On we drove, leaving the beautiful bay, and winding along Penobscot River, through Searsport, Stockton, Frankfort and Winterport, but saw no place that tempted us to stop, except a little summer house in a grove, where we rested at noon. We took note of a singular advertisement over a watering-trough; “An Open Secret, that —— sells Furniture, Burial Caskets, and Shrouds at Lowest Prices.”
Hampden was next and last. Unless we found a place there we must go to Bangor. The last part of the drive was very lovely, and we began to wonder what Hampden had in store for us. The main street, with most of the houses facing the river, was very pleasant for a mile before we came to a forlorn-looking old building with a faded sign, “Hampden House,” over the door. We passed by, hoping to find a more attractive place, but no—that was the only hotel in Hampden. We recalled our delightful experiences in hotels with dilapidated exterior, both in Canada and the States, and retraced our way to the Hampden House, though with some misgivings we confess. A very pleasant woman met us at the door, which is always a good omen, and sent her little girl to call her father to take the horse. He came leisurely along from the stable, and when we asked him if we and our horse could be cared for, he answered, “I don’t know any reason why you can’t.” To our question, “will all these things be safe in the phaeton?” he as dryly answered, “This carriage may be stolen tonight—never has been one taken.” His words were few, but his manner was reassuring, and we already felt at home.
The floor looked old, and the stairs were well worn, but when we and our bags were deposited in the upper front room, we looked about and exclaimed, “This is just one of our places for a Sunday rest!”—rag mats, high bed where you are sure to sink low in feathers, and a purely country outlook. We had the dining-room all to ourselves, and as our hostess served our supper, she told us how they had come there recently for her husband’s health, and taken this old house, which had so run down that no one would stop there. They were intending to fix it up, but had been delayed by sickness, etc., but she told her husband she could keep it clean. She was called away, for the ice cream patrons began to come; and we went out for a twilight stroll on the river bank, which was very high, and gave us a fine view. We next went westward to see the sun set, and a proposition was made to go into the Saturday-night prayer meeting in a little church we passed, but it was not unanimously received, and we returned to our room and books.
The night was as peaceful as Fourth of July at Ferry Beach, and we opened our eyes on a bright Sunday morning, refreshed. Our memory was awake too, and we were sure Hampden, Maine, was one of the places friends used to visit. We asked our hostess some questions, but she knew little of the people. Later in the morning she came to our room and said there was an old sea captain down stairs who knew everybody who ever lived in Hampden. We went down into the little parlor and had a very pleasant hour with him. He told us various stories of Hannibal Hamlin, who had so recently gone, and all about the families we were interested in,—where they were from, had lived, married and died. He told us of one old lady still living, whose house we passed as we came into town.
We went back to our room, and were next interested in watching the coming together of the men in Sunday attire, to hold a “service” on the steps of the grocery store opposite the hotel. It seemed to be a general conference meeting, and the sentiments were wafted upward on the curling smoke from cigar and pipe.
Dinner came next in order. Our hostess apologized for its simplicity, owing to our coming late Saturday night, but fortunately we do not spend overmuch thought on “the table,” and after the ceremony is over it matters little to us. The unexpected ice cream gave a nice finishing touch to our repast that day.
The afternoon passed all too quickly with our books and letter writing, and the Hampdenites began to assemble for evening service. Men only attended, and one by one they came until there were fifteen in a row on the grocery steps. Presently a humpbacked man appeared, dragging Jerry along, looking meekness itself, to the town pump. Suddenly Jerry gave a spring, which greatly surprised the old man, and called forth sallies from the grocery steps, which led us to think they had not advanced to universal brotherhood. Directly attention was withdrawn from the poor old man by the remark, “He’s from Boston,” referring to Jerry, and immediately rapt attention was given to our friend the sea captain, who looked like a genial presiding elder with his broad hat, white collar and linen duster. Evidently he was entertaining them with some of our driving exploits which had interested him in the morning. Finally one impatient voice broke in with “Well, how did they happen to light on Hampden?”
At this point we walked out of the hotel in face of the whole “congregation,” for it was getting late for us to go in search of the “old lady,” whom we really wished to meet. We sauntered along down the pretty country road for nearly a mile before we came to the house that answered the description given us. A young woman came to the door, and told us Mrs. —— had gone “down the road.” When we told her who we were, and that we came because we knew her friends, she said we must come in and wait while they sent for her. We were shown into the little parlor, and the hour of waiting passed more than pleasantly as one after another of the household came in to chat with us. Presently it was announced that grandma had come, and would be in soon.
We were entirely unprepared for the overwhelming reception she gave us, all because we knew her friends, for she had never heard even our names. The sea captain had spoken of her as an old lady, and to be sure her hair was white as snow, but all thought of years vanished when she entered the room with the grace and vivacity of youth, her white fluffy hair like a crown of glory, and the old-fashioned crescent which fastened the soft black handkerchief about her neck, flashing in rainbow tints,—and came towards us with open arms. How the time and our tongues did fly! She told us how she celebrated her seventy-sixth birthday, but was she not mistaken? Had our eyes been shut, we should have declared her sixteen, and when we finally said we must go, she seized the lantern her son brought to guide us through the chairs and hammocks in the front yard, and refusing any wraps, or even her son’s hat, she put her arms around us and insisted upon escorting us up the road. On we went for a full half-mile, and then walked back and forth, girl fashion, for she would not let us go back with her, until we had parted so many times she had at last exclaimed, “Well, we shall get tired kissing each other,” and with another parting and promise to write to her, we watched her as she turned down the dark, lonely country road with her lantern at ten o’clock at night. What a charming time we did have! And if we should tell you whose “Aunt Sarah” that was, every reader of the Transcript would know; but we are not going to say another word about it, except that she had the promised letter. We like to keep just a few things to ourselves.
Have we told you we were on the way to Bar Harbor? Hampden has put everything out of our minds. We could have crossed the river lower down, but thought we might as well see Bangor when we were so near, and then take the main road straight down to the island, a distance of about sixty miles. We took a last look at Hampden, and after a brisk drive of six miles reached Bangor, where we got our mails, filled our lunch basket, drove about the city a little, and then were off full of anticipation, for we had been told repeatedly that the drive from Bangor to Bar Harbor was “magnificent.”