14000 miles, a carriage and two women

by Frances S. Howe

It was a pretty drive over the hills and through the vales to Ellsworth, where we spent the night, and we found a pleasant camping spot at noon. Our Ellsworth proprietor gave us much helpful information about Bar Harbor, and we left, sure that the twenty remaining miles were to surpass anything we had ever seen. It was hot, the first really uncomfortable day since we left home, and it grew hotter as we came nearer the island. The tide was out as we crossed the bridge connecting Mt. Desert with the mainland, and our enthusiasm was so far abated by the general unattractiveness, that we wondered if the name Mt. Desert did not originally mean something. We were still hopeful, however, but hope waned when we were fairly on the island, shut out from every breath of air, in the midst of stubbed evergreens. Be assured the signboard pointing to “The Ovens” did not tempt us from our main course that morning.

“What unappreciative people!” I fancy Bar Harbor enthusiasts exclaiming. But just wait a minute. Remember we are not there yet. Now we round a corner and the scene changes. The beautiful harbor is before us, dotted with yachts gayly decked, and boats of every description. Lovely villas and charming grounds have supplanted the primitive huts and stubbed evergreens. Fine turnouts, bright girls in tennis, yachting and driving costumes, and now and then a real dude, not forgetting the “men of money” and stately dowagers,—all are here, yes, and processions of four-seated buckboards with liveried drivers seeking patronage,—everything in fact that goes to make a fashionable summer resort is found at Bar Harbor. The great charm of all is the grand combination of mountain and ocean.

As our time was limited, we gave the afternoon to a round trip in Frenchman’s Bay, our special object being to touch at Sullivan, where friends declared they looked for us and Jerry every day last summer. We did think about it, and looked it up on the map, but decided it was quite too far for us to drive. Now here we were, but our friends were far away. No wonder they were charmed with their summer at Sullivan.

Really, aside from its own charms the view of Bar Harbor would compensate one. We touched at several points in the bay, changed boats twice, and were delayed an hour just at sunset, which we enjoyed from the upper deck, and thanks to the delay, had a view of Bar Harbor electric-lighted. Our obliging host had a special supper awaiting us, and our day of varied experience ended with a long look at Green Mountain in the starlight from our window.

While we were waiting for Jerry the next morning, the clerk rehearsed enthusiastically the attractions of Bar Harbor, and asked us if we did not think the drive from Ellsworth very fine. He looked aghast when we frankly told him that, with the exception of the last mile or two, it was the least interesting twenty miles of our two weeks’ driving—three hundred and fifty miles. We can readily imagine, however, how delightful it must seem to people who have been pent up in the city, and we do not doubt it would have had more charm for us if it had been a little cooler and the water had been at high tide.

Even the mists, that would not be dispelled, could not dampen our enthusiasm on the famous ocean drive, although we almost despaired of seeing the ocean, and began to think it was like some river drives we have taken, without a river to be seen. When we at last came to the red rocky bluffs, so wonderfully beautiful, and then followed our winding way through a real mountain notch, we were in full sympathy with Bar Harbor enthusiasts.

We must now think of turning homeward. If inclination had been considered, we would give you an account of a glorious return via Moosehead Lake, Dixville Notch and the White Mountains; but our time was limited by other plans, and we had already strayed too far from home to return even as we came. We must test Jerry as a sailor; and it seemed wise to make sure of a pleasant day, and not delay, for a storm was anticipated. The Olivette, a beautiful boat, ran from Bar Harbor direct to Boston, leaving at six in the afternoon, but we could leave at one o’clock on the Lewiston, and have the delightful sail along the coast to Rockland, and then change for the Bangor boat, due in Boston in the morning, at the same time as the Olivette. The Lewiston was said to have better accommodations for horses too, and Jerry is always the majority with us. We packed oats for his supper, and a gay Bar Harbor blanket to insure his comfort, in the phaeton, and the man at the wharf tied up everything securely. We were weighed, because a man said we must be—everybody was weighed before leaving Bar Harbor—then went on board, everything promising a most delightful afternoon.

We were full of anticipation, with map in hand ready to observe every point. Within ten minutes we were in a dense fog, and rolling as if we were in mid-ocean. We could barely discern the rocky bluffs along the ocean drive, which we so longed to see. It was clear in Southwest Harbor, and we had a few views of the island as we touched at several points, for it was bright sunshine on shore; then we sailed into the fog again denser than ever. A row boat came alongside, and we went on to the upper deck to see passengers taken aboard. The wind blew furiously, and the deck was deserted with the exception of a bridal couple, whom we had seen three times before,—meeting them as we went to Belfast, and again driving off the island as we drove on. They were on the wharf at one of the places we touched at Frenchman’s Bay, and here they were again, having retraced their steps, the bridegroom told us, to take the sail along the coast once more, because his wife enjoyed it so much. The fog, however, was no respecter of persons, and, brides or not brides, we were all doomed to the same fate; an afternoon sail with nothing to be seen but ourselves, and a rolling and tossing that called forth ominous prophecies from pessimistic passengers. We are glad we indulged to the utmost in optimistic hopes, for that was all there was bright about it.

At Rockland we changed boats, and gladly, feeling that somehow the change of boats would change the atmosphere and still the restless waters. When our bags and wraps were deposited in our stateroom, we went down to see Jerry. Any misgivings we had indulged in as to his state of mind were dispelled when we went towards him with the oats. He was all right surely.

We went out on deck, but how the wind did blow! And the rolling, creaking and groaning increased as we went out to sea. More than once it seemed as if the boat fell from our feet, and left us standing amid air. One by one the passengers disappeared, and among the last stragglers, we took refuge in our stateroom. There was no inclination for preliminaries. We threw our hats on the upper berth, and camped down for the night’s entertainment. The pessimists had the satisfaction of being true prophets, but we still believe in optimism.