice Lagoon in this light.”
“I think I like Newport better at this distance. It is very poetical.
I don't think I like what is called the world much, when I am close to
it.”
The remark seemed to ask for sympathy, and Mr. King ventured: “Are you
willing to tell me, Miss Benson, why you have not seemed as happy at
Newport as elsewhere? Pardon me; it is not an idle question.” Irene, who
seemed to be looking away beyond Gay Head, did not reply. “I should
like to know if I have been in any way the cause of it. We agreed to
be friends, and I think I have a friend's right to know.” Still no
response. “You must see--you must know,” he went on, hurriedly, “that it
cannot be a matter of indifference to me.”
“It had better be,” she said, as if speaking deliberately to herself,
and still looking away. But suddenly she turned towards him, and the
tears sprang to her eyes, and the words rushed out fiercely, “I wish I
had never left Cyrusville. I wish I had never been abroad. I wish I had
never been educated. It is all a wretched mistake.”
King was unprepared for such a passionate outburst. It was like a rift
in a cloud, through which he had a glimpse of her real life. Words of
eager protest sprang to his lips, but, before they could be uttered,
either her mood had changed or pride had come to the rescue, for she
said: “How silly I am! Everybody has discontented days. Mr. King, please
don't ask me such questions. If you want to be a friend, you will let me
be unhappy now and then, and not say anything about it.”
“But, Miss Benson--Irene--”
“There--'Miss Benson' will do very well.”
“Well, Miss--Irene, then, there was something I wanted to say to you the
other day in Paradise--”
“Look, Mr. King. Did you see that wave? I'm sure it is nearer our feet
than when we sat down here.”
“Oh, that's just an extra lift by the wind. I want to tell you. I must
tell you that life--has all changed since I met you--Irene, I--”
“There! There's no mistake-about that. The last wave came a foot higher
than the other!”
King sprang up. “Perhaps it is the tide. I'll go and see.” He ran up the
rock, leaped across the fissures, and looked over on the side they had
ascended. Sure enough, the tide was coming in. The stones on which they
had stepped were covered, and a deep stream of water, rising with every
pulsation of the sea, now, where there was only a rivulet before. He
hastened back. “There is not a moment to lose. We are caught by the
tide, and if we are not off in five minutes we shall be prisoners here
till the turn.”
He helped her up the slope and over the chasm. The way was very plain
when they came on, but now he could not find it. At the end of every
attempt was a precipice. And the water was rising. A little girl on
the shore shouted to them to follow along a ledge she pointed out, then
descend between two bowlders to the ford. Precious minutes were lost
in accomplishing this circuitous descent, and then they found the
stepping-stones under water, and the sea-weed swishing about the
slippery rocks with the incoming tide. It was a ridiculous position
for lovers, or even “friends”--ridiculous because it had no element of
danger except the ignominy of getting wet. If there was any heroism in
seizing Irene before she could protest, stumbling with his burden among
the slimy rocks, and depositing her, with only wet shoes, on the shore,
Mr. King shared it, and gained the title of “Life-preserver.” The
adventure ended with a laugh.
The day after the discovery and exploration of Narragansett, Mr. King
spent the morning with his cousin at the Casino. It was so pleasant
that he wondered he had not gone there oftener, and that so few people
frequented it. Was it that the cottagers were too strong for the Casino
also, which was built for the recreation of the cottagers, and that they
found when it came to the test that they could not with comfort come
into any sort of contact with popular life? It is not large, but no
summer resort in Europe has a prettier place for lounging and reunion.
None have such an air of refinement and exclusiveness. Indeed, one of
the chief attractions and entertainments in the foreign casinos and
conversation-halls is the mingling there of all sorts of peoples,
and the animation arising from diversity of conditions. This popular
commingling in pleasure resorts is safe enough in aristocratic
countries, but it will not answer in a republic.
The Newport Casino is in the nature of a club of the best society. The
building and grounds express the most refined taste. Exteriorly the
house is a long, low Queen Anne cottage, with brilliant shops on the
ground-floor, and above, behind the wooded balconies, is the clubroom.
The tint of the shingled front is brown, and all the colors are low and
blended. Within, the court is a mediaeval surprise. It is a miniature
castle, such as might serve for an opera scene. An extension of
the galleries, an ombre, completes the circle around the plot of
close-clipped green turf. The house itself is all balconies, galleries,
odd windows half overgrown and hidden by ivy, and a large gilt
clock-face adds a touch of piquancy to the antique charm of the facade.
Beyond the first court is a more spacious and less artificial lawn,
set with fine trees, and at the bottom of it is the brown building
containing ballroom and theatre, bowling-alley and closed tennis-court,
and at an angle with the second lawn is a pretty field for lawn-tennis.
Here the tournaments are held, and on these occasions, and on ball
nights, the Casino is thronged.
If the Casino is then so exclusive, why is it not more used as a
rendezvous and lounging-place? Alas! it must be admitted that it is not
exclusive. By an astonishing concession in the organization any person
can gain admittance by paying the sum of fifty cents. This tax is
sufficient to exclude the deserving poor, but it is only an inducement
to the vulgar rich, and it is even broken down by the prodigal
excursionist, who commonly sets out from home with the intention of
being reckless for one day. It is easy to see, therefore, why the charm
of this delightful place is tarnished.
The band was playing this morning--not rink music--when Mrs. Glow and
King entered and took chairs on the ombre. It was a very pretty scene;
more people were present than usual of a morning. Groups of half a
dozen had drawn chairs together here and there, and were chatting and
laughing; two or three exceedingly well-preserved old bachelors, in the
smart rough morning suits of the period, were entertaining their lady
friends with club and horse talk; several old gentlemen were reading
newspapers; and there were some dowager-looking mammas, and seated by
them their cold, beautiful, high-bred daughters, who wore their visible
exclusiveness like a garment, and contrasted with some other young
ladies who were promenading with English-looking young men in flannel
suits, who might be described as lawn-tennis young ladies conscious
of being in the mode, but wanting the indescribable atmosphere of
high-breeding. Doubtless the most interesting persons to the student
of human life were the young fellows in lawn-tennis suits. They had the
languid air which is so attractive at their age, of having found out
life, and decided that it is a bore. Nothing is worth making an exertion
about, not even pleasure. They had come, one could see, to a just
appreciation of their value in life, and understood quite well
the social manners of the mammas and girls in whose company they
condescended to dawdle and make, languidly, cynical observations. They
had, in truth, the manner of playing at fashion and elegance as in
a stage comedy. King could not help thinking there was something
theatrical about them altogether, and he fancied that when he saw them
in their “traps” on the Avenue they were going through the motions for
show and not for enjoyment. Probably King was mistaken in all this,
having been abroad so long that he did not understand the evolution of
the American gilded youth.
In a pause of the music Mrs. Bartlett Glow and Mr. King were standing
with a group near the steps that led down to the inner lawn. Among them
were the Postlethwaite girls, whose beauty and audacity made such a
sensation in Washington last winter. They were bantering Mr. King about
his Narragansett excursion, his cousin having maliciously given the
party a hint of his encounter with the tide at the Pier... Just at this
moment, happening to glance across the lawn, he saw the Bensons coming
towards the steps, Mrs. Benson waddling over the grass and beaming
towards the group, Mr. Benson carrying her shawl and looking as if he
had been hired by the day, and Irene listlessly following. Mrs. Glow saw
them at the same moment, but gave no other sign of her knowledge than by
striking into the banter with more animation. Mr. King intended at once
to detach himself and advance to meet the Bensons. But he could
not rudely break away from the unfinished sentence of the younger
Postlethwaite girl, and the instant that was concluded, as luck would
have it, an elderly lady joined the group, and Mrs. Glow went through
the formal ceremony of introducing King to her. He hardly knew how it
happened, only that he made a hasty bow to the Bensons as he was shaking
hands with the ceremonious old lady, and they had gone to the door
of exit. He gave a little start as if to follow them, which Mrs. Glow
noticed with a laugh and the remark, “You can catch them if you run,”
and then he weakly submitted to his fate. After all, it was only an
accident which would hardly need a word of explanation. But what Irene
saw was this: a distant nod from Mrs. Glow, a cool survey and stare from
the Postlethwaite girls, and the failure of Mr. King to recognize his
friends any further than by an indifferent bow as he turned to speak to
another lady. In the raw state of her sensitiveness she felt all this as
a terrible and perhaps intended humiliation.
King did not return to the hotel till evening, and then he sent up his
card to the Bensons. Word came back that the ladies were packing, and
must be excused. He stood at the office desk and wrote a hasty note to
Irene, attempting an explanation of what might seem to her a rudeness,
and asked that he might see her a moment. And then he paced the corridor
waiting for a reply. In his impatience the fifteen minutes that he
waited seemed an hour. Then a bell-boy handed him this note:
“MY DEAR MR. KING,--No explanation whatever was needed. We never
shall forget your kindness. Good-by.
IRENE BENSON”
He folded the note carefully and put it in his breast pocket, took it
out and reread it, lingering over the fine and dainty signature, put it
back again, and walked out upon the piazza. It was a divine night,
soft and sweet-scented, and all the rustling trees were luminous in the
electric light. From a window opening upon a balcony overhead came the
clear notes of a barytone voice enunciating the oldfashioned words of an
English ballad, the refrain of which expressed hopeless separation.
The eastern coast, with its ragged outline of bays, headlands,
indentations, islands, capes, and sand-spits, from Watch Hill, a
favorite breezy resort, to Mount Desert, presents an almost continual
chain of hotels and summer cottages. In fact, the same may be said of
the whole Atlantic front from Mount Desert down to Cape May. It is to
the traveler an amazing spectacle. The American people can no longer
be reproached for not taking any summer recreation. The amount of money
invested to meet the requirements of this vacation idleness is enormous.
When one is on the coast in July or August it seems as if the whole
fifty millions of people had come down to lie on the rocks, wade in the
sand, and dip into the sea. But this is not the case. These crowds are
only a fringe of the pleasure-seeking population. In all the mountain
regions from North Carolina to the Adirondacks and the White Hills,
along the St. Lawrence and the lakes away up to the Northwest, in every
elevated village, on every mountain-side, about every pond, lake,
and clear stream, in the wilderness and the secluded farmhouse, one
encounters the traveler, the summer boarder, the vacation idler, one is
scarcely out of sight of the American flag flying over a summer resort.
In no other nation, probably, is there such a general summer hejira, no
other offers on such a vast scale such a variety of entertainment, and
it is needless to say that history presents no parallel to this general
movement of a people for a summer outing. Yet it is no doubt true that
statistics, which always upset a broad generous statement such as I have
made, would show that the majority of people stay at home in the summer,
and it is undeniable that the vexing question for everybody is where to
go in July and August.
But there are resorts suited to all tastes, and to the economical as
well as to the extravagant. Perhaps the strongest impression one has
in visiting the various watering-places in the summer-time, is that the
multitudes of every-day folk are abroad in search of enjoyment. On the
New Bedford boat for Martha's Vineyard our little party of tourists
sailed quite away from Newport life--Stanhope with mingled depression
and relief, the artist with some shrinking from contact with anything
common, while Marion stood upon the bow beside her uncle, inhaling the
salt breeze, regarding the lovely fleeting shores, her cheeks glowing
and her eyes sparkling with enjoyment. The passengers and scene,
Stanhope was thinking, were typically New England, until the boat made a
landing at Naushon Island, when he was reminded somehow of Scotland,
as much perhaps by the wild furzy appearance of the island as by the
“gentle-folks” who went ashore.
The boat lingered for the further disembarkation of a number of horses
and carriages, with a piano and a cow. There was a farmer's lodge at the
landing, and over the rocks and amid the trees the picturesque roof
of the villa of the sole proprietor of the island appeared, and gave a
feudal aspect to the domain. The sweet grass affords good picking for
sheep, and besides the sheep the owner raises deer, which are destined
to be chased and shot in the autumn.
The artist noted that there were several distinct types of women on
board, besides the common, straight-waisted, flat-chested variety. One
girl who was alone, with a city air, a neat, firm figure, in a traveling
suit of elegant simplicity, was fond of taking attitudes about the
rails, and watching the effect produced on the spectators. There was
a blue-eyed, sharp-faced, rather loose-jointed young girl, who had the
manner of being familiar with the boat, and talked readily and freely
with anybody, keeping an eye occasionally on her sister of eight years,
a child with a serious little face in a poke-bonnet, who used the
language of a young lady of sixteen, and seemed also abundantly able to
take care of herself. What this mite of a child wants of all things, she
confesses, is a pug-faced dog. Presently she sees one come on board in
the arms of a young lady at Wood's Holl. “No,” she says, “I won't ask
her for it; the lady wouldn't give it to me, and I wouldn't waste
my breath;” but she draws near to the dog, and regards it with rapt
attention. The owner of the dog is a very pretty black-eyed girl
with banged hair, who prattles about herself and her dog with perfect
freedom. She is staying at Cottage City, lives at Worcester, has been
up to Boston to meet and bring down her dog, without which she couldn't
live another minute. “Perhaps,” she says, “you know Dr. Ridgerton, in
Worcester; he's my brother. Don't you know him? He's a chiropodist.”
These girls are all types of the skating-rink--an institution which is
beginning to express itself in American manners.
The band was playing on the pier when the steamer landed at Cottage City
(or Oak Bluff, as it was formerly called), and the pier and the gallery
leading to it were crowded with spectators, mostly women a pleasing
mingling of the skating-rink and sewing-circle varieties--and gayety
was apparently about setting in with the dusk. The rink and the ground
opposite the hotel were in full tilt. After supper King and Forbes took
a cursory view of this strange encampment, walking through the streets
of fantastic tiny cottages among the scrub oaks, and saw something of
family life in the painted little boxes, whose wide-open front
doors gave to view the whole domestic economy, including the bed,
centre-table, and melodeon. They strolled also on the elevated plank
promenade by the beach, encountering now and then a couple enjoying the
lovely night. Music abounded. The circus-pumping strains burst out of
the rink, calling to a gay and perhaps dissolute life. The band in the
nearly empty hotel parlor, in a mournful mood, was wooing the guests who
did not come to a soothing tune, something like China--“Why do we mourn
departed friends?” A procession of lasses coming up the broad walk,
advancing out of the shadows of night, was heard afar off as the
stalwart singers strode on, chanting in high nasal voices that lovely
hymn, which seems to suit the rink as well as the night promenade and
the campmeeting:
“We shall me--um um--we shall me-eet, me-eet--um um
--we shall meet,
In the sweet by-am-by, by-am-by-um um-by-am-by.
On the bu-u-u-u--on the bu-u-u-u--on the bu-te-ful shore.”
In the morning this fairy-like settlement, with its flimsy and eccentric
architecture, took on more the appearance of reality. The season was
late, as usual, and the hotels were still waiting for the crowds that
seem to prefer to be late and make a rushing carnival of August, but the
tiny cottages were nearly all occupied. At 10 A.M. the band was playing
in the three-story pagoda sort of tower at the bathing-place, and the
three stories were crowded with female spectators. Below, under the
bank, is a long array of bath-houses, and the shallow water was alive
with floundering and screaming bathers. Anchored a little out was a
raft, from which men and boys and a few venturesome girls were diving,
displaying the human form in graceful curves. The crowd was an immensely
good-humored one, and enjoyed itself. The sexes mingled together in the
water, and nothing thought of it, as old Pepys would have said, although
many of the tightly-fitting costumes left less to the imagination than
would have been desired by a poet describing the scene as a phase of the
'comedie humaine.' The band, having played out its hour, trudged back to
the hotel pier to toot while the noon steamboat landed its passengers,
in order to impress the new arrivals with the mad joyousness of the
place. The crowd gathered on the high gallery at the end of the pier
added to this effect of reckless holiday enjoyment. Miss Lamont was
infected with this gayety, and took a great deal of interest in this
peripatetic band, which was playing again on the hotel piazza before
dinner, with a sort of mechanical hilariousness. The rink band opposite
kept up a lively competition, grinding out go-round music, imparting, if
one may say so, a glamour to existence. The band is on hand at the pier
at four o'clock to toot again, and presently off, tramping to some other
hotel to satisfy the serious pleasure of this people.
While Mr. King could not help wondering how all this curious life would
strike Irene--he put his lonesomeness and longing in this way--and what
she would say about it, he endeavored to divert his mind by a study of
the conditions, and by some philosophizing on the change that had come
over American summer life within a few years. In his investigations he
was assisted by Mr. De Long, to whom this social life was absolutely
new, and who was disposed to regard it as peculiarly Yankee--the
staid dissipation of a serious-minded people. King, looking at it
more broadly, found this pasteboard city by the sea one of the most
interesting developments of American life. The original nucleus was
the Methodist camp-meeting, which, in the season, brought here twenty
thousand to thirty thousand people at a time, who camped and picnicked
in a somewhat primitive style. Gradually the people who came here
ostensibly for religious exercises made a longer and more permanent
occupation, and, without losing its ephemeral character, the place
grew and demanded more substantial accommodations. The spot is very
attractive. Although the shore looks to the east, and does not get the
prevailing southern breeze, and the beach has little surf, both water
and air are mild, the bathing is safe and agreeable, and the view of the
illimitable sea dotted with sails and fishing-boats is always pleasing.
A crowd begets a crowd, and soon the world's people made a city larger
than the original one, and still more fantastic, by the aid of paint and
the jigsaw. The tent, however, is the type of all the dwelling-houses.
The hotels, restaurants, and shops follow the usual order of flamboyant
seaside architecture. After a time the Baptists established a camp,
ground on the bluffs on the opposite side of the inlet. The world's
people brought in the commercial element in the way of fancy shops for
the sale of all manner of cheap and bizarre “notions,” and introduced
the common amusements. And so, although the camp-meetings do not begin
till late in August, this city of play-houses is occupied the summer
long. The shops and shows represent the taste of the million,
and although there is a similarity in all these popular coast
watering-places, each has a characteristic of its own. The foreigner has
a considerable opportunity of studying family life, whether he lounges
through the narrow, sometimes circular, streets by night, when it
appears like a fairy encampment, or by daylight, when there is no
illusion. It seems to be a point of etiquette to show as much of the
interiors as possible, and one can learn something of cooking and
bed-making and mending, and the art of doing up the back hair. The
photographer revels here in pictorial opportunities. The pictures of
these bizarre cottages, with the family and friends seated in front,
show very serious groups. One of the Tabernacle--a vast iron hood or
dome erected over rows of benches that will seat two or three thousand
people--represents the building when it is packed with an audience
intent upon the preacher. Most of the faces are of a grave, severe type,
plain and good, of the sort of people ready to die for a notion. The
impression of these photographs is that these people abandon themselves
soberly to the pleasures of the sea and of this packed, gregarious life,
and get solid enjoyment out of their recreation.
Here, as elsewhere on the coast, the greater part of the population
consists of women and children, and the young ladies complain of the
absence of men--and, indeed, something is desirable in society besides
the superannuated and the boys in round-abouts.
The artist and Miss Lamont, in search of the picturesque, had the
courage, although the thermometer was in the humor to climb up to ninety
degrees, to explore the Baptist encampment. They were not rewarded by
anything new except at the landing, where, behind the bath-houses, the
bathing suits were hung out to dry, and presented a comical spectacle,
the humor of which seemed to be lost upon all except themselves. It
was such a caricature of humanity! The suits hanging upon the line and
distended by the wind presented the appearance of headless, bloated
forms, fat men and fat women kicking in the breeze, and vainly trying
to climb over the line. It was probably merely fancy, but they declared
that these images seemed larger, more bloated, and much livelier
than those displayed on the Cottage City side. When travelers can be
entertained by trifles of this kind it shows that there is an absence of
more serious amusement. And, indeed, although people were not wanting,
and music was in the air, and the bicycle and tricycle stable was well
patronized by men and women, and the noon bathing was well attended, it
was evident that the life of Cottage City was not in full swing by the
middle of July.
The morning on which our tourists took the steamer for Wood's Holl
the sea lay shimmering in the heat, only stirred a little by the land
breeze, and it needed all the invigoration of the short ocean voyage to
brace them up for the intolerably hot and dusty ride in the cars through
the sandy part of Massachusetts. So long as the train kept by the
indented shore the route was fairly picturesque; all along Buzzard Bay
and Onset Bay and Monument Beach little cottages, gay with paint and
fantastic saw-work explained, in a measure, the design of Providence
in permitting this part of the world to be discovered; but the sandy
interior had to be reconciled to the deeper divine intention by a
trial of patience and the cultivation of the heroic virtues evoked by a
struggle for existence, of fitting men and women for a better country.
The travelers were confirmed, however, in their theory of the effect of
a sandy country upon the human figure. This is not a juicy land, if
the expression can be tolerated, any more than the sandy parts of
New Jersey, and its unsympathetic dryness is favorable to the
production--one can hardly say development of the lean, enduring,
flat-chested, and angular style of woman.
In order to reach Plymouth a wait of a couple of hours was necessary at
one of the sleepy but historic villages. There was here no tavern, no
restaurant, and nobody appeared to have any license to sell anything for
the refreshment of the travelers. But at some distance from the station,
in a two-roomed dwelling-house, a good woman was found who was willing
to cook a meal of victuals, as she explained, and a sign on her front
door attested, she had a right to do. What was at the bottom of the
local prejudice against letting the wayfaring man have anything to eat
and drink, the party could not ascertain, but the defiant air of the
woman revealed the fact that there was such a prejudice. She was a
noble, robust, gigantic specimen of her sex, well formed, strong as an
ox, with a resolute jaw, and she talked, through tightly-closed teeth,
in an aggressive manner. Dinner was ordered, and the party strolled
about the village pending its preparation; but it was not ready when
they returned. “I ain't goin' to cook no victuals,” the woman explained,
not ungraciously, “till I know folks is goin' to eat it.” Knowledge of
the world had made her justly cautious. She intended to set out a good
meal, and she had the true housewife's desire that it should be eaten,
that there should be enough of it, and that the guests should like it.
When she waited on the table she displayed a pair of arms that would
discourage any approach to familiarity, and disincline a timid person to
ask twice for pie; but in point of fact, as soon as the party became her
bona-fide guests, she was royally hospitable, and only displayed anxiety
lest they should not eat enough.
“I like folks to be up and down and square,” she began saying, as she
vigilantly watched the effect of her culinary skill upon the awed little
party. “Yes, I've got a regular hotel license; you bet I have. There's
been folks lawed in this town for sellin' a meal of victuals and not
having one. I ain't goin' to be taken in by anybody. I warn't raised in
New Hampshire to be scared by these Massachusetts folks. No, I hain't
got a girl now. I had one a spell, but I'd rather do my own work. You
never knew what a girl was doin' or would do. After she'd left I found
a broken plate tucked into the ash-barrel. Sho! you can't depend on a
girl. Yes, I've got a husband. It's easier to manage him. Well, I tell
you a husband is better than a girl. When you tell him to do anything,
you know it's going to be done. He's always about, never loafin' round;
he can take right hold and wash dishes, and fetch water, and anything.”
King went into the kitchen after dinner and saw this model husband, who
had the faculty of making himself generally useful, holding a baby on
one arm, and stirring something in a pot on the stove with the other. He
looked hot but resigned. There has been so much said about the position
of men in Massachusetts that the travelers were glad of this evidence
that husbands are beginning to be appreciated. Under proper training
they are acknowledged to be “better than girls.”
It was late afternoon when they reached the quiet haven of Plymouth--a
place where it is apparently always afternoon, a place of memory and
reminiscences, where the whole effort of the population is to hear and
to tell some old thing. As the railway ends there, there is no danger
of being carried beyond, and the train slowly ceases motion, and stands
still in the midst of a great and welcome silence. Peace fell upon the
travelers like a garment, and although they had as much difficulty
in landing their baggage as the early Pilgrims had in getting theirs
ashore, the circumstance was not able to disquiet them much. It seemed
natural that their trunks should go astray on some of the inextricably
interlocked and branching railways, and they had no doubt that when they
had made the tour of the State they would be discharged, as they finally
were, into this cul-de-sac.
The Pilgrims have made so much noise in the world, and so powerfully
affected the continent, that our tourists were surprised to find they
had landed in such a quiet place, and that the spirit they have left
behind them is one of such tranquillity. The village has a charm all its
own. Many of the houses are old-fashioned and square, some with colonial
doors and porches, irregularly aligned on the main street, which is
arched by ancient and stately elms. In the spacious door-yards the
lindens have had room and time to expand, and in the beds of bloom the
flowers, if not the very ones that our grandmothers planted, are the
sorts that they loved. Showing that the town has grown in sympathy with
human needs and eccentricities, and is not the work of a surveyor, the
streets are irregular, forming picturesque angles and open spaces.
Nothing could be imagined in greater contrast to a Western town, and
a good part of the satisfaction our tourists experienced was in the
absence of anything Western or “Queen Anne” in the architecture.
In the Pilgrim Hall--a stone structure with an incongruous
wooden-pillared front--they came into the very presence of the early
worthies, saw their portraits on the walls, sat in their chairs, admired
the solidity of their shoes, and imbued themselves with the spirit of
the relics of their heroic, uncomfortable lives. In the town there was
nothing to disturb the serenity of mind acquired by this communion.
The Puritan interdict of unseemly excitement still prevailed, and the
streets were silent; the artist, who could compare it with the placidity
of Holland towns, declared that he never walked in a village so silent;
there was no loud talking; and even the children played without noise,
like little Pilgrims... God bless such children, and increase their
numbers! It might have been the approach of Sunday--if Sunday is still
regarded in eastern Massachusetts--that caused this hush, for it was now
towards sunset on Saturday, and the inhabitants were washing the fronts
of the houses with the hose, showing how cleanliness is next to silence.
Possessed with the spirit of peace, our tourists, whose souls had been
vexed with the passions of many watering-places, walked down Leyden
Street (the first that was laid out), saw the site of the first house,
and turned round Carver Street, walking lingeringly, so as not to break
the spell, out upon the hill-Cole's Hill--where the dead during the
first fearful winter were buried. This has been converted into a
beautiful esplanade, grassed and graveled and furnished with seats, and
overlooks the old wharves, some coal schooners, and shabby buildings, on
one of which is a sign informing the reckless that they can obtain there
clam-chowder and ice-cream, and the ugly, heavy granite canopy erected
over the “Rock.” No reverent person can see this rock for the first time
without a thrill of excitement. It has the date of 1620 cut in it, and
it is a good deal cracked and patched up, as if it had been much landed
on, but there it is, and there it will remain a witness to a great
historic event, unless somebody takes a notion to cart it off uptown
again. It is said to rest on another rock, of which it formed a part
before its unfortunate journey, and that lower rock as everybody knows,
rests upon the immutable principle of self-government. The stone lies
too far from the water to enable anybody to land on it now, and it is
protected from vandalism by an iron grating. The sentiment of the hour
was disturbed by the advent of the members of a baseball nine, who
wondered why the Pilgrims did not land on the wharf, and, while
thrusting their feet through the grating in a commendable desire
to touch the sacred rock, expressed a doubt whether the feet of the
Pilgrims were small enough to slip through the grating and land on
the stone. It seems that there is nothing safe from the irreverence of
American youth.
Has any other coast town besides Plymouth had the good sense and taste
to utilize such an elevation by the water-side as an esplanade? It is
a most charming feature of the village, and gives it what we call a
foreign air. It was very lovely in the afterglow and at moonrise. Staid
citizens with their families occupied the benches, groups were chatting
under the spreading linden-tree at the north entrance, and young maidens
in white muslin promenaded, looking seaward, as was the wont of Puritan
maidens, watching a receding or coming Mayflower. But there was no loud
talking, no laughter, no outbursts of merriment from the children, all
ready to be transplanted to the Puritan heaven! It was high tide, and
all the bay was silvery with a tinge of color from the glowing sky.
The long, curved sand-spit-which was heavily wooded when the Pilgrims
landed-was silvery also, and upon its northern tip glowed the white
sparkle in the lighthouse like the evening-star. To the north, over
the smooth pink water speckled with white sails, rose Captain Hill, in
Duxbury, bearing the monument to Miles Standish. Clarke's Island (where
the Pilgrims heard a sermon on the first Sunday), Saguish Point, and
Gurnett Headland (showing now twin white lights) appear like a long
island intersected by thin lines of blue water. The effect of these
ribbons of alternate sand and water, of the lights and the ocean (or
Great Bay) beyond, was exquisite.
Even the unobtrusive tavern at the rear of the esplanade, ancient,
feebly lighted, and inviting, added something to the picturesqueness of
the scene. The old tree by the gate--an English linden--illuminated
by the street lamps and the moon, had a mysterious appearance, and the
tourists were not surprised to learn that it has a romantic history. The
story is that the twig or sapling from which it grew was brought over
from England by a lover as a present to his mistress, that the lovers
quarreled almost immediately, that the girl in a pet threw it out of
the window when she sent her lover out of the door, and that another man
picked it up and planted it where it now grows. The legend provokes a
good many questions. One would like to know whether this was the first
case of female rebellion in Massachusetts against the common-law right
of a man to correct a woman with a stick not thicker than his little
finger--a rebellion which has resulted in the position of man as the
tourists saw him where the New Hampshire Amazon gave them a meal of
victuals; and whether the girl married the man who planted the twig,
and, if so, whether he did not regret that he had not kept it by him.
This is a world of illusions. By daylight, when the tide was out, the
pretty silver bay of the night before was a mud flat, and the tourists,
looking over it from Monument Hill, lost some of their respect for the
Pilgrim sagacity in selecting a landing-place. They had ascended the
hill for a nearer view of the monument, King with a reverent wish to
read the name of his Mayflower ancestor on the tablet, the others in
a spirit of cold, New York criticism, for they thought the structure,
which is still unfinished, would look uglier near at hand than at a
distance. And it does. It is a pile of granite masonry surmounted by
symbolic figures.
“It is such an unsympathetic, tasteless-looking thing!” said Miss
Lamont.
“Do you think it is the worst in the country?”
“I wouldn't like to say that,” replied the artist, “when the competition
in this direction is so lively. But just look at the drawing” (holding
up his pencil with which he had intended to sketch it). “If it were
quaint, now, or rude, or archaic, it might be in keeping, but bad
drawing is just vulgar. I should think it had been designed by a
carpenter, and executed by a stone-mason.”
“Yes,” said the little Lamont, who always fell in with the most
abominable opinions the artist expressed; “it ought to have been made of
wood, and painted and sanded.”
“You will please remember,” mildly suggested King, who had found the
name he was in search of, “that you are trampling on my ancestral
sensibilities, as might be expected of those who have no ancestors who
ever landed or ever were buried anywhere in particular. I look at the
commemorative spirit rather than the execution of the monument.”
“So do I,” retorted the girl; “and if the Pilgrims landed in such a
vulgar, ostentatious spirit as this, I'm glad my name is not on the
tablet.”
The party were in a better mood when they had climbed up Burial Hill,
back of the meeting-house, and sat down on one of the convenient benches
amid the ancient gravestones, and looked upon the wide and magnificent
prospect. A soft summer wind waved a little the long gray grass of
the ancient resting-place, and seemed to whisper peace to the weary
generation that lay there. What struggles, what heroisms, the names on
the stones recalled! Here had stood the first fort of 1620, and here the
watchtower of 1642, from the top of which the warder espied the lurking
savage, or hailed the expected ship from England. How much of history
this view recalled, and what pathos of human life these graves
made real. Read the names of those buried a couple of centuries
ago--captains, elders, ministers, governors, wives well beloved,
children a span long, maidens in the blush of womanhood--half the tender
inscriptions are illegible; the stones are broken, sunk, slanting to
fall. What a pitiful attempt to keep the world mindful of the departed!