14000 Miles, a Carriage and Two Women

SUMMER TRAVELS IN A PHAETON.

“We were a jolly pair, we two, and ladies at that; and we had decided to go, amid the protestations of the towns-people and the remarks of Madam Grundy that it was not proper, and that there were so many tramps it was not prudent for two ladies to take a trip with their horse and carriage along the North Shore. Nevertheless, we take our lives in our hands, and ‘do the trip’ in a large comfortable, roomy buggy,” etc.

A letter in the Boston Evening Transcript, under the heading “Along the North Shore,” from which the paragraph above is taken, so aptly describes a part of one of our journeys, that we cannot resist the temptation to tell you something of our travels, which our friends no longer consider daring and experimental, but a thoroughly sensible and delightful way of combining rest and pleasure.

In the summer of 1872, “we two, and ladies at that,” made our trial trip, with the consent and approval of family friends for our encouragement, and the misgivings and fears of those outside to inspire us with caution. Tramps were not in fashion, and I have forgotten what was the terror of those days. Like the “other two,” we were equipped with a pet horse—safe, but with no lack of spirit—a roomy phaeton, with lunch basket, wraps, books, fancy work and writing materials all at hand. Our bags, with rubber coverings, were strapped underneath the carriage. Some cautious reader may like to know that we did not forget to put in the “box” a wrench, a bottle of oil, strong cord, etc., for emergencies. Of course we had a map, for geography was not taught very practically in our school days, and we should be lost without one. We made no definite plans beyond the first day, but had vaguely in mind, if all went well, to drive through the valley of the Connecticut River.

Our first day’s ride took us around Wachusett. We did not delay to climb its woody slopes, for we had many times visited our little mountain, and knew its charms by heart. It was new scenes we were seeking, and we were eagerly anticipating the drive along the Connecticut, fancying that much more beautiful and romantic than the familiar hills. It was not until we reached the hot, sandy roads, and were surrounded by tobacco fields, with rarely a glimpse of the river, that we realized that valleys are most enjoyable when seen from the hill-tops. The peculiar charm of the view from Mt. Holyoke we can never forget. A picture like that of the Northampton meadows, with the silvery river winding through them, we have found on no other hill or mountain-top.

If this trial journey had proved our last, we would like to recall it in detail; but, as it has been succeeded by others more extended, we must hastily pass by the novelty of our first crossing the Connecticut by ferry, the historic points of interest in old Deerfield, the terrific thunderstorm just after we left Greenfield, the Broad Brook drive as we neared Brattleboro, the profuse quantity of lovely maidenhair ferns by the roadside, dripping with the morning rain, our lunch on the shore of Lake Spofford, and so on to Keene and Jaffrey.

How can we so hastily pass over the ascent of grand old Monadnock? Perhaps we enjoyed it all the more for the repeated protests of the youthful proprietor of the Mountain House, who assured us the feat was impossible, as the heavy showers which we had so much enjoyed in our morning drive had converted the path into a series of cascades. The mists which had entirely concealed the mountain were just breaking away, and we made the ascent in the face of warnings and water, yielding to no obstacles. Before we left the summit it was mostly clear, and we thought little of our moist condition or the difficulties of the descent before us as we feasted our eyes, watching the showers as they moved on from village to village in the valley below, leaving a burst of sunlight in their wake. Our descent was rapid, notwithstanding difficulties, and when we reached the hotel, so delightfully located on the side of the mountain, we forthwith decided to prolong our stay. After a cosy supper, for we were the only guests, we repaired to the rocks to watch the sunset clouds, which are rarely finer. It was mild, and we lingered while the darkness gathered, until the mountain looked so black and lonely we did not like to think we had stood on that peak alone only a few hours before. While we watched, the clouds began to brighten, and soon the moon appeared in her full glory, making the whole scene one of indescribable beauty. The next day was Sunday, and a lovelier day never dawned. The peculiar Sunday quiet pervaded the very atmosphere, and we sat on the rocks reading, writing and musing all day, enjoying such a season of rest as one seldom experiences.

Two days more passed, and we were safe at home, after an absence of only ten days, and about two hundred miles’ driving, but with delightful recollections, which cannot be forgotten in a lifetime. This trial trip was so successful that when another summer came it was taken for granted by our friends that we should try again, and we started, equipped as before with map, but no plan—only an inclination to face north. Following this inclination took us through many thrifty towns and villages, and gave us delightful drives over hills and through valleys, until we found ourselves spending a night with the Shakers on the top of a high hill in Canterbury, N. H. The brothers and sisters were unsparing in their attentions, though strict in certain requirements. We left them next morning, with a generous Shaker lunch in our basket, and turned our horse toward Alton Bay. As Brother George and Sister Philena assured us, it was the longest, roughest and loneliest ten miles’ drive we had ever taken. The round trip on Lake Winnipiseogee the following day was a delightful contrast.

We now began to study our map, for we had not even a vague idea where next. We started at last, not anxious, but aimless; and after wandering several days in obedience to the will of the hour, landed on Wells Beach; we passed Sunday on York Beach; then drove on to Portsmouth, where we left our horse for a day to visit the Isles of Shoals. The places of resort and interest as we followed the coast to Gloucester, Rye, Hampton, Salisbury, etc., are well known. After refreshing ourselves at Gloucester with rowing and moonlight bathing we returned to Newburyport, where we saw the homes of Lord Timothy Dexter, Harriet Prescott Spofford, and others of note. An excursion on the Merrimac in a barge, and the drive by the river road to Bradford and Haverhill, we found very pleasant. It was in this vicinity that, for the first time, we were received ungraciously. The good landlady of an old-fashioned inn reluctantly received us, after rebuking us for the abuse of our horse, little knowing how much more thoughtful we were of him than of ourselves. He looked tired that night, for the seashore had not agreed with him, and I think had her knowledge extended so far, she would have reported us to the S. F. T. P. O. C. T. A. However, after cross-examination, she conducted us to a room spotlessly clean, the floor covered with the choicest of braided mats, and two beds mountain high, but expressly enjoined us “not to tumble but one of them.” We left the next morning laden with good advice, which, carefully followed, returned us safely home ere many days, with our horse in better condition than when we started on our journey.

Of course we were ready to go again the next year, this time starting southerly, spending nights in Northboro, Franklin, Taunton and Tiverton Stone Bridge. Thus far the scenery and roads do not compare favorably with those in New Hampshire; but when we reached Newport, we were compensated for lack of interesting driving.

Margery Deane tells your readers all one needs to know of this place of places. So we will find our way to New Bedford, leave our horse and take a look at Martha’s Vineyard for a few days. Our first impression of the “Cottage City” was that of a miniature Newport; but this every one knows all about, so we will go on to Plymouth, where we saw everything worth seeing. Plymouth Rock would have satisfied us more fully had it looked as it does in the pictures of the “Landing,” instead of being out in the midst of dry land, with a pagoda built over it, and inscriptions to remind one that it is not an ordinary flagstone.

We found much that interested us in Marshfield, Hingham, and Milton with its Blue Hills. We have not forgotten a night at the homelike Norfolk House, and an afternoon devoted to the famed residences in Watertown. We drove to Point Shirley one morning during our stay near Boston, and on returning gave our journey another historic touch by going to the top of Bunker Hill Monument; and still another a few days later, as we visited the old battle-grounds in Lexington and Concord, on our way home.

Before another summer, whispers of tramps were heard, and soon they were fully inaugurated, making us tremble and sigh as we thought of the opposition that threatened us. A revolver was suggested, in case we persisted in facing this danger, and finally as go we must, we condensed our baggage that it might be out of sight, and confidently took the reins, having no fear of anything ahead, so long as our greatest terror—a loaded revolver—was close at hand, not “hidden away in one corner under the seat,” but in a little pocket made on purpose, where it could be seized without delay when our game appeared. As we shall not refer to our “companion” again, never having had occasion to use it, we will say here that it is no longer a terror but a sort of chaperone, in whose care we rest secure.

Our driving this season was within the limits of our own State, and we have yet to find anything more truly beautiful than western Massachusetts, with its Berkshire hills and grand old towns, Stockbridge, Lee and Lenox. Our map was on a small scale, and the distance from Pittsfield to the Hudson River looked very short, so we ordered good care for our horse, and took the six o’clock train one morning for Hudson, where we met the boat for New York. The day was perfect, and our enjoyment complete. We reached the city at dusk, and next thought to surprise a friend, twenty miles out, in New Jersey, where we received a joyous welcome. The next day we devoted to New York, returning by night boat to Hudson, and before nine o’clock the following morning, after forty miles by rail again, we resumed our driving from Pittsfield, delighted with our side trip of nearly four hundred miles, but oh! so glad to be in our cosy phaeton once more. The homeward route was full of interesting details, which we must leave.

Centennial year came next, and we made our shortest trip, driving only one hundred and fifty miles in New Hampshire in early autumn.

The tramp terror increased at home and abroad, and when summer came again our “guardians” looked so anxious, we said nothing, and went camping instead of driving. A party of twelve, on the shores of Lake Wachusett, with royal accommodations in the number and size of tents and hammocks and three boats at a private landing, diverted us at the time. But, as the season waned, we pined, and before October was gone we were permitted to revolve around the “Hub” for two weeks, supposed to be quite safe, while so near the centre of civilization. It was like a June day when we sat on the rocks at Nahant, and like November when dreariest, as we drove around Marblehead Neck, and watched the ocean so dark and angry; while the chill winds pierced our thickest wraps only a few days later. We shall not soon forget our drive from Cambridge to Hingham in the severest northeast storm of the season, or our delight on the rocks at Nantasket, after this three-days’ storm cleared, and we felt the dashing spray. Our “Hub” journey was none the less interesting for being familiar, and we did not omit the attractions of Wellesley on our way home.