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.
Early in the following July, the New Hampshire tramp law having come to our rescue, we once more turned our faces toward the ever beautiful Lake Winnipiseogee. We renewed our acquaintance with the Canterbury Shakers, and as we always avail ourselves of whatever is new or interesting in our path, stopped over for a day at Weirs Landing to witness the inauguration of the Unitarian grove meetings. After the opening of this feast of reason we were of one mind, and without delay provided good board and care for our horse for a week, and settled down to three and four services a day. After the accomplishment of this feat we visited points of interest about Centre Harbor. In accordance with our usual good fortune we had a perfectly clear day on Red Hill, and appreciated all Starr King has written of its charms. The day spent at Ossipee Falls and Cascades gave us unbounded pleasure. We reveled in the rough walking and climbing, and after exploring above and below the falls, we were all ready to enjoy the lunch our hostess had prepared for our party, which we spread on a huge rock in the narrow gap. Our horse rested while we climbed, and the ten miles return drive to Centre Harbor required our utmost skill. On the following day we drove to Concord, N. H., a distance of forty miles. After spending a few days with friends in this charming place, we drove on, passing a night at the Mountain House, Monadnock, to refresh the memories of our first visit there, and breathing the pure air of Petersham, Barre and Princeton as we journeyed towards our own beautiful Leominster.
After these seven years’ wanderings, we were considered virtually members of the great “Order of Tramps,” and from that time to the present we have had full and free consent “to go to our own company”; and when we boldly proposed crossing the Green Mountains to pay a visit to friends near Lake Champlain, all agreed it would be a delightful thing for us to do. We closely followed the familiar railroad route through Keene, Bellows Falls and Rutland; it was a glorious drive all the way. At one time we seemed buried in the mountains without any way of escape, but we had only to follow our winding road, which after many twistings and turnings brought us to Ludlow. The next night we were safely over the mountains, and soon were with our friends.
Our week in the cosy town of Benson, surrounded by high hills, must be left to your imagination. We will only tell you of a visit to Lake George. A party of fifty, we started at six o’clock one morning, in all sorts of vehicles. Four miles’ jolting up and down steep hills took us to Benson Landing, Lake Champlain, and in course of time (a dozen people in a heavy two-horse wagon, and two other vehicles on a scow, towed by two men in a row-boat, is by no means rapid transit,) the several detachments of our party were safely landed on the opposite side. And then, what a ride! We never dreamed that the narrow strip of land between Lake Champlain and Lake George, only four miles across, could give us so much pleasure. At first we held our breath, but soon learned that the driver and horses were quite at home, and gave our fears to the winds as they galloped up hills almost perpendicular only to trot down again to the sound of the grating brakes, the wheels going over great rocks on one side one minute and down in a deep rut on the other side the next. We many times congratulated ourselves that we joined the party in the big wagon, instead of driving our good Charlie, as first planned. The steepest pitch of all brought us at last to the shore of the beautiful Lake George, at a point about ten miles south of Ticonderoga, where the boat was to meet us by special arrangement.
Only those who have experienced it can realize what we enjoyed on that bright day, as we glided over the mirror-like waters, enraptured with the loveliness surrounding us.
After a few hours’ rest at Fort William Henry, we were ready for the return sail. As we landed, our driver stood by his horses, eager for a start; a few of us expressed our willingness to walk for a while, possibly remembering the last fearful pitches in that rough road, as well as the beautiful cardinal flowers and ferns we desired to gather. After a walk and run of nearly two miles, the driver summoned us to the wagon, just before we reached the pitch we most dreaded and were hastening to avoid. We obeyed, and now galloped on until we reached Lake Champlain again, and took breath while we slowly ferried across in the gathering twilight. Our remaining four miles was a glorious moonlight drive. As we entered the village it seemed impossible that we had been away only since morning, for we had seen and enjoyed so much.
The next day we turned our thoughts homeward. Not wishing to return by the same route, we ventured into New York State, and after two or three days reached Saratoga Springs. All frequenters of this resort can easily imagine our routine there—the drive to the lake at the approved time, etc. The roving spirit so possessed us that we left the scene of gayety without regret, and on we went over the hills to take a look at Bennington on our way to North Adams. We drove over Hoosac Mountain, but have yet to see its charms; the mist concealed everything but our horse. We waited two hours at a farmhouse near the summit for fair weather, but in vain. As we started in despair the clouds parted for an instant, giving us glimpses into the valley, then united and came down upon us in a deluging rain. Our dripping horse carefully picked his way down the steep mountain, and when we reached the level road the water was nearly a foot in depth for some distance. We splashed along quite happy, for this was not half so aggravating as the fitful mist of the morning, which every moment promised to clear away. The rest of our journey was pleasant, but uneventful.