14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

As we sat at the breakfast table the morning we were to leave, a lady at our right casually addressed us, and when she learned we were driving for pleasure enthusiastically exclaimed, “Oh! you must visit Hollis, a deserted village on the Saco.” She fascinated us with her description of that quiet nook she had chosen for a summer resting place, and the charmed circle of friends there, and offered us her rooms which she had left for a few days, if we would spend a night there, at the same time wishing we might meet all her friends and assuring us of a kindly reception. We thought this the climax of Maine hospitality. Only a moment before we were entire strangers, except that we recognized the face of our friend as one well known in the literary circles of Boston. We referred to our map, and found Hollis directly in our course, but unfortunately, only about half the distance we had proposed driving that day. We promised, however, to take dinner there, if possible.

We rarely spend more than one night in a place, and as we packed ourselves into our phaeton once more it seemed like starting on a fresh journey. Old Orchard has its charms; still we rejoiced as we left the scorching sand. The drive of seventeen miles to Hollis seemed short, and it was only eleven o’clock when we introduced ourselves to our new friends, and so very friendly were they that after an hour’s chat in the parlor and a pleasant dinner company we were loth to leave, and stated the rest of our friend’s proposition to the lady of the house, whereupon we were taken to the promised apartments, and at once made to feel at home. The heat was hardly less intense than on the beach, and we passed the afternoon pleasantly indoors. Supper was served early, as one of the ladies proposed a walk to the charm of Hollis, the Saco River. Only a few rods from the house we entered the woods and followed the little path up and down, picking our way carefully over the swampy places, occasionally losing balance as we stepped on a loose stone, until we reached the favorite spot by a great rock overhanging the river bank. Our ears were deafened and voices silenced by the mighty roaring of the waters as they angrily surged through the narrow gorge. As far back as we could see there was nothing but the foaming white and the high wet rocks on either side. We gave ourselves up to the roar and turmoil, and thought the stirring life and restless activity of this bit of the Saco was worth the whole Atlantic Ocean. It was growing dark in the woods, and we had to take a last look and retrace our steps while we could see the path. A wish was expressed by our lady escort that we might meet a delightful company of friends a mile or two from the village whom we felt we knew already, through our friend at the beach, who had also mentioned this as a part of the pleasant programme she planned for us. Our phaeton was soon at the door, and we exchanged our rubbers for wraps and were off in the moonlight, assured it was perfectly safe all about there, night or day. Of course our friend knew all the pretty roundabout ways, and we had a lovely drive. The pleasant call we shall never forget, and as we drove back, the “short cut” across the pastures was pointed out as a favorite summer-evening walk. We did not sleep that night until we had written our friend, thanking her for all we had enjoyed through her kindness. But for her we should probably have driven through Hollis with no recollection save one glimpse of the Saco.

Directly after breakfast next morning we bade our friends good-by, promising to report to them from Weirs which of the various routes suggested we took. There is no direct way, for it is literally across country, and we felt as if we were leaving everybody and had nothing but a wilderness between us and Lake Winnipiseogee. The morning drive was hot and very uninteresting, no ocean or mountains, river or hills, nothing but sandy roads and dry pastures.

We inquired the “best way” to Wolfeboro every time we saw anybody to inquire of, and as we refreshed ourselves with sardines by the wayside, wondered where Charlie was to get his dinner. We asked at a grocery store when we got to Newfield, and were told that a widow near by accommodated travelers. We found her very willing if we could take care of the horse ourselves, for she had no “men folks.”

Despite our fatigue, as necessity compelled, we unharnessed Charlie and gave him some corn—she had no oats. We went into the little sitting-room to wait, but not to rest, for our hostess was very social. After being entertained for an hour and a half, we carried a pail of water to the barn for Charlie, and harnessed him. We asked the amount of our indebtedness, when her ladyship mentioned a sum exceeding what we often pay at first-class hotels, where our horse is well groomed and grained—not by ourselves—blandly remarking at the same time that she “did not believe in high prices.”

Our map is not much help when traveling bias, and we wondered next where we should sleep. It was only a few miles to the little village of West Newfield, and again we went to a grocery store for information. Our many inquiries were very courteously answered, and one or two hotels within a few miles were mentioned. At this point a young man came forward, commenting on the modesty of the storekeeper, whom he said was the hotel proprietor as well, and advised us to stay where we were sure of good care, as we should be no nearer Wolfeboro at either of the places suggested. We were directed to a modest house, one-story front, which we had just passed, where the wife of the gentlemanly storekeeper, hotel proprietor and farmer also, we afterward learned, kindly received us and gave us a cosy front room on the first floor. We soon felt we were in a home, as well as a hotel, and we sat on the front doorstep writing letters till dark, then talked of our friends in Hollis. How long ago it all seemed! And yet we only left there that morning.

There was not a sound to disturb our slumbers that night, and we awoke fresh for our drive of twenty-five miles to Wolfeboro. It was still hot, but the drive was a striking contrast to that of the day previous. We were approaching the rough country which borders Lake Winnipiseogee, and more than once fancied ourselves among the Berkshire hills. We stopped at a farmhouse for a pitcher of milk, and took a little lunch sitting on a stone wall under a large tree. The good old people begged us to go into the house, but we assured them we preferred the wall, and when we returned the pitcher, they had come to the conclusion that it might be pleasant to eat out of doors once in a while. We knew they had watched us through the curtain cracks in the front room.

Every mile now, the country was more and more delightful, so wild and hilly. Up and down we went, getting glimpses of the lake from the top of a high hill, then wending our way into the valley only to go up again. It sometimes seemed as if nothing but a plunge would ever bring us to the lake, but after much twisting and turning, we reached Wolfeboro and drove up to The Pavilion at two o’clock. We left our horse and traveling equipments in charge until called for, and in an hour went on board the Lady of the Lake. Now we felt really at home, but the charms of Lake Winnipiseogee are only increased by familiarity, and we never enjoyed it more. At Weirs Landing a friendly face greeted us, one always present at the Grove meetings. We secured at Hotel Weirs the room we had last year, and then went out in search of friends, and found them from the East, West, North and South. We surprised them all, for they had heard indirectly only the day before that we had started on our journey with usual indefiniteness, except that we were not going to Weirs.

The two or three days we spent there were interspersed with sermons, friendly reunions, rowing, and a trip to Wolfeboro on The Gracie, with a party of twenty. The talented company, the glories of the lake and shore scenery by daylight, the sunset tints, the moon in its full beauty, and the lightning darting through the black clouds in the distant north, with now and then a far-away rumbling of thunder, made a rare combination.

The next day, Saturday, was very bright, and we made sure of one more pleasant sail. The Lady of the Lake landed us at Wolfeboro at four o’clock, and we immediately ordered our horse, and made inquiries about hotels, roads and distances. We learned that hills abounded and that hotels were few and poor, and that Alton Bay was the only place where we would be sure of good accommodations; that the distance was twelve miles, and the road the roughest in the vicinity. We did not care to go to Alton Bay, as we had been there on a previous journey, but it seemed our wisest course. At different times we had driven entirely around the lake, except this twelve miles, and we knew what to expect without the emphatic assurance of the clerk. We started off full of enthusiasm to surmount all difficulties, drew forth the revolver from the bottom of the bag, where it had been stowed away during our stay at Weirs, and amused ourselves by keeping tally of the hills, fifteen by actual count! They were long and high, too, but the fine views fully compensated us, and we knew Charlie was equal to the effort, for we had not forgotten the Canada hills he took us over last year. It was dark when we reached Alton Bay, and we were quite ready to enjoy the comforts that awaited us.