14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

As soon as we reached Plymouth we went to the post office, eager for our letters. The deaf old gentleman was at his post, and we asked for letters and papers. He glanced up and down something, we do not know what, then indifferently said, “There are none.” Usually there is nothing more to be said; but not so in our case, for we were too sure there ought to be letters, if there were not, to submit to such a disappointment without protest. Perhaps he had not understood the names. We spoke a little louder, and asked if he would please look once more. He looked from top to bottom of something again, and with no apology or the least change of countenance, handed out a letter. This encouraged us, and we resolved not to leave until we got at least one more. “Now,” we said very pleasantly, “haven’t you another hidden away up there, somewhere?” He looked over a list of names and shook his head. We told him our mails were of great importance to us as we were traveling and could not hear from home often, and we were sure our friends had not forgotten us, and there must be one more somewhere. His patience held out, for the reason, perhaps, that ours did, and he looked up and down that mysterious place once more and the letter was forthcoming! The one or two witnesses to our conversation showed manifest amusement, but there was no apparent chagrin on the part of the obliging postmaster. We thought of the scripture text about “importunity,” and went to the carriage to read our letters which had barely escaped the dead-letter office. We were amused when we read that a package had been mailed with one of the letters, and went to the postmaster with this information. He declared there was no package, and knowing that packages are frequently delayed a mail, we did not insist on having one, but requested it forwarded to Weirs.

The annual question, “Shall we go to Weirs?” had been decided several days before; and we now set forth on the zigzag drive which we cannot make twice alike, and which always gives us the feeling of being on the road to nowhere. The day was bright, and we did not need ginger cookies to keep us warm, as we did the last time we took this drive, but there was no less discussion as to whether we ought to go, and whether the last turn was wrong or right. We always feel as if we had got home and our journey was ended, when we get to Weirs. As usual, many familiar faces greeted us, and it was particularly pleasant, for until we got there we had not seen a face we knew since the day after we left home. Even our minister was there to preach to us, as if we were stray sheep and had been sent for. Lake Winnipiseogee was never more beautiful, but looked upon with sadness because of the bright young man who had given his life to it, and whose body it refused to give up. Although we always feel our journey at an end, there is really one hundred miles of delightful driving left us, and Monday morning, after the adjournment of the grove meeting, we ordered our horse, and while waiting walked to the station to have a few last words with our friends who were going by rail and boat.

Directly we leave Weirs we go up a long hill, and are rewarded by a very fine view of the lake and surrounding mountains. We drove into a pasture to gain the highest point, saw all there was to be seen, then down the familiar road to Lake Village and Laconia. At a point where the road divided, two bright girls were reclining in the shade, and we asked them the way to Tilton; one answered, “The right, I think,” and in the same breath said, “We don’t know. Are you from Smith’s? We are staying at ——’s, but we thought you might be staying at Smith’s, and we want to know if that is any nicer than our place.” Their bright faces interested us, and we encouraged their acquaintance by telling them we were not staying anywhere, but traveling through the country. This was sufficient to fully arouse their curiosity, and a flood of questions and exclamations were showered upon us. “Just you two? Oh, how nice! That’s just what I like about you New England ladies; now, we could not do that in Washington. Do you drive more than ten miles a day? Is it expensive? Where do you stay nights? Do you sketch? Why don’t you give an illustrated account of your journey for some magazine? Oh! how I wish I could sketch you just as you are, so I could show you to our friends when we go back to Washington!” and so on until we bade them good morning.

We crossed a very long bridge, and afterwards learned that it was to be closed the next day and taken down, being unsafe. We found a man at a little village store who would give Charlie his dinner. We declined going into the house, and took our books under the trees just across the way. A shower came up, and as we ran for shelter, we saw our carriage unprotected; no man was to be seen, so we drew it into an open shed, and there stayed until the sun shone again.

We went through Franklin and Boscawen to Fisherville, where we saw a pleasant-looking hotel. We had driven twenty-six miles, and thought best to stop there. We were hungry and our supper was fit for a king. We went to bed in Fisherville, but got up in Contoocook, we were told. What’s in a name? A five-miles’ drive after breakfast brought us to Concord, where we passed several hours very delightfully with friends. In the afternoon, despite remonstrances and threatening showers, we started for Goffstown over Dunbarton hills. We remembered that drive very well; but the peculiar cloud phases made all new, and disclosed the Green Mountains in the sunlight beyond the clouds like a vision of the heavenly city. We left the carriage once, ran to the top of a knoll and mounted a stone wall. The view was enchanting, but in the midst of our rapture great drops of rain began to fall, and we were back in our carriage, the boot up and waterproofs unstrapped just in time for a brisk shower. As we passed an aged native, radiant in brass buttons, we asked him some questions about the mountains, but he knew nothing of them, which reminded us of the reply a woman made whom a friend asked if those distant peaks were the White Mountains. “I don’t know; I haven’t seen nothin’ of ’em since I’ve been here.”

Shower followed shower, and we decided to spend the night in Dunbarton. A few houses, a church, a little common, and a hotel labeled “Printing Office,” seemed to comprise the town, but there must be something more somewhere, judging from The Snowflake given us, which was the brightest local paper we ever saw, and our landlord was editor. We went through his printing establishment with much interest. We saw no hotel register, but as we were leaving, the landlady came with a slip of paper and a pencil, and asked us to write our names. After our return home we received copies of The Snowflake containing an item, every statement of which was actually correct, and yet we were entirely unconscious of having been “interviewed” as to our travels.

It is said thirty-seven towns can be seen from Dunbarton; and our own Wachusett, Ascutney in Vermont and Moosilauke in New Hampshire were easily distinguished. We fortified ourselves with the fresh air and pleasant memories of the heights; then asked directions for Shirley Hill and the “Devil’s Pulpit,” in Bedford, near Goffstown, having replenished our lunch basket, and Charlie’s also, for there was no provision for Christian travelers near that sanctuary.

Shirley Hill commands a very pretty view of Manchester; and of the “Pulpit” some one has said, “That of all wild, weird spots consecrated to his majesty, perhaps none offer bolder outlines for the pencil of a Dore than this rocky chasm, the ‘Devil’s Pulpit’. No famous locality among the White Mountains offers a sight so original, grand and impressive as this rocky shrine.” And then the writer describes in detail the stone pulpit, the devil’s chamber, the rickety stairs, the bottomless wells, the huge wash-basin and a punch bowl, lined with soft green moss, and the separate apartments with rocky, grotesque walls and carpets of twisting and writhing roots of trees. An enterprising farmer has cut a rough road to this wonderful spot, a half-mile from the highway, and by paying twenty-five cents toll we were admitted “beyond the gates” and saw no living person until our return. The same enterprise that built the road had left its mark at the “Pulpit.” Cribs for horses were placed between trees, and a large crib in the shape of a rough house, with tables and benches, served as a dining-room for visitors. Every stick and stone was labeled with as much care and precision as the bottles in a drug store, and there was no doubt which was the “Devil’s Pulpit” and which the “Lovers’ Retreat.” It was a fearfully hot place, but that did not surprise us, for we naturally expect heat and discomfort in the precincts of his majesty. We unharnessed Charlie, and after exploring the gorge thoroughly and emptying our lunch basket, we sat in the carriage and read until we were so nearly dissolved by the heat that we feared losing our identity, and made preparations to leave. It was an assurance that we had returned to this world when the gate keeper directed us to Milford and said we would go by the house where Horace Greeley was born. He pointed out the house and we thought we saw it; but as we did not agree afterward, we simply say we have passed the birthplace of Horace Greeley.

It was nearly dark when we got to Milford, and we rather dreaded the night at that old hotel, where we had been twice before. The exterior was as unattractive as ever, but we were happily surprised to find wonderful transformation going on inside, and we recognized in the new proprietor one of the little boys we used to play with in our early school days. We were very hospitably received and entertained, and the tempting viands, so well served in the new, cheery dining-room, were worthy of any first-class hotel. Our horse was well groomed, carriage shining like new, and the only return permitted—hearty thanks.

“There is no place like home,” and yet it is with a little regret that we start on our last day’s drive. A never-ending carriage journey might become wearisome, but we have never had one long enough to satisfy us yet. As we drove through Brookline and crossed the invisible State line to Townsend, then to Fitchburg and Leominster, we summed up all the good things of our three week’s wanderings and concluded nothing was lacking. Perfect health, fine weather and three hundred and fifty miles’ driving among the hills! What more could we ask? Oh! we forgot Charlie’s days of affliction! But experiences add to the interest when all is over.