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Two Thousand Miles on an Automobile

by Arthur Jerome Eddy · English · Gutenberg #12380 · 467,779 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Two Thousand Miles on an Automobile

Author: Arthur Jerome Eddy


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #12380]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12380

Credits: Produced by Holly Ingraham


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO THOUSAND MILES ON AN AUTOMOBILE ***

TWO THOUSAND MILES ON AN AUTOMOBILE

BEING A DESULTORY NARRATIVE OF
A TRIP THROUGH NEW ENGLAND,
NEW YORK, CANADA, AND
THE WEST

BY
"CHAUFFEUR"


1902


WITH EIGHTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
FRANK VERBECK

__________

To L. O. E.

Who for more than sixteen hundred miles
of the journey faced dangers and discomforts
with an equanimity worthy a better
cause, and whose company lightened the
burdens and enhanced the pleasure of the
"Chauffeur"

-----------

CONTENTS

CHAPTER
I.-----Some Preliminary Observations
II.----The Machine Used
III.---The Start
IV.----Into Ohio
V.-----On to Buffalo
VI.----Buffalo
VII.---Buffalo to Canandaigua
VIII.--The Morgan Mystery
IX.----Through Western New York
X.-----The Mohawk Valley
XI.----The Valley of Lebanon
XII.---An Incident of Travel
XIII.--Through Massachusetts
XIV.---Lexington and Concord
XV.----Rhode Island and Connecticut
XVI.---Anarchism
XVII.--New York to Buffalo
XVIII.-Through Canada Home

----------

FOREWORD
------------------------------------------------------------------


To disarm criticism at the outset, the writer acknowledges a
thousand imperfections in this discursive story. In all truth, it
is a most garrulous and incoherent narrative. Like the automobile,
part of the time the narrative moves, part of the time it does
not; now it is in the road pursuing a straight course; then again
it is in the ditch, or far afield, quite beyond control and out of
reason. It is impossible to write coolly, calmly, logically, and
coherently about the automobile; it is not a cool, calm, logical,
or coherent beast, the exact reverse being true.

The critic who has never driven a machine is not qualified to
speak concerning the things contained herein, while the critic who
has will speak with the charity and chastened humility which
spring from adversity.

The charm of automobiling lies less in the sport itself than in
the unusual contact with people and things, hence any description
of a tour would be incomplete without reflections by the way; the
imagination once in will not out; it even seeks to usurp the
humbler function of observation. However, the arrangement of
chapters and headings--like finger-posts or danger signs--is such
that the wary reader may avoid the bad places and go through from
cover to cover, choosing his own route. To facilitate the finding
of what few morsels of practical value the book may contain, an
index has been prepared which will enable the casual reader to
select his pages with discrimination.

These confessions and warnings are printed in this conspicuous
manner so that the uncertain seeker after "something to read" may
see at a glance the poor sort of entertainment offered herein, and
replace the book upon the shelf without buying.




CHAPTER ONE SOME PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS
THE MADDING CROWD

Any woman can drive an electric automobile, any man can drive a
steam, but neither man nor woman can drive a gasoline; it follows
its own odorous will, and goes or goes not as it feels disposed.

For this very wilfulness the gasoline motor is the most
fascinating machine of all. It possesses the subtle attraction of
caprice; it constantly offers something to overcome; as in golf,
you start out each time to beat your own record. The machine is
your tricky and resourceful opponent. When you think it conquered
and well-broken to harness, submissive and resigned to your will,
behold it is as obstinate as a mule,--balks, kicks, snorts, puffs,
blows, or, what is worse, refuses to kick, snort, puff, and blow,
but stands in stubborn silence, an obdurate beast which no amount
of coaxing, cajoling, cranking will start.

One of the beauties of the beast is its strict impartiality. It
shows no more deference to maker than to owner; it moves no more
quickly for expert mechanic than for amateur driver. When it
balks, it balks,--inventor, manufacturer, mechanic, stand puzzled;
suddenly it starts,--they are equally puzzled.

Who has not seen inventors of these capricious motors standing by
the roadside scratching their heads in despair, utterly at a loss
to know why the stubborn thing does not go? Who has not seen
skilled mechanics in blue jeans and unskilled amateurs in jeans of
leather, so to speak, flat on their backs under the vehicle,
peering upward into the intricacies of the mechanism, trying to
find the cause,--the obscure, the hidden source of all their
trouble? And then the probing with wires, the tugs with wrenches,
the wrestling with screw-drivers, the many trials,--for the most
part futile,--the subdued language of the bunkers, and at length,
when least expected, a start, and the machine goes off as if
nothing at all had been the matter. It is then the skilled driver
looks wise and does not betray his surprise to the gaping crowd,
just looks as if the start were the anticipated result of his
well-directed efforts instead of a chance hit amidst blind
gropings.

One cannot but sympathize with the vanity of the French chauffeur
who stops his machine in the midst of a crowd when it is working
perfectly, makes a few idle passes with wrenches and oil-cans,
pulls a lever and is off, all for the pleasure of hearing the
populace remark, "He understands his machine. He is a good one."
While the poor fellow, who really is in trouble, sweats and groans
and all but swears as he works in vain to find what is the matter,
to the delight of the onlookers who laugh at what seems to them
ignorance and lack of skill.

And why should not these things be? Is not the crowd multitude
always with us--or against us? There is no spot so dreary, no
country so waste, no highway so far removed from the habitations
and haunts of man that a crowd of gaping people will not spring up
when an automobile stops for repairs. Choose a plain, the broad
expanse of which is unbroken by a sign of man; a wood, the depths
of which baffle the eye and tangle the foot; let your automobile
stop for so long as sixty seconds, and the populace begin to
gather, with the small boy in the van; like birds of prey they
perch upon all parts of the machine, choosing by quick intuition
those parts most susceptible to injury from weight and contact,
until you scarcely can move and do the things you have to do.

The curiosity of the small boy is the forerunner of knowledge, and
must be satisfied. It is quite idle to tell him to "Keep away!" it
is worse than useless to lose your temper and order him to "Clear
out!" it is a physical impossibility for him to do either; the law
of his being requires him to remain where he is and to
indefatigably get in the way. If he did not pry into everything
and ask a thousand questions, the thoughtful observer would be
fearful lest he were an idiot. The American small boy is not
idiotic; tested by his curiosity concerning automobiles, he is the
fruition of the centuries, the genius the world is awaiting, the
coming ruler of men and empires, or--who knows?--the coming master
of the automobile.

Happily, curiosity is not confined to the small boy; it is but
partially suppressed in his elders,--and that is lucky, for his
elders, and their horses, can often help.

The young chauffeur is panicky if he comes to a stop on a lonely
road, where no human habitation is visible; he fears he may never
get away, that no help will come; that he must abandon his machine
and walk miles for assistance. The old chauffeur knows better. It
matters not to him how lonely the road, how remote the spot, one
or two plaintive blasts of the horn and, like mushrooms, human
beings begin to spring up; whence they come is a mystery to you;
why they come equally a mystery to them, but come they will, and
to help they are willing, to the harnessing of horses and the
dragging of the heavy machine to such place as you desire.

This willingness, not to say eagerness, on the part of the farmer,
the truckman, the liveryman, in short, the owner of horses, to
help out a machine he despises, which frightens his horses and
causes him no end of trouble, is an interesting trait of human
nature; a veritable heaping of coals of fire. So long as the
machine is careering along in the full tide of glory, clearing and
monopolizing the highway, the horse owner wishes it in Hades; but
let the machine get into trouble, and the same horse owner will
pull up out of the ditch into which he has been driven, hitch his
horses to the cause of his scare, haul it to his stable, and make
room by turning his Sunday carryall into the lane, and four
farmers, three truckmen, and two liverymen out of five will refuse
all offers of payment for their trouble.

But how galling to the pride of the automobilist to see a pair of
horses patiently pulling his machine along the highway, and how he
fights against such an unnatural ending of a day's run.

The real chauffeur, the man who knows his machine, who can run it,
who is something more than a puller of levers and a twister of
wheels, will not seek or permit the aid of horse or any other
power, except where the trouble is such that no human ingenuity
can repair on the road.

It is seldom the difficulty is such that repairs cannot be made on
the spot. The novice looks on in despair, the experienced driver
considers a moment, makes use of the tools and few things he has
with him, and goes on.

It is astonishing how much can be done with few tools and
practically no supplies. A packing blows out; if you have no
asbestos, brown paper, or even newspaper saturated with oil, will
do for the time being; if a wheel has to be taken off, a
fence-rail makes an excellent jack; if a chain is to be riveted,
an axe or even a stone makes a good dolly-bar and your wrench an
excellent riveting hammer; if screws, or nuts, or bolts drop off,
--and they do,--and you have no extra, a glance at the machine is
sure to disclose duplicates that can be removed temporarily to the
more essential places.

Then, too, no one has ever exhausted the limitless resources of a
farmer's wagon-shed. In it you find the accumulations of
generations, bits of every conceivable thing,--all rusty, of
course, and seemingly worthless, but sure to serve your purpose on
a pinch, and so accessible, never locked; just go in and help
yourself. Nowadays farmers use and abuse so much complicated
machinery, that it is more than likely one could construct entire
an automobile from the odds and ends of a half-dozen farm-yards.

All boys and most girls--under twelve--say, "Gimme a ride;" some
boys and a few girls--over twelve--say, "You look lonesome,
mister." What the hoodlums of the cities say will hardly bear
repetition. In spite of its swiftness the automobile offers
opportunities for studying human nature appreciated only by the
driver.

The city hoodlum is a most aggressive individual; he is not
invariably in tattered clothes, and is by no means confined to the
alleys and side streets. The hoodlum element is a constituent part
of human nature, present in every one; the classification of the
individual depending simply upon the depth at which the turbulent
element is buried, upon the number and thickness of the overlying
strata of civilization and refinement. In the recognized hoodlum
the obnoxious element is quite at the surface; in the best of us
it is only too apt to break forth,--no man can be considered an
absolutely extinct volcano.

One can readily understand why owners and drivers of horses should
feel and even exhibit a marked aversion towards the automobile,
since, from their stand-point, it is an unmitigated nuisance; but
why the hoodlums who stand about the street corners should be
animated by a seemingly irresistible desire to hurl stones and
brickbats--as well as epithets--at passing automobiles is a
mystery worth solving; it presents an interesting problem in
psychology. What is the mental process occasioned by the sudden
appearance of an automobile, and which results in the hurling of
the first missile which comes to hand? It must be a reversion to
savage instincts, the instinct of the chase; something strange
comes quickly into view; it makes a strange noise, emits, perhaps,
a strange odor, is passing quickly and about to escape; it must be
killed, hence the brickbat. Uncontrollable impulse! poor hoodlum,
he cannot help it; if he could restrain the hand and stay the
brickbat he would not be a hoodlum, but a man. Time and custom
have tamed him so that he lets horses, bicycles, and carriages
pass; he can't quite help slinging a stone at an advertising van
or any strange vehicle, while the automobile is altogether too
much.

That it is the machine which rouses his savage instincts is clear
from the fact that rarely is anything thrown at the occupants.
Complete satisfaction is found in hitting the thing itself; no
doubt regret would be felt if any one were injured, but if the
stone resounds upon the iron frame of the moving devil, the
satisfaction is felt that the best of us might experience from
hitting the scaly sides of a slumbering sea-monster, for hit him
we would, though at immediate risk of perdition.

The American hoodlum has, withal, his good points. If you are not
in trouble, he will revile and stone you; if in trouble, he will
commiserate and assist. He is quick to put his shoulder to the
wheel and push, pull or lift; often with mechanical insight
superior to the unfortunate driver he will discern the difficulty
and suggest the remedy; dirt has no terrors for him, oil is his
delight, grease the goal of his desires; mind you, all this
concerns the American hoodlum or the hoodlum of indefinite or of
Irish extraction; it applies not to the Teutonic or other hoodlum.
He will pass you by with phlegmatic indifference, he will not
throw things at you, neither will he help you unless strongly
appealed to, and then not over-zealously or over-intelligently;
his application is short-lived and he hurries on; but the other
hoodlum will stay with you all night if necessary, finding, no
doubt, the automobile a pleasant diversion from a bed on the
grass.

But the dissension a quarter will cause! A battle royal was once
produced by a dollar. They had all assisted, but, like the workers
in the vineyard, some had come early and some late. The
automobile, in trying to turn on a narrow road, had dropped off
the side into low wet ground; the early comers could not quite get
it back, but with the aid of the later it was done; the division
of a dollar left behind raised the old, old problem. Unhappily, it
fell into the hands of a late comer for distribution, and it was
his contention that the final lift did the work, that all previous
effort was so much wasted energy; the early comers contended that
the reward should be in proportion to expenditure of time and
muscle and not measured by actual achievement,--a discussion not
without force on both sides, but cut short by a scrimmage
involving far more force than the discussion. All of which goes to
show the disturbing influence of money, for in all truth those who
had assisted did not expect any reward; they first laughed to see
the machine in the ditch, and then turned to like tigers to get it
out.

This whole question of paying for services in connection with
automobiling is as interesting as it is new. The people are not
adjusted to the strange vehicle. A man with a white elephant could
probably travel from New York to San Francisco without disbursing
a penny for the keeping of his animal. Farmers and even liverymen
would keep and feed it on the way without charge. It is a good
deal so with an automobile; it is still sufficiently a curiosity
to command respect and attention. The farmer is glad to have it
stop in front of his door or put up in his shed; he will supply it
with oil and water. The blacksmith would rather have it stop at
his shop for repair than at his rival's,--it gives him a little
notoriety, something to talk about. So it is with the liveryman at
night; he is, as a rule, only too glad to have the novelty under
his roof, and takes pride in showing it to the visiting townsfolk.
They do not know what to charge, and therefore charge nothing. It
is often with difficulty anything can be forced upon them; they
are quite averse to accepting gratuities; meanwhile, the farmer,
whose horse and cart have taken up far less room and caused far
less trouble, pays the fixed charge.

These conditions prevail only in localities where automobiles are
seen infrequently. Along the highways where they travel frequently
all is quite changed; many a stable will not house them at any
price, and those that will, charge goodly sums for the service.

It is one thing to own an automobile, another thing to operate it.
It is one thing to sit imposingly at the steering-wheel until
something goes wrong, and quite another thing to repair and go on.

There are chauffeurs and chauffeurs,--the latter wear the
paraphernalia and are photographed, while the former are working
under the machines. You can tell the difference by the goggles.
The sham chauffeur sits in front and turns the wheel, the real
sits behind and takes things as they come; the former wears the
goggles, the latter finds sufficient protection in the smut on the
end of his nose.

There is every excuse for relying helplessly on an expert mechanic
if you have no mechanical ingenuity, or are averse to getting
dirty and grimy; but that is not automobiling; it is being run
about in a huge perambulator.

The real chauffeur knows every moment by the sound and "feel" of
his machine exactly what it is doing, the amount of gasoline it is
taking, whether the lubrication is perfect, the character and heat
of the spark, the condition of almost every screw, nut, and bolt,
and he runs his machine accordingly; at the first indication of
anything wrong he stops and takes the stitch in time that saves
ninety and nine later. The sham chauffeur sits at the wheel, and
in the security of ignorance runs gayly along until his machine is
a wreck; he may have hours, days, or even weeks of blind
enjoyment, but the end is inevitable, and the repairs costly; then
he blames every one but himself,--blames the maker for not making
a machine that may be operated by inexperience forever, blames the
men in his stable for what reason he knows not, blames the roads,
the country, everything and everybody--but himself.

It is amusing to hear the sham chauffeur talk. When things go
well, he does it; when they go wrong, it is the fault of some one
else; if he makes a successful run, the mechanic with him is a
nonentity; if he breaks down, the mechanic is his only resource.
It is more interesting to hear the mechanic--the real chauffeur
--talk when he is flat on his back making good the mistakes of his
master, but his conversation could not be printed _verbatim et
literatim_,--it is explosive and without a muffler.

The man who cannot run his machine a thousand miles without expert
assistance should make no pretense to being a chauffeur, for he is
not one. The chauffeur may use mechanics whenever he can find
them; but if he can't find them, he gets along just as well; and
when he does use them it is not for information and advice, but to
do just the things he wants done and no more. The skilled
enthusiast would not think of letting even an expert from the
factory do anything to his machine, unless he stood over him and
watched every movement; as soon would a lover of horses permit his
hostlers to dope his favorite mount.




CHAPTER TWO THE MACHINE USED
MAKING READY TO START

The machine was just an ordinary twelve hundred dollar
single-cylinder American machine, with neither improvements nor
attachments to especially strengthen it for a long tour; and it
had seen constant service since January without any return to the
shop for repairs.

It was rated eight and one-half horse-power; but, as every one
knows, American machines are overrated as a rule, while foreign
machines are greatly underrated. A twelve horse-power American
machine may mean not more than eight or ten; a twelve horse-power
French machine, with its four cylinders, means not less than
sixteen.

The foreign manufacturer appreciates the advantage of having it
said that his eight horse-power machine will run faster and climb
better than the eight horsepower machine of a rival maker; hence
the tendency to increase the power without changing the nominal
rating. The American manufacturer caters to the demand of his
customers for machines of high power by advancing the nominal
rating quite beyond the power actually developed.

But already things are changing here, and makers show a
disposition to rate their machines low, for the sake of
astonishing in performance. A man dislikes to admit his machine is
rated at forty horse-power and to acknowledge defeat by a machine
rated at twenty, when the truth is that each machine is probably
about thirty.

The tendency at the present moment is decidedly towards the French
type,--two or four cylinders placed in front.

In the construction of racing-cars and high-speed machines for
such roads as they have on the other side, we have much to learn
from the French,--and we have been slow in learning it. The
conceit of the American mechanic amounts often to blind
stubbornness, but the ease with which the foreign machines have
passed the American in all races on smooth roads has opened the
eyes of our builders; the danger just now is that they will go to
the other extreme and copy too blindly.

In the hands of experts, the foreign racing-cars are the most
perfect road locomotives yet devised; for touring over American
roads in the hands of the amateur they are worse than useless; and
even experts have great difficulty in running week in and week out
without serious breaks and delays. To use a slang phrase, "They
will not stand the racket." However "stunning" they look on
asphalt and macadam with their low, rakish bodies, resplendent in
red and polished brass, on country roads they are very frequently
failures. A thirty horse-power foreign machine costing ten or
twelve thousand dollars, accompanied by one or more expert
mechanics, may make a brilliant showing for a week or so; but when
the time is up, the ordinary, cheap, country-looking, American
automobile will be found a close second at the finish; not that it
is a finer piece of machinery, for it is not; but it has been
developed under the adverse conditions prevailing in this country
and is built to surmount them. The maker in this country who runs
his machine one hundred miles from his factory, would find fewer
difficulties between Paris and Berlin.

The temptation is great to purchase a foreign machine on sight;
resist the temptation until you have ridden in it over a hundred
miles of sandy, clayey, and hilly American roads; you may then
defer the purchase indefinitely, unless you expect to carry along
a man.

Machine for machine, regardless of price, the comparison is
debatable; but price for price, there is no comparison whatsoever;
in fact, there is no inexpensive imported machine which compares
for a moment with the American product.

A single-cylinder motor possesses a few great advantages to
compensate for many disadvantages; it has fewer parts to get out
of order, and troubles can be much more quickly located and
overcome. Two, three, and four cylinders run with less vibration
and are better in every way, except that with every cylinder added
the chances of troubles are multiplied, and the difficulty of
locating them increased. Each cylinder must have its own
lubrication, its ignition, intake, and exhaust mechanisms,--the
quartette that is responsible for nine-tenths of the stops.

Beyond eight or ten horse-power the single cylinder is hardly
practicable. The kick from the explosion is too violent, the
vibration and strain too great, and power is lost in transmission.
But up to eight or ten horse-power the single-cylinder motor with
a heavy fly-wheel is practicable, runs very smoothly at high
speeds, mounts hills and ploughs mud quite successfully. The
American ten horse-power single-cylinder motor will go faster and
farther on our roads than most foreign double-cylinder machines of
the same horse-power. It will last longer and require less
repairs.

The amateur who is not a pretty good mechanic and who wishes to
tour without the assistance of an expert will do well to use the
single-cylinder motor; he will have trouble enough with that
without seeking further complications by the adoption of multiple
cylinders.

It is quite practicable to attain speeds of from twenty to thirty
miles per hour with a single-cylinder motor, but for bad roads and
hilly countries a low gear with a maximum of twenty to twenty-five
miles per hour is better. The average for the day will be higher
because better speed is maintained through heavy roads and on up
grades.

So far as resiliency is concerned, there is no comparison between
the French double-tube tire and the heavy American single tube,
--the former is far ahead, and is, of course, easily repaired on the
road, but it does not seem to stand the severe wear of American
roads, and it is very easily punctured. Our highways both in and
out of cities are filled with things that cut, and bristle with
wire-nails. The heavy American single-tube tire holds out quite
well; it gets many deep cuts and takes nails like a pin-cushion,
but comparatively few go through. The weight of the tire makes it
rather hard riding, very hard, indeed, as compared with a fine
Michelin.

There are many devices for carrying luggage, but for getting a
good deal into a small compass there is nothing equal to a big
Scotch hold-all. It is waterproof to begin with, and holds more
than a small steamer-trunk. It can be strapped in or under the
machine anywhere. Trunks and hat-boxes may remain with the express
companies, always within a few hours' call.

What to wear is something of a problem. In late autumn and winter
fur is absolutely essential to comfort. Even at fifteen or twenty
miles an hour the wind is penetrating and goes through everything
but the closest of fur. For women, fur or leather-lined coats are
comfortable even when the weather seems still quite warm.

Leather coats are a great protection against both cold and dust.
Unhappily, most people who have no machines of their own, when
invited to ride, have nothing fit to wear; they dress too thinly,
wear hats that blow off, and they altogether are, and look, quite
unhappy--to the great discomfort of those with them. It is not a
bad plan to have available one or two good warm coats for the
benefit of guests, and always carry water-proof coats and
lap-covers. In emergency, thin black oil-cloth, purchasable at
any country store, makes a good water-proof covering.

Whoever is running a machine must be prepared for  emergencies,
for at any moment it may be necessary to get underneath.

The man who is going to master his own machine must expect to get
dirty; dust, oil, and grime plentifully distributed,--but dirt is
picturesque, even if objectionable. Character is expressed in
dirt; the bright and shining school-boy face is devoid of
interest, an artificial product, quite unnatural; the smutty
street urchin is an actor on life's stage, every daub, spot, and
line an essential part of his make-up.

The spic and span may go well with a coach and four, but not with
the automobile. Imagine an engineer driving his locomotive in blue
coat, yellow waistcoat, and ruffles,--quite as appropriate as a
fastidious dress on the automobile.

People are not yet quite accustomed to the grime of automobiling;
they tolerate the dust of the golf links, the dirt of base-ball
and cricket, the mud of foot-ball, and would ridicule the man who
failed to dress appropriately for those games, but the mechanic's
blouse or leather coat of automobiling, the gloves saturated with
oil--these are comparatively unfamiliar sights; hence men are seen
starting off for a hard run in ducks and serges, sacks, cutaways,
even frocks, and hats of all styles; give a farmer a silk hat and
patent leather boots to wear while threshing, and he would match
them.

Every sport has its own appropriate costume, and the costume is
not the result of arbitrary choice, but of natural selection; if
we hunt, fish, or play any outdoor game, sooner or later we find
ourselves dressing like our associates. The tenderfoot may put on
his cowboy's suit a little too soon and look and be very
uncomfortable, but the costume is essential to success in the long
run.

The Russian cap so commonly seen is an affectation,--it catches
the wind and is far from comfortable. The best head covering is a
closely fitting Scotch cap.




CHAPTER THREE  THE START
"IS THIS ROAD TO--"

The trip was not premeditated--it was not of malice aforethought;
it was the outcome of an idle suggestion made one hot summer
afternoon, and decided upon in the moment. Within the same
half-hour a telegram was sent the Professor inviting him for a ride
to Buffalo. Beyond that point there was no thought,--merely a
nebulous notion that might take form if everything went well.

Hampered by no announcements, with no record to make or break, the
trip was for pleasure,--a mid-summer jaunt. We did intend to make
the run to Buffalo as fast as roads would permit,--but for
exhilaration only, and not with any thought of making a record
that would stand against record-making machines, driven by
record-breaking men.

It is much better to start for nowhere and get there than to start
for somewhere and fall by the wayside. Just keep going, and the
machine will carry you beyond your expectations.

The Professor knew nothing about machinery and less about an
automobile, but where ignorance is bliss it is double-distilled
folly to know anything about the eccentricities of an automobile.

To enjoy automobiling, one must know either all or nothing about
the machine,--a little knowledge is a dangerous thing; on the part
of the guest it leads to all sorts of apprehensions, on the part
of the chauffeur to all sorts of experiments. About five hundred
miles is the limit of a man's ignorance; he then knows enough to
make trouble; at the end of another five hundred he is of
assistance, at the end of the third he will run the machine
himself--your greatest pleasure is in the first five hundred. With
some precocious individuals these figures may be reduced somewhat.

The Professor adjusted his spectacles and looked at the machine:

"A very wonderful contrivance, and one that requires some skill to
operate. From lack of experience, I cannot hope to be of much
practical assistance at first, but possibly a theoretical
knowledge of the laws and principles governing things mechanical
may be of service in an emergency. Since receiving your telegram,
I have brushed up a little my knowledge of both kinematics and
dynamics, though it is quite apparent that the operation of these
machines, accompanied, as it is said, by many restraints and
perturbations, falls under the latter branch. In view of the
possibility--remote, I trust--of the machine refusing to go, I
have devoted a little time to statics, and therefore feel that I
shall be something more than a supercargo."

"Well, you _are_ equipped, Professor; no doubt your knowledge will
prove useful."

"Knowledge is always useful if people in this busy age would only
pause to make use of it. Mechanics has been defined as the
application of pure mathematics to produce or modify motion in
inferior bodies; what could be more apt? Is it not our intention
to produce or modify motion in this inferior body before us?"

Days after the Professor found the crank a more useful implement
for the inducing of motion.

It was Thursday morning, August 1, at exactly seven o'clock, that
we passed south on Michigan Avenue towards South Chicago and
Hammond. A glorious morning, neither hot nor cold, but just
deliciously cool, with some promise--afterwards more than
fulfilled--of a warm day.

The hour was early, policemen few, streets clear, hence fast speed
could be made.

As we passed Zion Temple, near Twelfth Street, the home of the
Dowieites, the Professor said:

"A very remarkable man, that Dowie."

"A fraud and an impostor," I retorted, reflecting current opinion.
"Possibly; but we all impose more or less upon one another; he has
simply made a business of his imposition. Did you ever meet him?"

"No; it's hardly worth while."

"It is worth while to meet any man who influences or controls a
considerable body of his fellow-men. The difference between
Mohammed and Joseph Smith is of degree rather than kind. Dowie is
down towards the small end of the scale, but he is none the less
there, and differs in kind from your average citizen in his power
to influence and control others. I crossed the lake with him one
night and spent the evening in conversation."

"What are your impressions of the man?"

"A shrewd, hard-headed, dogmatic Scotchman,--who neither smokes
nor drinks."

"Who calls himself Elijah come to earth again."

"I had the temerity to ask him concerning his pretensions in that
direction, and he said, substantially, 'I make no claims or
assertions, but the Bible says Elijah will return to earth; it
does not say in what form or how he will manifest himself; he
might choose your personality; he might choose mine; he has not
chosen yours, there are some evidences that he has chosen mine."

"Proof most conclusive."

"It satisfies his followers. After all, perhaps it does not matter
so much what we believe as how we believe."

A few moments later we were passing the new Christian Science
Temple on Drexel Boulevard,--a building quite simple and
delightful, barring some garish lamps in front.

"There is another latter-day sect," said the Professor; "one of
the phenomena of the nineteenth century."

"You would not class them with the Dowieites?"

"By no means, but an interesting part of a large whole which
embraces at one extreme the Dowieites. The connecting link is
faith. But the very architecture of the temple we have just passed
illustrates the vast interval that separates the two."

"Then you judge a sect by its buildings?"

"Every faith has its own architecture. The temple at Karnak and
the tabernacle at Salt Lake City are petrifactions of faith. In
time the places of worship are the only tangible remains--witness
Stonehenge."

Chicago boasts the things she has not and slights the things she
has; she talks of everything but the lake and her broad and almost
endless boulevards, yet these are her chief glories.

For miles and miles and miles one can travel boulevards upon which
no traffic teams are allowed. From Fort Sheridan, twenty-five
miles north, to far below Jackson Park to the south there is an
unbroken stretch. Some day Sheridan Road will extend to Milwaukee,
ninety miles from Chicago.

One may reach Jackson Park, the old World's Fair site, by three
fine boulevards,--Michigan, broad and straight; Drexel, with its
double driveways and banks of flowers, trees, and shrubbery
between; Grand, with its three driveways, and so wide one cannot
recognize an acquaintance on the far side, cannot even see the
policeman frantically motioning to slow down.

 It does not matter which route is taken to the Park, the good
roads end there. We missed our way, and went eighteen miles to
Hammond, over miles of poor pavement and unfinished roads. That
was a pull which tried nerves and temper,--to find at the end
there was another route which involved but a short distance of
poor going. It is all being improved, and soon there will be a
good road to Hammond.

Through Indiana from Hammond to Hobart the road is macadamized and
in perfect condition; we reached Hobart at half-past nine; no stop
was made. At Crocker two pails of water were added to the cooling
tank.

At Porter the road was lost for a second time,--exasperating. At
Chesterton four gallons of gasoline were taken and a quick run
made to Burdick.

The roads are now not so good,--not bad, but just good country
roads, some stretches of gravel, but generally clay, with some
sand here and there. The country is rolling, but no steep hills.

Up to this time the machine had required no attention, but just
beyond Otis, while stopping to inquire the way, we discovered a
rusty round nail embedded to the head in the right rear tire. The
tire showed no signs of deflation, but on drawing the nail the air
followed, showing a puncture. As the nail was scarcely
three-quarters of an inch long,--not long enough to go clear through
and injure the inner coating on the opposite side,--it was entirely
practical to reinsert and run until it worked out. A very fair
temporary repair might have been made by first dipping the nail in a
tire cement, but the nail was rusty and stuck very well.

An hour later, at La Porte, the nail was still doing good service
and no leak could be detected. We wired back to Chicago to have an
extra tire sent on ahead.

From Chicago to La Porte, by way of Hobart, the roads are
excellent, excepting always the few miles near South Chicago. Keep
to the south--even as far south as Valparaiso--rather than to the
north, near the lake. The roads are hilly and sandy near the lake.

Beware the so-called road map; it is a snare and a delusion. A
road which seems most seductive on the bicycler's road map may be
a sea of sand or a veritable quagmire, but with a fine bicycle
path at the side. As you get farther east these cinder paths are
protected by law, with heavy fines for driving thereon; it
requires no little restraint to plough miles and miles through
bottomless mud on a narrow road in the Mohawk valley with a superb
three-foot cinder path against your very wheels. The machine of
its own accord will climb up now and then; it requires all the
vigilance of a law-abiding driver to keep it in the mud, where it
is so unwilling to travel.

So far as finding and keeping the road is concerned,--and it is a
matter of great concern in this vast country, where roads,
cross-roads, forks, and all sorts of snares and delusions abound
without sign-boards to point the way,--the following directions may
be given once for all:

If the proposed route is covered by any automobile hand-book or
any automobile publication, get it, carry it with you and be
guided by it; all advice of ancient inhabitants to the contrary
notwithstanding.

If there is no publication covering the route, take pains to get
from local automobile sources information about the several
possible routes to the principal towns which you wish to make.

If you can get no information at all from automobile sources, you
can make use--with great caution--of bicycle road maps, of the
maps rather than the redlined routes.

About the safest course is to spread out the map and run a
straight line between the principal points on the proposed route,
note the larger villages, towns, and cities near the line so
drawn, make a list of them in the order they come from the
starting-point, and simply inquire at each of these points for the
best road to the next.

If the list includes places of fair size,--say, from one to ten or
twenty thousand inhabitants, it is reasonably certain that the
roads connecting such places will be about as good as there are in
the vicinity; now and then a better road may be missed, but, in
the long run, that does not matter much, and the advantage of
keeping quite close to the straight line tells in the way of
mileage.

It is usually worse than useless to inquire in any place about the
roads beyond a radius of fifteen or twenty miles; plenty of
answers to all questions will be forthcoming, but they simply
mislead. In these days of railroads, farmers no longer make long
overland drives.

It is much easier to get information in small villages than in
cities. In a city about all one can learn is how to get out by the
shortest cut. Once out, the first farmer will give information
about the roads beyond.

In wet weather the last question will be, "Is the road clayey or
bottomless anywhere?" In dry weather, "Is there any deep, soft
sand, and are there any sand hills?"

The judgment of a man who is looking at the machine while he is
giving information is biased by the impressions as to what the
machine can do; make allowances for this and get, if possible, an
accurate description of the condition of any road which is
pronounced impassable, for you alone know what the machine can do,
and many a road others think you cannot cover is made with ease.

To the farmer the automobile is a traction engine, and he advises
the route accordingly; he will even speculate whether a given
bridge will support the extraordinary load.

Once we were directed to go miles out of our way over a series of
hills to avoid a stretch of road freshly covered with broken
stone, because our solicitous friends were sure the stones would
cut the rubber tires.

On the other hand, in Michigan, a well meaning old lady sent us
straight against the very worst of sand hills, not a weed, stone,
or hard spot on it, so like quicksand that the wheels sank as they
revolved; it was the only hill from which we retreated, to find
that farmers avoided that particular road on account of that
notorious hill, to find also a good, well-travelled road one mile
farther around. These instances are mentioned here to show how
hazardous it is to accept blindly directions given.

"Is this the road to--?" is the chauffeur's ever recurring shout
to people as he whizzes by. Four times out of five he gets a blank
stare or an idiotic smile. Now and then he receives a quick "Yes"
or "No."

If time permits to stop and discuss the matter at length, do so
with a man; if passing quickly, ask a woman.

A woman will reply before a man comprehends what is asked; the
feminine mind is so much more alert than the masculine; then, too,
a woman would rather know what a man is saying than watch a
machine, while a man would rather see the machine than listen;--in
many ways the automobile differentiates the sexes.

Of a group of school children, the girls will answer more quickly
and accurately than the boys. What they know, they seem to know
positively. A boy's wits go wool gathering; he is watching the
wheels go round.

At Carlyle, on the way to South Bend, the tire was leaking
slightly, the nail had worked out. The road is a fine wide
macadam, somewhat rolling as South Bend is approached.

By the road taken South Bend is about one hundred miles from
Chicago,--the distance actually covered was some six or eight
miles farther, on account of wanderings from the straight and
narrow path. The hour was exactly two fifty-three, nearly eight
hours out, an average of about twelve and one-half miles an hour,
including all stops, and stops count in automobiling; they pull
the average down by jumps.

The extra tire was to be at Elkhart, farther on, and the problem
was to make the old one hold until that point would be reached.
Just as we were about to insert a plug to take the place of the
nail, a bicycle repairer suggested rubber bands. A dozen small
bands were passed through the little fork made by the broken eye
of a large darning-needle, stretched tight over a wooden handle
into which the needle had been inserted; some tire cement was
injected into the puncture, and the needle carrying the stretched
bands deftly thrust clear through; on withdrawing the needle the
bands remained, plugging the hole so effectually that it showed no
leak until some weeks later, when near Boston, the air began to
work slowly through the fabric.

Heavy and clumsy as are the large single-tube tires, it is quite
practicable to carry an extra one, though we did not. One is
pretty sure to have punctures,--though two in twenty-six hundred
miles are not many.

Nearly an hour was spent at South Bend; the river road, following
the trolley line, was taken to Elkhart.

Near Osceola a bridge was down for repairs; the stream was quite
wide and swift but not very deep. From the broken bridge the
bottom seemed to be sand and gravel, and the approaches on each
side were not too steep. There was nothing to do but go through or
lose many miles in going round. Putting on all power we went
through with no difficulty whatsoever, the water at the deepest
being about eighteen to twenty inches, somewhat over the hubs. If
the bottom of the little stream had been soft and sticky, or
filled with boulders, fording would have been out of the question.
Before attempting a stream, one must make sure of the bottom; the
depth is of less importance.

We did not run into Elkhart, but passed about two miles south in
sight of the town, arriving at Goshen at four fifteen. The roads
all through here seem to be excellent. From Goshen our route was
through Benton and Ligonier, arriving at Kendallville at exactly
eight o'clock.

The Professor with painstaking accuracy kept a log of the run,
noting every stop and the time lost.

In this first day's run of thirteen hours, the distance covered by
route taken was one hundred and seventy miles; deducting all
stops, the actual running time was nine hours and twenty minutes,
an average of eighteen miles per hour while the machine was in
motion.

For an ordinary road machine this is a high average over so long a
stretch, but the weather was perfect and the machine working like
a clock. The roads were very good on the whole, and, while the
country was rolling, the grades were not so steep as to compel the
use of the slow gear to any great extent.

The machine was geared rather high for any but favorable
conditions, and could make thirty-five miles an hour on level
macadam, and race down grade at an even higher rate. Before
reaching Buffalo we found the gearing too high for some grades and
for deep sand.

On the whole, the roads of Northern Indiana are good, better than
the roads of any adjoining State, and we were told the roads of
the entire State are very good. The system of improvement under
State laws seems to be quite advanced. It is a little galling to
the people of Illinois, Michigan, and Ohio to find the humble
Hoosier is far ahead in the matter of road building. If all the
roads between Chicago and New York averaged as good as those of
Indiana, the trip would present fewer difficulties and many more
delights.

The Professor notes that up to this point nine and three-quarters
gallons of gasoline have been consumed,--seventeen miles to the
gallon. When a motor is working perfectly, the consumption of
gasoline is always a pretty fair indication of the character of
the roads. Our machine was supposed to make twenty miles to the
gallon, and so it would on level roads, with the spark well
advanced and the intake valve operating to a nicety; but under
adverse conditions more gasoline is used, and with the
hill-climbing gear four times the gasoline is used per mile.

The long run of this first day was most encouraging; but the test
is not the first day, nor the second, nor even the first week, nor
the second, but the steady pull of week in and week out.

With every mile there is a theoretical decrease in the life and
total efficiency of the machine; after a run of five hundred or a
thousand miles this decrease is very perceptible. The trouble is
that while the distance covered increases in arithmetical
progression, the deterioration of the machine is in geometrical.
During the first few days a good machine requires comparatively
little attention each day; during the last weeks of a long tour it
requires double the attention and ten times the work.

No one who has not tried it can appreciate the great strain and
the wear and tear incidental to long rides on American roads.
Going at twenty or twenty-five miles an hour in a machine with
thirty-two-inch wheels and short wheel-base gives about the same
exercise one gets on a horse; one is lifted from the seat and
thrown from side to side, until you learn to ride the machine as
you would a trotter and take the bumps, accordingly. It is trying
to the nerves and the temper, it exercises every muscle in the
body, and at night one is ready for a good rest.

Lovers of the horse frequently say that automobiling is to
coaching as steam yachting is to sailing,--all of which argues the
densest ignorance concerning automobiling, since there is no sport
which affords anything like the same measure of exhilaration and
danger, and requires anything like the same amount of nerve, dash,
and daring. Since the days of Roman chariot racing the records of
man describe nothing that parallels automobile racing, and, so far
as we have any knowledge, chariot racing, save for the plaudits of
vast throngs of spectators, was tame and uneventful compared with
the frightful pace of sixty and eighty miles an hour in a
throbbing, bounding, careering road locomotive, over roads
practically unknown, passing persons, teams, vehicles, cattle,
obstacles, and obstructions of all kinds, with a thousand
hair-breadth escapes from wreck and destruction.

The sport may not be pretty and graceful; it lacks the sanction of
convention, the halo of tradition. It does not admit of smart
gowns and gay trappings; it is the last product of a mechanical
age, the triumph of mechanical ingenuity, the harnessing of
mechanical forces for pleasure instead of profit,--the automobile
is the mechanical horse, and, while not as graceful, is infinitely
more powerful, capricious, and dangerous than the ancient beast.




CHAPTER THREE THE START
THE RAILROAD SPIKE

A five o'clock call, though quite in accordance with orders, was
received with some resentment and responded to reluctantly, the
Professor remarking that it seemed but fair to give the slow-going
sun a reasonable start as against the automobile.

About fifty minutes were given to a thorough examination of the
machine. Beyond the tightening of perhaps six or eight nuts there
was nothing to do, everything was in good shape. But there is
hardly a screw or nut on a new automobile that will not require
tightening after a little hard usage; this is quite in the nature
of things, and not a fault. It is only under work that every part
of the machine settles into place. It is of vital importance
during the first few days of a long tour to go over every screw,
nut, and bolt, however firm and tight they may appear.

In time many of the screws and nuts will rust and corrode in place
so as to require no more attention, but all that are subjected to
great vibration will work loose, soon or late. The addition of one
or two extra nuts, if there is room, helps somewhat; but where it
is practical, rivet or upset the bolt with a few blows of the
hammer; or with a punch, cold chisel, or even screw-driver jam the
threads near the nut,--these destructive measures to be adopted
only at points where it is rarely necessary to remove the bolts,
and where possibilities of trouble from loosening are greater than
any trouble that may be caused by destroying the threads.

We left Kendallville at ten minutes past seven; a light rain was
falling which laid the dust for the first two miles. With top,
side curtains, and boot we were perfectly dry, but the air was
uncomfortably cool.

At Butler, an hour and a half later, the rain was coming down
hard, and the roads were beginning to be slippery, with about two
inches of mud and water.

We caught up with an old top buggy, curtains all on and down, a
crate of ducks behind, the horse slowly jogging along at about
three miles per hour. We wished to pass, but at each squawk of the
horn the old lady inside simply put her hand through under the
rear curtain and felt to see what was the matter with her ducks.
We were obliged to shout to attract her attention.

In the country the horn is not so good for attracting attention as
a loud gong. The horn is mistaken for dinner-horns and distant
sounds of farmyard life. One may travel for some distance behind a
wagon-load of people, trying to attract their attention with
blasts on the horn, and see them casually look from side to side
to see whence the sound proceeds, apparently without suspecting it
could come from the highway.

The gong, however, is a well-known means of warning, used by
police and fire departments and by trolley lines, and it works
well in the country.

For some miles the Professor had been drawing things about him,
and as he buttoned a newspaper under his coat remarked, "The
modern newspaper is admirably designed to keep people warm--both
inside and out. Under circumstances such as these one can
understand why it is sometimes referred to as a 'blanket sheet.'
The morning is almost cold enough for a 'yellow journal,'" and the
Professor wandered on into an abstract dissertation upon
journalism generally, winding up with the remark that, "It was the
support of the yellow press which defeated Bryan;" but then the
Professor is neither a politician nor the son of a politician
--being a Scotchman, and therefore a philosopher and dogmatist. The
pessimistic vein in his remarks was checked by the purchase of a
reversible waterproof shooting-jacket at Butler, several sizes too
large, but warm; and the Professor remarked, as he gathered its
folds about him, "I was never much of a shot, but with this I
think I'll make a hit."

"Strange how the thickness of a garment alters our views of things
in general," I remarked.

"My dear fellow, philosophy is primarily a matter of food;
secondarily, a matter of clothes: it does not concern the head at
all."

At Butler we tightened the clutches, as the roads were becoming
heavier.

At Edgerton the skies were clearing, the roads were so much better
that the last three miles into Ridgeville were made in ten
minutes.

At Napoleon some one advised the road through Bowling Green
instead of what is known as the River road; in a moment of
aberration we took the advice. For some miles the road was being
repaired and almost impassable; farther on it seemed to be a
succession of low, yellow sand-hills, which could only be
surmounted by getting out, giving the machine all its power, and
adding our own in the worst places.

Sand--deep, bottomless sand--is the one obstacle an automobile
cannot overcome. It is possible to traverse roads so rough that
the machine is well-nigh wrenched apart; to ride over timbers,
stones, and boulders; plough through mud; but sand--deep, yielding
sand--brings one to a stand-still. A reserve force of twenty or
thirty horse-power will get through most places, but in dry
weather every chauffeur dreads hearing the word sand, and
anxiously inquires concerning the character of the sandy places.

Happily, when the people say the road is "sandy," they usually
mean two or three inches of light soil, or gravelly sand over a
firm foundation of some kind--that is all right; if there is a
firm bottom, it does not matter much how deep the dust on top; the
machine will go at nearly full speed over two or three inches of
soft stuff; but if on cross-examination it is found that by sand
they mean sand, and that ahead is a succession of sand ridges that
are sand from base to summit, with no path, grass, or weeds upon
which a wheel can find footing, then inquire for some way around
and take it; it might be possible to plough through, but that is
demoralizing on a hot day.

Happily, along most sandy roads and up most hills of sand there
are firm spots along one side or the other, patches of weeds or
grass which afford wheel-hold. Usually the surface of the sand is
slightly firmer and the large automobile tires ride on it fairly
well. As a rule, the softest, deepest, and most treacherous places
in sand are the tracks where wagons travel--these are like
quicksand.

The sun was hot, the sand was deep, and we had pushed and tugged
until the silence was ominous; at length the lowering clouds of
wrath broke, and the Professor said things that cannot be
repeated.

By way of apology, he said, afterwards, while shaking the sand out
of his shoes, "It is difficult to preserve the serenity of the
class-room under conditions so very dissimilar. I understand now
why the golf-playing parson swears in a bunker. It is not right,
but it is very human. It is the recrudescence of the old Adam, the
response of humanity to emergency. Education and religion prepare
us for the common-place; nature takes care of the extraordinary.
The Quaker hits back before he thinks. It is so much easier to
repent than prevent. On the score of scarcity alone, an ounce of
prevention is worth several tons of repentance; and--"

It was so apparent that the Professor was losing himself in
abstractions, that I quietly let the clutches slip until the
machine came to a stop, when the Professor looked anxiously down
and said,--

"Is the blamed thing stuck again?"

We turned off the Bowling Green road to the River road, which is
not only better, but more direct from Napoleon to Perrysburg. It
was the road we originally intended to take; it was down on our
itinerary, and in automobiling it is better to stick to first
intentions.

The road follows the bank of the river up hill and down, through
ravines and over creeks; it is hard, hilly, and picturesque; high
speed was quite out of the question.

Not far from Three Rivers we came to a horse tethered among the
trees by the road-side; of course, on hearing and seeing the
automobile and while we were yet some distance away, it broke its
tether and was off on a run up the road, which meant that unless
some one intervened it would fly on ahead for miles. Happily, in
this instance some men caught the animal after it had gone a mile
or two, we, meanwhile, creeping on slowly so as not to frighten it
more. Loose horses in the road make trouble. There is no one to
look after them, and nine times out of ten they will go running
ahead of the machine, like frightened deer, for miles. If the
machine stops, they stop; if it starts, they start; it is
impossible to get by. All one can do is to go on until they turn
into a farmyard or down a cross-road.

The road led into Toledo, but we were told that by turning east at
Perrysburg, some miles southwest of Toledo, we would have fifty
miles or more of the finest road in the world,--the famous Perry's
Pike.

All day long we lived in anticipation of the treat to come; at
each steep hill and when struggling in the sand we mentioned
Perry's Pike as the promised land. When we viewed it, we felt with
Moses that the sight was sufficient.

In its day it must have been one of the wonders of the West, it is
so wide and straight. In the centre is a broad, perfectly flat,
raised strip of half-broken limestone. The reckless sumptuousness
of such a highway in early days must have been overpowering, but
with time and weather this strip of stone has worn into an
infinite number of little ruts and hollows, with stones the size
of cocoanuts sticking up everywhere. A trolley-line along one side
of this central stretch has not improved matters.

Perry's Pike is so bad people will not use it; a road alongside
the fence has been made by travel, and in dry weather this road is
good, barring the pipes which cross it from oil-wells, and the
many stone culverts, at each of which it is necessary to swing up
on to the pike. The turns from the side road on to the pike at
these culverts are pretty sharp, and in swinging up one, while
going at about twenty-five miles an hour, we narrowly escaped
going over the low stone wall into the ditch below. On that and
one other occasion the Professor took a firmer hold of the side of
the machine, but, be it said to the credit of learning, at no time
did he utter an exclamation, or show the slightest sign of losing
his head and jumping--as he afterwards remarked, "What's the use?"

To any one by the roadside the danger of a smash-up seems to come
and pass in an instant,--not so to the person driving the machine;
to him the danger is perceptible a very appreciable length of time
before the critical point is reached.

The secret of good driving lies in this early and complete
appreciation of difficulties and dangers encountered. "Blind
recklessness" is a most expressive phrase; it means all the words
indicate, and is contra-distinguished from open-eyed or wise
recklessness.

The timid man is never reckless, the wise man frequently is, the
fool always; the recklessness of the last is blind; if he gets
through all right he is lucky.

It is reckless to race sixty miles an hour over a highway; but the
man who does it with his eyes wide open, with a perfect
appreciation of all the dangers, is, in reality, less reckless
than the man who blindly runs his machine, hit or miss, along the
road at thirty miles an hour,--the latter leaves havoc in his
train.

One must have a cool, quick, and accurate appreciation of the
margin of safety under all circumstances; it is the utilization of
this entire margin--to the very verge--that yields the largest
results in the way of rapid progress.

Every situation presents its own problem,--a problem largely
mechanical,--a matter of power, speed, and obstructions; the
chauffeur will win out whose perception of the conditions
affecting these several factors is quickest and clearest.

One man will go down a hill, or make a safe turn at a high rate of
speed, where another will land in the ditch, simply because the
former overlooks nothing, while the latter does. It is not so much
a matter of experience as of natural bent and adaptability. Some
men can drive machines with very little experience and no
instructions; others cannot, however long they try and however
much they are told.

Accidents on the road are due to
Defects in the road,
Defects in the machine, or
Defects in the driver.

American roads are bad, but not so bad that they can, with
justice, be held responsible for many of the troubles attributed
to them.

The roads are as they are, a practically constant,--and, for some
time to come,--an unchangeable quantity. The roads are like the
hills and the mountains, obstacles which must be overcome, and
machines must be constructed to overcome them.

Complaints against American roads by American manufacturers of
automobiles are as irrelevant to the issue as would be complaints
on the part of traction-engine builders or wagon makers. Any man
who makes vehicles for a given country must make them to go under
the conditions--good, bad, or indifferent--which prevail in that
country. In building automobiles for America or Australia, the
only pertinent question is, "What are the roads of America or
Australia?" not what ought they to be.

The manufacturer who finds fault with the roads should go out of
the business.

Roads will be improved, but in a country so vast and sparsely
settled as North America, it is not conceivable that within the
next century a net-work of fine roads will cover the land; for
generations to come there will be soft roads, sandy roads, rocky
roads, hilly roads, muddy roads,--and the American automobile must
be so constructed as to cover them as they are.

The manufacturer who waits for good roads everywhere should move
his factory to the village of Falling Waters, and sleep in the
Kaatskills.

Machines which give out on bad roads, simply because the roads are
bad, are faultily constructed.

Defects in roads, to which mishaps may be fairly attributed, are
only those unlooked for conditions which make trouble for all
other vehicles, such as wash-outs, pit-holes, weak culverts,
broken bridges,--in short, conditions which require repairs to
restore the road to normal condition. The normal condition may be
very bad; but whatever it is, the automobile must be constructed
so as to travel thereon, else it is not adapted to that section of
the country.

It may be discouraging to the driver for pleasure to find in rainy
weather almost bottomless muck and mud on portions of the main
travelled highway between New York and Buffalo, but that, for the
present, is normal. The manufacturer may regret the condition and
wish for better, but he cannot be heard to complain, and if the
machine, with reasonably careful driving, gives out, it is the
fault of the maker and not the roads.

It follows, therefore, that few troubles can be rightfully
attributed to defects in the road, since what are commonly called
defects are conditions quite normal to the country.

It was nearly six o'clock when we arrived at Fremont. The streets
were filled with people in gala attire, the militia were out,
--bands playing, fire-crackers going,--a belated Fourth of July.

When we stopped for water, we casually asked a small patriot,--

"What are you celebrating?"

"The second of August," was the prompt reply. I left it to the
Professor to find out what had happened on the second of August,
for the art of teaching is the concealment of ignorance.

With a fine assumption of his very best lecture-room manner, the
Professor leaned carelessly upon the delicate indicator on the
gasoline tank and began:

"That was a great day, my boy."

"Yes, sir, it was."

"And it comes once a year."

"Why, sure."

"Ahem--" in some confusion, "I mean you celebrate once a year."

"Sure, we celebrate every second of August, and it comes every
year."

"Quite right, quite right; always recall with appropriate
exercises the great events in your country's history." The
Professor peered benignly over his glasses at the boy and
continued kindly but firmly:

"Now, my boy, do you go to school?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. Now can you tell me why the people of Fremont
celebrate the second of August?"

"Sure, it is on account of--" then a curious on-looker nudged the
Professor in the ribs and began, as so many had done before,--

"Say, mister, it's none of my business--"

"Exactly," groaned the Professor; "it weighs a ton--two tons
sometimes--more in the sand; it cost twelve hundred dollars, and
will cost more before we are done with it. Yes, I know what you
are about to say, you could buy a 'purty slick' team for that
price,--in fact, a dozen nags such as that one leaning against
you,--but we don't care for horses. My friend here who is spilling
the water all over the machine and the small boy, once owned a
horse, it kicked over the dash-board, missed his mother-in-law and
hit him; horse's intention good, but aim bad,--since then he has
been prejudiced against horses; it goes by gasoline--sometimes;
that is not a boiler, it is the cooler--on hot days we take turns
sitting on it;--explosions,--electric spark,--yes, it is queer;
--man at last stop made same bright remark; no danger from
explosions if you are not too near,--about a block away is safer;
start by turning a crank; yes, that is queer, queerer than the
other queer things; cylinder does get hot, but so do we all at
times; we ought to have water jackets--that is a joke that goes
with the machine; yes, it is very fast, from fifty to seventy
miles per--; 'per what?' you say; well, that depends upon the
roads,--not at all, I assure you, no trouble to anticipate your
inquiries by these answers--it is so seldom one meets any one who
is really interested--you can order a machine by telegraph; any
more information you would like?--No!--then my friend, in return,
will you tell me why you celebrate the second of August?"

"Danged if I know." And we never found out.

At Bellevue we lighted our lamps and ran to Norwalk over a very
fair road, arriving a few minutes after eight. Norwalk liveries
did not like automobiles, so we put the machine under a shed.

This second day's run was about one hundred and fifty miles in
twelve hours and fifty-four minutes gross time; deducting stops,
left nine hours and fifty-four minutes running time--an average of
about fourteen and one-half miles per hour.

Ohio roads are by no means so good as Indiana. Not until we left
Painesville did we find any gravel to speak of. There was not much
deep sand, but roads were dry, dusty, and rough; in many
localities hard clay with deep ruts and holes.

A six o'clock call and a seven o'clock breakfast gave time enough
to inspect the machine.

The water-tank was leaking through a crack in the side, but not so
badly that we could not go on to Cleveland, where repairs could be
made more quickly. A slight pounding which had developed was
finally located in the pinion of a small gear-wheel that operated
the exhaust-valve.

It is sometimes by no means easy to locate a pounding in a
gasoline motor, and yet it must be found and stopped. An expert
from the factory once worked four days trying to locate a very
loud and annoying pounding. He, of course, looked immediately at
the crank- and wrist-pins, taking up what little wear was
perceptible, but the pounding remained; then eccentric strap,
pump, and every bearing about the motor were gone over one by one,
without success; the main shaft was lifted out, fly-wheel drawn
off, a new key made; the wheel drawn on again tight, all with no
effect upon the hard knock which came at each explosion. At last
the guess was made that possibly the piston was a trifle small for
the cylinder; a new and slightly larger piston was put in and the
noise ceased. It so happened that the expert had heard of one
other such case, therefore he made the experiment of trying a
fractionally larger piston as a last resort; imagine the
predicament of the amateur, or the mechanic who had never heard of
such a trouble.

There is, of course, a dull thud at each explosion; this is the
natural "kick" of the engine, and is very perceptible on large
single-cylinder motors; but this dull thud is very different from
the hammer-like knock resulting from lost motion between the
parts, and the practised ear will detect the difference at once.

The best way to find the pounding is to throw a stream of heavy
lubricating oil on the bearings, one by one, until the noise is
silenced for the moment. Even the piston can be reached with a
flood of oil and tested.

It is not easy to tell by feeling whether a bearing on a gasoline
motor is too free. The heat developed is so great that bearings
are left with considerable play.

A leak in the water-tank or coils is annoying; but if facilities
for permanent repair are lacking, a pint of bran or middlings from
any farmer's barn, put in the water, will close the leak nine
times out of ten.

From Norwalk through Wakeman and Kipton to Oberlin the road is
rather poor, with but two or three redeeming stretches near
Kipton. It is mostly clay, and in dry weather is hard and dusty
and rough from much traffic.

Leading into Oberlin the road is covered with great broad
flag-stones, which once upon a time must have presented a smooth
hard surface, but now make a succession of disagreeable bumps.

Out of Elyria we made the mistake of leaving the trolley line, and
for miles had to go through sand, which greatly lessened our
speed, but towards Stony River the road was perfect, and we made
the best time of the day.

It required some time in Cleveland to remove and repair the
water-tank, cut a link out of the chain, take up the lost motion in
the steering-wheel, and tighten up things generally. It was four
o'clock before we were off for Painesville.

Euclid Avenue is well paved in the city, but just outside there is
a bit of old plank road that is disgracefully bad. Through
Wickliff, Willoughby, and Mentor the road is a smooth, hard
gravel.

Arriving at Painesville a few minutes after seven, we took in
gasoline, had supper, and prepared to start for Ashtabula.

It was dark, so we could not see the tires; but just before
starting I gave each a sharp blow with a wrench to see if it was
hard,--a sharp blow, or even a kick, tells the story much better
than feeling of the tires.

One rear tire was entirely deflated. A railroad spike four and
three-quarters inches long, and otherwise well proportioned, had
penetrated full length. It had been picked up along the trolley
line, was probably struck by the front wheel, lifted up on end so
that the rear tire struck the sharp end exactly the right angle to
drive the spike in lengthwise of the tread.

It was a big ragged puncture which could not be repaired on the
road; there was nothing to do but stop over night and have a tire
sent out from Cleveland next day.

While waiting the next morning, we jacked up the wheel and removed
the damaged tire.

It is not easy to remove quickly and put on heavy single-tube
tires, and a few suggestions may not be amiss.

The best tools are half-leaves of carriage springs. At any
carriage shop one can get halves of broken springs. They should be
sixteen or eighteen inches long, and are ready for use without
forging filing or other preparation. With three such halves one
man can take off a tire in fifteen or twenty minutes; two men will
work a little faster; help on the road is never wanting.

Let the wheel rest on the tire with valve down; loosen all the
lugs; insert thin edge of spring-leaf between rim and tire,
breaking the cement and partially freeing tire; insert spring-leaf
farther at a point just about opposite valve and pry tire free
from rim, holding and working it free by pushing in other irons or
screw-drivers, or whatever you have handy; when lugs and tire are
out of the hollow of the rim for a distance of eighteen or twenty
inches, it will be easy to pass the iron underneath the tire,
prying up the tire until it slips over the rim, when with the
hands it can be pulled off entirely; the wheel is then raised and
the valve-stem carefully drawn out.

All this can be done with the wheel jacked up, but if resting on
the tire as suggested, the valve-stem is protected during the
efforts to loosen tire.

To put on a single-tube tire properly, the rim should be
thoroughly cleaned with gasoline, and the new tire put on with
shellac or cement, or with simply the lugs to hold.

Shellac can be obtained at any drug store, is quickly brushed over
both the tire and the rim, and the tire put in place--that holds
very well. Cement well applied is stronger. If the rim is well
covered with old cement, gasoline applied to the surface of the
old cement will soften it; or with a plumber's torch the rim may
be heated without injuring enamel and the cement melted, or take a
cake of cement, soften it in gasoline or melt it, or even light it
like a stick of sealing-wax and apply it to the rim. If hot cement
is used it will be necessary to heat the rim after the tire is on
to make a good job.

After the rim is prepared, insert valve-stem and the lugs near it;
let the wheel down so as to rest on that part of the tire, then
with the iron work the tire into the rim, beginning at each side
of valve. The tire goes into place easily until the top is reached
where the two irons are used to lift tire and lugs over the rim;
once in rim it is often necessary to pound the tire with the flat
of the iron to work the lugs into their places; by striking the
tire in the direction it should go the lugs one by one will slip
into their holes; put on the nuts and the work is done.

In selecting a half-leaf of a spring, choose one the width of the
springs to the machine, and carry along three or four small spring
clips, for it is quite likely a spring may be broken in the course
of a long run, and, if so, the half-leaf can be clipped over the
break, making the broken spring as serviceable and strong for the
time being as if sound.




CHAPTER FIVE ON TO BUFFALO
"GEE WHIZ!!"

From Painesville three roads led east,--the North Ridge, Middle
Ridge, and South Ridge. We followed the middle road, which is said
to be by far the best; it certainly is as good a gravel road as
one could ask. Some miles out a turn is made to the South Ridge
for Ashtabula.

There is said to be a good road out of Ashtabula; possibly there
is, but we missed it at one of the numerous cross roads, and soon
found ourselves wallowing through corn-fields, climbing hills, and
threading valleys in the vain effort to find Girard,--a point
quite out of our way, as we afterwards learned.

The Professor's bump of locality is a depression. As a passenger
without serious occupation, it fell to his lot to inquire the way.
This he would do very minutely, with great suavity and becoming
gravity, and then with no sign of hesitation indicate invariably
the wrong road. Once, after crossing a field where there were no
fences to mark the highway, descending a hill we could not have
mounted, and finding a stream that seemed impassable, the
Professor quietly remarked,--

"That old man must have been mistaken regarding the road; yet he
had lived on that corner forty years. Strange how little some
people know about their surroundings!"

"But are you sure he said the first turn to the left?"

"He said the first turn, but whether to the left or right I cannot
now say. It must have been to the right."

"But, my dear Professor, you said to the left."

"Well, we were going pretty fast when we came to the four corners,
and something had to be said, and said quickly. I notice that on
an automobile decision is more important than accuracy. After
being hauled over the country for three days, I have made up my
mind that automobiles are driven upon the hypothesis that it is
better to lose the road, lose life, lose anything than lose time,
therefore, when you ask me which way to turn, you will get an
immediate, if not an accurate, response; besides, there is a
bridge ahead, a little village across the stream, so the road
leads somewhere."

Now and then the Professor would jump out to assist some female in
distress with her horse; at first it was a matter of gallantry,
then a duty, then a burden. Towards the last it used to delight
him to see people frantically turning into lanes, fields, anywhere
to get out of the way.

The horse is a factor to be considered--and placated. He is in
possession and cannot be forcibly ejected,--a sort of
terre-tenant; such title as he has must be respected.

After wrestling with an unusually notional beast, to the great
disorder of clothing and temper, the Professor said,--

"The brain of the horse is small; it is an animal of little sense
and great timidity, but it knows more than most people who attempt
to drive."

In reality horses are seldom driven; they generally go as they
please, with now and then a hint as to which corner to turn. Nine
times out of ten it is the driven horse that makes trouble for
owners of automobiles. The drunken driver never has any trouble;
his horses do not stop, turn about, or shy into the ditch; the man
asleep on the box is perfectly safe; his horse ambles on, minding
its own business, giving a full half of the road to the
approaching machine. It is the man, who, on catching sight of the
automobile, nervously gathers up his reins, grabs his whip, and
pulls and jerks, who makes his own troubles; he is searching for
trouble, expects it, and is disappointed if he gets by without it.
Nine times out of ten it is the driver who really frightens the
horse. A country plug, jogging quietly along, quite unterrified,
may be roused to unwonted capers by the person behind.

Some take the antics of their horses quite philosophically. One
old farmer, whose wheezy nag tried to climb the fence, called
out,--

"Gee whiz! I wish you fellers would come this way every day; the
old hoss hasn't showed so much ginger for ten year."

Another, carrying just a little more of the wine of the country
than his legs could bear, stood up unsteadily in his wagon and
shouted,--

"If you (hic) come around these pa-arts again with that thres-in'
ma-a-chine, I'll have the law on you,--d'ye hear?"

The personal equation is everything on the road, as elsewhere.

It is quite idle to expect skill, courage, or common sense from
the great majority of drivers. They get along very well so long as
nothing happens, but in emergencies they are helpless, because
they have never had experience in emergencies. The man who has
driven horses all his life is frequently as helpless under unusual
conditions as the novice. Few drivers know when and how to use the
whip to prevent a runaway or a smash-up.

With the exception of professional and a few amateur whips, no one
is ever taught how to drive. Most persons who ride--even country
boys--are given many useful hints, lessons, and demonstrations;
but it seems to be assumed that driving is a natural acquirement.

As a matter of fact, it is much more important to be taught how to
drive than how to ride. A horse in front of a vehicle can do all
the mean things a horse under a saddle can do, and more; and it is
far more difficult to handle an animal in shafts by means of long
reins and a whip.

If people knew half as much about horses as they think they do,
there would be no mishaps; if horses were half as nervous as they
are supposed to be, the accidents would be innumerable.

The truth is, the horse does very well if managed with a little
common sense, skill, and coolness.

As a matter of law, the automobile is a vehicle, and has precisely
the same rights on the highway that a bicycle or a carriage has.
The horse has no monopoly of the highway, it enjoys no especial
privileges, but must share the road with all other vehicles.
Furthermore, the law makes it the business of the horse to get
accustomed to strange sights and behave itself This duty has been
onerous the last few years; the bicycle, the traction engine, and
the trolley have come along in quick succession; the automobile is
about the last straw.

Until the horse is accustomed to the machine, it is the duty--by
law and common sense--of the automobile driver to take great care
in passing; the care being measured by the possibility and
probability of at accident.

The sympathy of every chauffeur must be entirely with the driver
of the horse. Automobiles are not so numerous in this country that
they may be looked for at every turn, and one cannot but feel for
the man or woman who, while driving, sees one coming down the
road. The best of drivers feel panicky, while women and children
are terror-stricken.

It is no uncommon sight to see people jump out of their carriages
or drive into fields or lanes, anywhere, to get out of the way. In
localities where machines have been driven recklessly, men and
women, though dressed in their best, frequently jump out in the
mud as soon as an automobile comes in sight, and long before the
chauffeur has an opportunity to show that he will exercise caution
in approaching. All this is wrong and creates an amount of
ill-feeling hard to overcome.

If one is driving along a fine road at twenty or thirty miles an
hour, it is, of course, a relief to see coming vehicles turn in
somewhere; but it ought not to be necessary for them to do so.
Often people like to turn to one side for the sake of seeing the
machine go by at full speed; but if they do not wish to, the
automobile should be so driven as to pass with safety.

On country roads there is but one way to pass horses without risk,
and that is let the horses pass the machine.

In cities horses give very little trouble; in the country they
give no end of trouble; they are a very great drawback to the
pleasure of automobiling. Horses that behave well in the city are
often the very worst in the country, so susceptible is the animal
to environment.

On narrow country roads three out of five will behave badly, and
unless the outward signs are unmistakable, it is never safe to
assume one is meeting an old plug,--even the plug sometimes jumps
the ditch.

The safe, the prudent, the courteous thing to do is to stop and
let the driver drive or lead his horse by; if a child or woman is
driving, get out and lead the horse.

By stopping the machine most horses can be gotten by without much
trouble. Even though the driver motions to come on, it is seldom
safe to do so; for of all horses the one that is brought to a
stand-still in front of a machine is surest to shy, turn, or bolt
when the machine starts up to pass. If one is going to pass a
horse without stopping, it is safer to do so quickly,--the more
quickly the better; but that is taking great chances.

Whenever a horse, whether driven or hitched, shows fright, a loud,
sharp "Whoa!" from the chauffeur will steady the animal. The voice
from the machine, if sharp and peremptory, is much more effective
than any amount of talking from the carriage.

Much of the prejudice against automobiles is due to the fact that
machines are driven with entire disregard for the feelings and
rights of horse owners; in short, the highway is monopolized to
the exclusion of the public. The prejudice thus created is
manifested in many ways that are disagreeable to the chauffeur and
his friends.

The trouble is not in excessive speed, and speed ordinances will
not remedy the trouble. A machine may be driven as recklessly at
ten or twelve miles an hour as at thirty. In a given distance more
horses can be frightened by a slow machine than a fast. It is all
in the manner of driving.

Speed is a matter of temperament. In England, the people and local
boards cannot adopt measures stringent enough to prevent speeding;
in Ireland, the people and local authorities line the highways,
urging the chauffeur to let his machine out; in America, we are
suspended between English prudence and repression on the one side
and Irish impulsiveness and recklessness on the other.

The Englishman will not budge; the Irishman cries, "Let her go."

Speaking of the future of the automobile, the Professor said,--

"Cupid will never use the automobile, the little god is too
conservative; fancy the dainty sprite with oil-can and waste
instead of bow and arrow. I can see him with smut on the end of
his mischievous nose and grease on the seat of the place where his
trousers ought to be. What a picture he would make in overalls and
jumper, leather jacket and cap; he could not use dart or arrow, at
best he could only run the machine hither and thither bunting
people into love--knocking them senseless, which is perhaps the
same thing. No, no, Cupid will never use the automobile. Imagine
Aphrodite in goggles, clothed in dust, her fair skin red from
sunburn and glistening with cold cream; horrible nightmare of a
mechanical age, avaunt!

"The chariots of High Olympus were never greased, they used no
gasoline, the clouds we see about them are condensed zephyrs and
not dust. Omniscient Jove never used a monkey-wrench, never sought
the elusive spark, never blew up a four-inch tire with a half-inch
pump. Even if the automobile could surmount the grades, it would
never be popular on Olympian heights. Mercury might use it to
visit Vulcan, but he would never go far from the shop.

"As for conditions here on earth, why should a young woman go
riding with a man whose hands, arms, and attention are entirely
taken up with wheels, levers, and oil-cups? He can't even press
her foot without running the risk of stopping the machine by
releasing some clutch; if he moves his knees a hair's-breadth in
her direction it does something to the mechanism; if he looks her
way they are into the ditch; if she attempts to kiss him his
goggles prevent; his sighs are lost in the muffler and hers in the
exhaust; nothing but dire disaster will bring an automobile
courtship to a happy termination; as long as the machine goes
love-making is quite out of the question.

"Dobbin, dear old secretive Dobbin, what difference does it make
to you whether you feel the guiding hand or not? You know when the
courtship begins, the brisk drives about town to all points of
interest, to the pond, the poorhouse, and the cemetery; you know
how the courtship progresses, the long drives in the country, the
idling along untravelled roads and woodland ways, the moonlight
nights and misty meadows; you know when your stops to nibble by
the wayside will not be noticed, and you alone know when it is
time to get the young couple home; you know, alas! when the
courtship--blissful period of loitering for you--is ended and when
the marriage is made, by the tighter rein, the sharper word, and
the occasional swish of the whip. Ah, Dobbin, you and I--" The
Professor was becoming indiscreet.

"What do you know about love-making, Professor?"

"My dear fellow, it is the province of learning to know everything
and practise nothing."

"But Dobbin--"

"We all have had our Dobbins."

For some miles the road out of Erie was soft, dusty, narrow, and
poor--by no means fit for the proposed Erie-Buffalo race. About
fifteen miles out there is a sharp turn to the left and down a
steep incline with a ravine and stream below on the right,--a
dangerous turn at twenty miles an hour, to say nothing of forty or
fifty.

There is nothing to indicate that the road drops so suddenly after
making the turn, and we were bowling along at top speed; a wagon
coming around the corner threw us well to the outside, so that the
margin of safety was reduced to a minimum, even if the turn were
an easy one.

As we swung around the corner well over to the edge of the ravine,
we saw the grade we had to make. Nothing but a succession of small
rain gullies in the road saved us from going down the bank. By so
steering as to drop the skidding wheels on the outside into each
gully, the sliding of the machine received a series of violent
checks and we missed the brink of the ravine by a few inches.

A layman in the Professor's place would have jumped; but he, good
man, looked upon his escape as one of the incidents of automobile
travel.

"When I accepted your invitation, my dear fellow, I expected
something beyond the ordinary. I have not been disappointed."

It was a wonder the driving-wheels were not dished by the violent
side strains, but they were not even sprung. These wheels were of
wire tangential spokes; they do not look so well as the smart,
heavy, substantial wooden wheels one sees on nearly all imported
machines and on some American.

The sense of proportion between parts is sadly outraged by
spindle-wire wheels supporting the massive frame-work and body of
an automobile; however strong they may be in reality,
architecturally they are quite unfit, and no doubt the wooden
wheel will come more and more into general use.

A wooden wheel with the best of hickory spokes possesses an
elasticity entirely foreign to the rigid wire wheel, but good
hickory wheels are rare; paint hides a multitude of sins when
spread over wood; and inferior wooden wheels are not at all to be
relied upon.

Soon we begin to catch glimpses of Lake Erie through the trees and
between the hills, just a blue expanse of water shining in the
morning sun, a sapphire set in the dull brown gold of woods and
fields. Farther on we come out upon the bluffs overlooking the
lake and see the smoke and grime of Buffalo far across. What a
blot on a view so beautiful!

"Civilization," said the Professor, "is the subjection of nature.
In the civilization of Athens nature was subdued to the ends of
beauty; in the civilization of America nature is subdued to the
ends of usefulness; in every civilization nature is of secondary
importance, it is but a means to an end. Nature and the savage,
like little children, go hand in hand, the one the complement of
the other; but the savage grows and grows, while nature remains
ever a child, to sink subservient at last to its early playmate.
Just now we in this country are treating nature with great
harshness, making of her a drudge and a slave; her pretty hands
are soiled, her clean face covered with soot, her clothing
tattered and torn. Some day, we as a nation will tire of playing
the taskmaster and will treat the playmate of man's infancy and
youth with more consideration; we will adorn and not disfigure
her, love and not ignore her, place her on a throne beside us,
make her queen to our kingship."

"Professor, the automobile hardly falls in with your notions."

"On the contrary, the automobile is the one absolutely fit
conveyance for America. It is a noisy, dirty, mechanical
contrivance, capable of great speed; it is the only vehicle in
which one could approach that distant smudge on the landscape with
any sense of the eternal fitness of things. A coach and four would
be as far behind the times on this highway as a birch-bark canoe
on yonder lake. In America an automobile is beautiful because it
is in perfect harmony with the spirit of the age and country; it
is twin brother to the trolley; train, trolley, and automobile may
travel side by side as members of one family, late offsprings of
man's ingenuity."

"But you would not call them things of beauty?"

"Yes and no; beauty is so largely relative that one cannot
pronounce hideous anything that is a logical and legitimate
development. Considered in the light of things the world
pronounces beautiful, there are no more hideous monstrosities on
the face of the earth than train, trolley, and automobile; but
each generation has its own standard of beauty, though it seldom
confesses it. We say and actually persuade ourselves that we
admire the Parthenon; in reality we admire the mammoth factory and
the thirty-story office building. Strive as we may to deceive
ourselves by loud protestations, our standards are not the
standards of old. We like best the things we have; we may call
things ugly, but we think them beautiful, for they are part of
us,--and the automobile fits into our surroundings like a pocket
in a coat. We may turn up our noses at it or away from it, as the
case may be, but none the less it is the perambulator of the
twentieth century."

It was exactly one o'clock when we pulled up near the City Hall.
Total time from Erie five hours and fifty minutes, actual running
time five hours, distance by road about ninety-four miles.




CHAPTER SIX BUFFALO
THE MIDWAY

Housing the machine in a convenient and well-appointed stable for
automobiles, we were reminded of the fact that we had arrived in
Buffalo at no ordinary time, by a charge of three dollars per
night for storage, with everything else extra. But was it not the
Exposition we had come to see? and are not Expositions
proverbially expensive--to promoters and stockholders as well as
visitors?

Then, too, the hotels of Buffalo had expected so much and were so
woefully disappointed. Vast arrays of figures had been compiled
showing that within a radius of four hundred miles of Buffalo
lived all the people in the United States who were worth knowing.
The statistics were not without their foundation in fact, but
therein lay the weakness of the entire scheme so far as hotels
were concerned; people lived so near they could leave home in the
morning with a boiled egg and a sandwich, see the Exposition and
get back at night. Travellers passing through would stop over
during the day and evening, then go their way on a midnight
train,--it was cheaper to ride in a Pullman than stay in Buffalo.

We might have taken rooms at Rochester, running back and forth
each day in the machine,--though Rochester was by no means beyond
the zone of exorbitant charges. Notions of value become very much
congested within a radius of two or three hundred miles of any
great Exposition.

The Exposition was well worth seeing in parts by day and as a
whole by night. The electrical display at night was a triumph of
engineering skill and architectural arrangement. It was the falls
of Niagara turned into stars, the mist of the mighty cascade
crystallized into jewels, a brilliant crown to man's triumph over
the forces of nature.

It was a wonderful and never-to-be-forgotten sight to sit by the
waters at night, as the shadows were folding the buildings in
their soft embrace, and see the first faint twinklings of the
thousands upon thousands of lights as the great current of
electricity was turned slowly on; and then to see the lights grow
in strength until the entire grounds were bathed in suffused
radiance,--that was as wonderful a sight as the world of
electricity has yet witnessed, and it was well worth crossing an
ocean to see; it was the one conspicuous success, the one
memorable feature of the Exposition, and compared with it all
exhibits and scenes by day were tame and insipid.

From time immemorial it has been the special province of the
preacher to take the children to the circus and the side show; for
the children must go, and who so fit to take them as the preacher?
After all, is not the sawdust ring with its strange people, its
giants, fairies, hobgoblins, and clowns, a fairy land, not really
real, and therefore no more wicked than fairy land? Do they not
fly by night? are they not children of space? the enormous tents
spring up like mushrooms, to last a day; for a few short hours
there is a medley of strange sounds,--a blare of trumpets, the
roar of strange beasts, the ring of strange voices, the crackling
of whips; there are prancing steeds and figures in costumes
curious,--then, flapping of canvas, creaking of poles, and all is
silent. Of course it is not real, and every one may go. The circus
has no annals, knows no gossip, presents no problems; it is
without morals and therefore not immoral. It is the one joyous
amusement that is not above, but quite outside the pale of
criticism and discussion. Therefore, why should not the preacher
go and take the children?

But the Midway. Ah! the Midway, that is quite a different matter;
but still the preacher goes,--leaving the children at home.

Learning is ever curious. The Professor, after walking patiently
through several of the buildings and admiring impartially sections
of trees from Cuba and plates of apples from Wyoming, modestly
expressed a desire for some relaxation.

"The Midway is something more than a feature, it is an element. It
is the laugh that follows the tears; the joke that relieves the
tension; the Greeks invariably produced a comedy with their
tragedies; human nature demands relaxation; to appreciate the
serious, the humorous is absolutely essential. If the Midway were
not on the grounds the people would find it outside. Capacity for
serious contemplation differs with different peoples and in
different ages,--under Cromwell it was at a maximum, under Charles
II. it was at a minimum; the Puritans suppressed the laughter of a
nation; it broke out in ridicule that discriminated not between
sacred and profane. The tension of our age is such that diversions
must recur quickly. The next great Exposition may require two
Midways, or three or four for the convenience of the people. You
can't get a Midway any too near the anthropological and
ethnological sections; a cinematograph might be operated as an
adjunct to the Fine Arts building; a hula-hula dancer would
relieve the monotony of a succession of big pumpkins and prize
squashes."

At that moment the Professor became interested in the strange
procession entering the streets of Cairo, and we followed. Before
he got out it cost him fifty cents to learn his name, a quarter
for his fortune, ten cents for his horoscope, and sundry amounts
for gems, jewels, and souvenirs of the Orient.

Through his best hexameter spectacles he surveyed the dark-eyed
daughter of the Nile who was telling his fortune with a strong
Irish accent; all went smoothly until the prophetess happened to
see the Professor's sunburnt nose, fiery red from the four days'
run in wind and rain, and said warningly,--

"You are too fond of good eating and drinking; you drink too much,
and unless you are more temperate you will die in twenty years."
That was too much for the Professor, whose occasional glass of
beer--a habit left over from his student days--would not discolor
the nose of a humming-bird.

There were no end of illusions, mysteries, and deceptions. The
greatest mystery of all was the eager desire of the people to be
deceived, and their bitter and outspoken disappointment when they
were not. As the Professor remarked,--

"There never has been but one real American, and that was Phineas
T. Barnum. He was the genuine product of his country and his
times,--native ore without foreign dross. He knew the American
people as no man before or since has known them; he knew what the
American people wanted, and gave it to them in large unadulterated
doses,--humbug."

Tuesday morning was spent in giving the machine a thorough
inspection, some lost motion in the eccentric was taken up, every
nut and screw tightened, and the cylinder and intake mechanism
washed out with gasoline.

It is a good plan to clean out the cylinder with gasoline once
each week or ten days; it is not necessary, but the piston moves
with much greater freedom and the compression is better.

However good the cylinder oil used, after six or eight days' hard
and continuous running there is more or less residuum; in the very
nature of things there must be from the consumption of about a
pint of oil to every hundred miles.

Many use kerosene to clean cylinders, but gasoline has its
advantages; kerosene is excellent for all other bearings,
especially where there may be rust, as on the chain; but kerosene
is in itself a low grade oil, and the object in cleaning the
cylinder is to cut out all the oil and leave it bright and dry
ready for a supply of fresh oil.

After putting in the gasoline, the cylinder and every bearing
which the gasoline has touched should be thoroughly lubricated
before starting.

Lubrication is of vital importance, and the oil used makes all the
difference in the world.

Many makers of machines have adopted the bad practice of putting
up oil in cans under their own brands, and charging, of course,
two prices per gallon. The price is of comparatively little
consequence, though an item; for it does not matter so much
whether one pays fifty cents or a dollar a gallon, so long as the
best oil is obtained; the pernicious feature of the practice lies
in wrapping the oil in mystery, like a patent medicine,--"Smith's
Cylinder Oil" and "Jones's Patent Pain-Killer" being in one and
the same category. Then they warn--patent medicine methods again
--purchasers of machines that their particular brand of oil must
be used to insure best results.

The one sure result is that the average user who knows nothing
about lubricating oils is kept in a state of frantic anxiety lest
his can of oil runs low at a time and place where he cannot get
more of the patent brand.

Every manufacturer should embody in the directions for caring for
the machine information concerning all the standard oils that can
be found in most cities, and recommend the use of as many
different brands as possible.

Machine oil can be found in almost any country village, or at any
mill, factory, or power-house along the road; it is the cylinder
oil that requires fore-thought and attention.

Beware of steam-cylinder oil and all heavy and gummy oils. Rub a
little of any oil that is offered between the fingers until it
disappears,--the better the oil the longer you can rub it. If it
leaves a gummy or sticky feeling, do not use; but if it rubs away
thin and oily, it is probably good. Of course the oiliest of oils
are animal fats, good lard, and genuine sperm; but they work down
very thin and run away, and genuine sperm oil is almost an unknown
quantity. Lard can be obtained at every farmhouse, and may be
used, if necessary, on bearings.

In an emergency, olive oil and probably cotton-seed oil may be
used in the cylinder. Olive oil is a fine lubricant, and is used
largely in the Italian and Spanish navies.

Many special brands are probably good oils and safe to use, but
there is no need of staking one's trip upon any particular brand.

All good steam-cylinder oils contain animal oil to make them
adhere to the side of the cylinder; a pure mineral oil would be
washed away by the steam and water.

To illustrate the action of oils and water, take a clean bottle,
put in a little pure mineral oil, add some water, and shake hard;
the oil will rise to the top of the water in little globules
without adhering at all to the sides of the bottle; in short, the
bottle is not lubricated. Instead of a pure mineral oil put in any
steam-cylinder oil which is a compound of mineral and animal; and
as the bottle is shaken the oil adheres to the glass, covering the
entire inner surface with a film that the water will not rinse
off.

As there is supposed--erroneously--to be no moisture in the
cylinder of a gas-engine, the use of any animal oil is said to be
unnecessary; as there is moisture in the cylinder of a
steam-engine, some animal oil is absolutely essential in the
cylinder oil.

For the lubrication of chains and all parts exposed to the
weather, compounds of oil or grease which contain a liberal amount
of animal fat are better. Rain and the splash of mud and water
will wash off mineral oil as fast as it can be applied; in fact,
under adverse weather conditions it does not lubricate at all; the
addition of animal fat makes the compound stick.

Graphite and mica are both good chain lubricants, but if mixed
with a pure mineral base, such as vaseline, they will wash off in
mud and water. Before putting on a chain, it is a good thing to dip
it in melted tallow and then grease it thoroughly from time to
time with a graphite compound of vaseline and animal fat.

One does not expect perfection in a machine, but there is not an
automobile made, according to the reports of users, which does not
develop many crudities and imperfections in construction which
could be avoided by care and conscientious work in the factory,
--crudities and imperfections which customers and users have
complained of time and time again, but without avail.

At best the automobile is a complicated and difficult machine in
the hands of the amateur, and so far it has been made almost
impossible by its poor construction. With good construction there
will be troubles enough in operation, but at the present time
ninety per cent. of the stops and difficulties are due to
defective construction.

As the machine comes it looks so well, it inspires unbounded
confidence, but the first time it is seen in undress, with the
carriage part off, the machinery laid bare, the heart sinks, and
one's confidence oozes out.

Parts are twisted, bent, and hammered to get them into place,
bearings are filed to make them fit, bolts and screws are weak and
loose, nuts gone for the want of cotter-pins; it is as if
apprentice blacksmiths had spent their idle moments in
constructing a machine.

The carriage work is hopelessly bad. The building of carriages is
a long-established industry, employing hundreds of thousands of
hands and millions of capital, and yet in the entire United States
there are scarcely a dozen builders of really fine, substantial,
and durable vehicles. Yet every cross-road maker of automobiles
thinks that if he can only get his motor to go, the carpenter next
door can do his woodwork. The result is cheap stock springs,
clips, irons, bodies, cushions, tops, etc., are bought and put
over the motor. The use of aluminum bodies and more metal work
generally is helping things somewhat; not that aluminum and metal
work are necessarily better than wood, but it prevents the
unnatural union of the light wood bodies, designed for cheap
horse-vehicles, with a motor. The best French makers do not build
their bodies, but leave that part to skilled carriage builders.




CHAPTER SEVEN BUFFALO TO CANANDAIGUA
BEWARE OF THE COUNTRY MECHANIC

The five hundred and sixty-odd miles to Buffalo had been covered
with no trouble that delayed us for more than an hour, but our
troubles were about to begin.

The Professor had still a few days to waste frivolously, so he
said he would ride a little farther, possibly as far as Albany.
However, it was not our intention to hurry, but rather take it
easily, stopping by the way, as the mood--or our friends--seized
us.

It rained all the afternoon of Tuesday, about all night, and was
raining steadily when we turned off  Main Street into Genesee with
Batavia thirty-eight miles straight away. We fully expected to
reach there in time for luncheon; in fact, word had been sent
ahead that we would "come in," like a circus, about twelve, and
friends were on the lookout,--it was four o'clock when we reached
town.

The road is good, gravel nearly every rod, but the steady rain had
softened the surface to the depth of about two inches, and the
water, sand, and gravel were splashed in showers and sheets by the
wheels into and through every exposed part of the mechanism. Soon
the explosions became irregular, and we found the cams operating
the sparker literally plastered over with mud, so that the parts
that should slide and work with great smoothness and rapidity
would not operate at all. This happened about every four or five
miles. This mechanism on this particular machine was so
constructed and situated as to catch and hold mud, and the fine
grit worked in, causing irregularities in the action. This trouble
we could count upon as long as the road was wet; after noon, when
the sun came out and the road began to dry, we had less trouble.

When about half-way to Batavia the spark began to show blue; the
reserve set of dry batteries was put in use, but it gave no better
results. Apparently there was either a short circuit, or the
batteries were used up; the bad showing of the reserve set puzzled
us; every connection was examined and tightened. The wiring of the
carriage was so exposed to the weather that it was found
completely saturated in places with oil and covered with mud. The
rubber insulation had been badly disintegrated wherever oil had
dropped on it. The wires were cleaned as thoroughly as possible
and separated wherever the insulation seemed poor. The loss of
current was probably at the sparking coil; the mud had so covered
the end where the binding parts project as to practically join
them by a wet connection. Cleaning this off and protecting the
binding parts with insulating tape we managed to get on, the spark
being by no means strong, and the reserve battery for some reason
weak.

If we had had a small buzzer, such as is sold for a song at every
electrical store, to say nothing of a pocket voltmeter, we would
have discovered in a moment that the reserve battery contained one
dead cell, the resistance of which made the other cells useless.
At Batavia we tested them out with an ordinary electric bell,
discovering at once the dead cell.

After both batteries are so exhausted that the spark is weak, the
current from both sets can be turned on at the same time in two
ways; by linking the cells in multiples,--that is, side by side,
or in series,--tandem.

The current from cells in multiples is increased in volume but not
in force, and gives a fat spark; the current from cells in series
is doubled in force and gives a long blue hot spark. Both sparks,
if the cells are fresh, will burn the points, though giving much
better explosions.

As the batteries weaken, first connect them in multiples, then, as
they weaken still more, in series.

Always carry a roll of insulating tape, or on a pinch bicycle
tire-tape will do very well. Wrap carefully every joint, and the
binding-posts of the cells for the tape will hold as against
vibration when the little binding-screws will not. In short, use
the tape freely to insulate, protect, and support the wires and
all connections.

If the machine is wired with light and poorly insulated wire, it
is but a question of time when the wiring must be done over again.

When we pulled up in Batavia at an electrician's for repairs, the
Professor was a sight--and also tired. The good man had floundered
about in the mud until he was picturesquely covered. At the outset
he was disposed to take all difficulties philosophically.

"I should regret exceedingly," he remarked at our first
involuntary stop, "to return from this altogether extraordinary
trip without seeing the automobile under adverse conditions. Our
experiences in the sand were no fault of the machine; the
responsibility rested with us for placing it in a predicament from
which it could not extricate itself, and if, in the heat of the
moment and the sand, I said anything derogatory to the faithful
machine, I express my regrets. Now, it seems, I shall have the
pleasure of observing some of the eccentricities of the horseless
carriage. What seems to be the matter?" and the Professor peered
vaguely underneath.

"Something wrong with the spark."

"Bless me! Can you fix it?"

"I think so. Now, if you will be good enough to turn that crank."

"With pleasure. What an extraordinary piece of mechanism.--"

"A little faster."

"The momentum--"

"A little faster."

"Very heavy fly-wheel--"

"Just a little faster."

"Friction--mechanics--overcome--"

"Now as hard as you can, Professor."

"Exercise, muscle, but hard work. The spark,--is it there? Whew!"
and the Professor stopped, exhausted.

It was the repetition of those experiences that sobered the
Professor and led him to speak of his work at home, which he
feared he was neglecting. At the last stop he stood in a pool of
water and turned the crank without saying anything that would bear
repetition.

While touring, look out for glass, nails, and the country
mechanic,--of the three, the mechanic can do the largest amount of
damage in a given time. His well-meant efforts may wreck you; his
mistakes are sure to. The average mechanic along the route is a
veritable bull in a china shop,--once inside your machine, and you
are done for. He knows it all, and more too. He once lived next to
a man who owned a naphtha launch; hence his expert knowledge; or
he knew some one who was blown up by gasoline, therefore he is
qualified. Look out for him; his look of intelligence is deception
itself. His readiness with hammer and file means destruction; if
he once gets at the machine, give it to him as a reward and a
revenge for his misdirected energy, and save time by walking.

Even the men from the factory make sad mistakes; they may locate
troubles, but in repairing they will forget, and leave off more
things than the floor will hold.

At Batavia we put in new batteries, repacked the pump, covered the
coil with patent leather, so that neither oil nor water could
affect it, and put on a new chain. Without saying a word, the
bright and too willing mechanic who was assisting, mainly by
looking on, took the new chain into his shop and cut off a link. A
wanton act done because he "thought the chain a little too long,"
and not discovered until the machine had been cramped together,
every strut and reach shortened to get the chain in place;
meanwhile the factory was being vigorously blamed for sending out
chains too short. During it all the mechanic was discreetly
silent, but the new link on the vise in the shop betrayed him
after the harm was done.

The run from Batavia to Canandaigua was made over roads that are
well-nigh perfect most of the way, but the machine was not working
well, the chain being too short. Going up stiff grades it was very
apparent something was wrong, for while the motor worked freely
the carriage dragged.

On the level and down grade everything went smoothly, but at every
up grade the friction and waste of power were apparent. Inspection
time and again showed everything clear, and it was not until late
in the afternoon the cause of the trouble was discovered. A
tell-tale mark on the surface of the fly-wheel showed friction
against something, and we found that while the wheel ran freely if
we were out of the machine, with the load in, and especially on up
grades with the chain drawing the framework closer to the running
gear, the rim of the wheel just grazed a bolt-head in a small brace
underneath, thereby producing the peculiar grating noise we had
heard and materially checking the motor. The shortening of the
struts and reaches to admit the short chain had done all this. As
the chain had stretched a little, we were able to lengthen slightly
the struts so as to give a little more clearance; it was also
possible to shift the brace about a quarter of an inch, and the
machine once more ran freely under all conditions.

Within twenty miles of Canandaigua the country is quite rolling
and many of the hills steep. Twice we were obliged to get out and
let the machine mount the grades, which it did; but it was
apparent that for the hills and mountains of New York the gearing
was too high.

On hard roads in a level country high gearing is all well enough,
and a high average speed can be maintained, but where the roads
are soft or the country rolling, a high gear may mean a very
material disadvantage in the long run.

It is of little use to be able to run thirty or forty miles on the
level if at every grade or soft spot it is necessary to throw in
the hill-climbing gear, thereby reducing the speed to from four to
six miles per hour; the resulting average is low. A carriage that
will take the hills and levels of New York at the uniform speed of
fifteen miles an hour will finish far ahead of one that is
compelled to use low gears at every grade, even though the latter
easily makes thirty or forty miles on the level.

The machine we were using had but two sets of gears,--a slow and a
fast. All intermediate speeds were obtained by throttling the
engine. The engine was easily governed, and on the level any speed
from the lowest to the maximum could be obtained without juggling
with the clutches; but on bad roads and in hilly localities
intermediate gears are required if one is to get the best results
out of a motor. As the gasoline motor develops its highest
efficiency when it is running at full speed, there should be
enough intermediate gears so the maximum speed may be maintained
under varying conditions. As the road gets heavy or the grades
steep, the drop is made from one gear down to another; but at all
times and under all conditions--if there are enough intermediate
gears--the machine is being driven with the motor running fast.

With only two gears where roads or grades are such that the high
gear cannot be used, there is nothing to do but drop to the low,
--from thirty miles an hour to five or six,--and the engine runs as
if it had no load at all. American roads especially demand
intermediate gears if best results are to be attained, the
conditions change so from mile to mile.

Foreign machines are equipped with from three to five
speed-changing gears in addition to the spark control, and many
also have throttles for governing the speed of the engine.

Going at full speed down a long hill about two miles out of
Canandaigua, we discovered that neither power nor brakes had any
control over the machine. The large set-screws holding the two
halves of the rear-axle in the differential gears had worked loose
and the right half was steadily working out. As both brakes
operated through the differential, both were useless, and the
machine was beyond control. An obstacle or a bad turn at the
bottom meant disaster; happily the hill terminated in a level
stretch of softer road, which checked the speed and the machine
came slowly to a stop.

The sensation of rushing down hill with power and brakes
absolutely detached is peculiar and exhilarating. It is quite like
coasting or tobogganing; the excitement is in proportion to the
risk; the chance of safety lies in a clear road; for the time
being the machine is a huge projectile, a flying mass, a ton of
metal rushing through space; there is no sensation of fear, not a
tremor of the nerves, but one becomes for the moment exceedingly
alert, with instantaneous comprehension of the character of the
road; every rut, stone, and curve are seen and appreciated; the
possibility of collision is understood, and every danger is
present in the mind, and with it all the thrill of excitement
which ever accompanies risk.

During the entire descent the Professor was in blissful ignorance
of the loss of control. To him the hill was like many another that
we had taken at top speed; but when he saw the rear wheel far out
from the carriage with only about twelve inches of axle holding in
the sleeve, and understood the loss of control through both chain
and brakes, his imagination began to work, and he thought of
everything that could have happened and many things that could
not, but he remarked philosophically,--

"Fear is entirely a creature of the imagination. We are not afraid
of what will happen, but of what may. We are all cowards until
confronted with danger; most men are heroes in emergencies."

Detaching a lamp from the front of the carriage, repairs were
made. A block of wood and a fence rail made a good jack; the gear
case was opened up, the axle driven home, and the set-screws
turned down tight; but it was only too apparent that the screws
would work loose again.

The next morning we pulled out both halves of the axle and found
the key-ways worn so there was a very perceptible play. As the
keys were supposed to hold the gears tight and the set-screws were
only for the purpose of keeping the axle from working out, it was
idle to expect the screws to hold fast so long as the keys were
loose in the ways; the slight play of the gears upon the axles
would soon loosen screws, in fact, both were found loose, although
tightened up only the evening before.

As it had become apparent that the machine was geared too high for
the hills of New York, it seemed better to send it into the shop
for such changes as were necessary, rather than spend the time
necessary to make them in the one small machine shop at
Canandaigua.

Furthermore the Professor's vacation was drawing to a close; he
had given himself not to exceed ten days, eight had elapsed.

"I feel that I have exhausted the possibilities and eccentricities
of automobiling; there is nothing more to learn; if there is
anything more, I do not care to know it. I am inclined to accept
the experience of last night as a warning; as the fellow who was
blown up with dynamite said when he came down, 'to repeat the
experiment would be no novelty.'"

And so the machine was loaded on the cars, side-tracked on the
way, and it was many a day before another start could be made from
Buffalo.

It cannot be too often repeated that it is a mistake to ever lose
sight of one's machine during a tour; it is a mistake to leave it
in a machine shop for repairs; it is a mistake to even return it
to the place of its creation; for you may be quite sure that
things will be left undone that should be done, and things done
that should not be done.

It requires days and weeks to become acquainted  with all the
peculiarities and weaknesses of an automobile, to know its strong
points and rely upon them, to appreciate its failings and be
tender towards them. After you have become acquainted, do not risk
the friendship by letting the capricious thing out of your sight.
It is so fickle that it forms wanton attachments for every one it
meets,--for urchins, idlers, loafers, mechanics, permits them all
sorts of familiarities, so that when, like a truant, it comes
wandering back, it is no longer the same, but a new creature,
which you must learn again to know.

It is monotonously lonesome running an automobile across country
alone; the record-breaker may enjoy it, but the civilized man does
not; man is a gregarious animal, especially in his sports; one
must have an audience, if an audience of only one.

The return of the Professor made it necessary to find some one
else. There was but one who could go, but she had most
emphatically refused; did not care for the dust and dirt, did not
care for the curious crowds, did not care to go fast, did not care
to go at all. To overcome these apparently insurmountable
objections, a semi-binding pledge was made to not run more than
ten or twelve miles per hour, and not more than thirty or forty
miles per day,--promises so obviously impossible of fulfillment on
the part of any chauffeur that they were not binding in law. We
started out well within bounds, making but little over forty miles
the first day; we wound up with a glorious run of one hundred and
forty miles the last day, covering the Old Sarnia gravel out of
London, Ontario, at top speed for nearly seventy miles.

For five weeks to a day we wandered over the eastern country at
our own sweet will, not a care, not a responsibility,--days
without seeing newspapers, finding mail and telegrams at
infrequent intervals, but much of the time lost to the world of
friends and acquaintances.

Touring on an automobile differs from coaching, posting,
railroading, from every known means of locomotion, in that you are
really lost to the world. In coaching or posting, one knows with
reasonable certainty the places that can be made; the itinerary is
laid out in advance, and if departed from, friends can be notified
by wire, so that letters and telegrams may be forwarded.

With an automobile all is different. The vagaries of the machine
upset every itinerary. You do not know where you will stop,
because you cannot tell when you may stop. If one has in mind a
certain place, the machine may never reach it, or, arriving, the
road and the day may be so fine you are irresistibly impelled to
keep on. The very thought that letters are to be at a certain
place at a certain date is a bore, it limits your progress,
fetters your will, and curbs your inclinations. One hears of
places of interest off the chosen route; the temptation to see
them is strong exactly in proportion to the assurances given that
you will go elsewhere.

The automobile is lawless; it chafes under restraint; will follow
neither advice nor directions. Tell it to go this way, it is sure
to go that; to turn the second corner to the right, it will take
the first to the left; to go to one city, it prefers another; to
avoid a certain road, it selects that above all others.

It is a grievous error to tell friends you are coming; it puts
them to no end of inconvenience; for days they expect you and you
do not come; their feeling of relief that you did not come is
destroyed by your appearance.

The day we were expected at a friend's summer home at the sea-side
we spent with the Shakers in the valley of Lebanon, waiting for a
new steering-head. Telegrams of inquiry, concern, and consolation
reached us in our retreat, but those who expected us were none the
less inconvenienced.

Then, too, what business have the dusty, grimy, veiled, goggled,
and leathered party from the machine among the muslin gowns, smart
wraps, and immaculate coverings of the conventional house party;
if we but approach, they scatter in self-protection.

From these reflections it is only too plain that the automobile
--like that other inartistic instrument of torture, the grand piano
--is not adapted to the drawing-room. It is not quite at home in
the stable; it demands a house of its own. If the friend who
invites you to visit him has a machine, then accept, for he is a
brother crank; but if he has none, do not fill his generous soul
with dismay by running up his drive-way, sprinkling its spotless
white with oil, leaving an ineradicable stain under the
porte-cochere, and frightening his favorite horses into fits as
you run into the stable.

But it is delightful to go through cities and out-of-the-way
places, just leaving cards in a most casual manner upon people one
knows. We passed through many places twice, some places three
times, in careering about. Each time we called on friends;
sometimes they were in, sometimes out; it was all so casual,--a
cup of tea, a little chat, sometimes without shutting down the
motor,--the briefest of calls, all the more charming because
brief,--really, it was strange.

We see a town ahead; calling to a man by the roadside,--

"What place is that?"

"L--" is the long drawn shout as we go flying by.

"Why, the S___s live there. I have not seen her since we were at
school. I would like to stop."

"Well, just for a moment."

In a trice the machine is at the door; Mrs. S___ is out--will
return in a moment; so sorry, cannot wait, leave cards; call again
some other day; and we turn ten or fifteen or twenty miles to one
side to see another old school-friend for five or ten minutes
--just long enough for the chauffeur to oil-up while the
school-mates chat.

The automobile annihilates time; it dispenses with watch and
clock; it vaguely notes the coming up and the going down of the
sun; but it goes right on by sunlight, by moonlight, by lamplight,
by no light at all, until it is brought to a stand-still or
capriciously stops of its own accord.




CHAPTER EIGHT THE MORGAN MYSTERY
THE OLD STONE BLACKSMITH SHOP AT STAFFORD

It was Wednesday, August 22, that we left Buffalo. In some stray
notes made by my companion, I find this enthusiastic description
of the start.

"Toof! toof! on it comes like a gigantic bird, its red breast
throbbing, its black wings quivering; it swerves to the right, to
the left, and with a quick sweep circles about and stands panting
at the curb impatient to be off.

"I hastily mount and make ready for the long flight. The chauffeur
grasps the iron reins, something is pulled, and something is
pressed,--'Chic--chic--whirr--whirr--r--r,' we are off. Through
the rich foliage of noble trees we catch last glimpses of
beautiful homes gay with flags, with masses of flowers and broad,
green lawns.

"In a moment we are in the crowded streets where cars, omnibuses,
cabs, carriages, trucks, and wagons of every description are
hurrying pell-mell in every direction. The automobile glides like
a thing of life in and out, snorting with vexation if blocked for
an instant.

"Soon we are out of the hurly-burly; the homes melt away into the
country; the road lengthens; we pass the old toll-gate and are
fairly on our way; farewell city of jewelled towers and gay
festivities.

"The day is bright, the air is sweet, and myriads of yellow
butterflies flutter about us, so thickly covering the ground in
places as to look like beds of yellow flowers.

"Corn-fields and pastures stretch along the roadsides; big red
barns and cosey white houses seem to go skurrying by, calling, 'I
spy,' then vanishing in a sort of cinematographic fashion as the
automobile rushes on."

As we sped onward I pointed out the places--only too well
remembered--where the Professor had worked so hard exactly two
weeks before to the day.

After luncheon, while riding about some of the less frequented
streets of Batavia, we came quite unexpectedly to an old cemetery.
In the corner close to the tracks of the New York Central, so
placed as to be in plain view of all persons passing on trains, is
a tall, gray, weather-beaten monument, with the life-size figure
of a man on the top of the square shaft. It is the monument to the
memory of William Morgan who was kidnapped near that spot in the
month of September, 1826, and whose fate is one of the mysteries
of the last century.

To read the inscriptions I climbed the rickety fence; the grass
was high, the weeds thick; the entire place showed signs of
neglect and decay.

The south side of the shaft, facing the railroad, was inscribed as
follows:


  Sacred To The Memory Of
  WILLIAM MORGAN,
  A NATIVE OF VIRGINIA,
  A CAPT. IN THE WAR OF 1812,
  A RESPECTABLE CITIZEN OF
  BATAVIA, AND A MARTYR
  TO THE FREEDOM OF WRITING,
  PRINTING, AND SPEAKING THE
  TRUTH. HE WAS ABDUCTED
  FROM NEAR THIS SPOT IN THE
  YEAR 1826 BY FREEMASONS,
  AND MURDERED FOR REVEALING
  THE SECRETS OF THE ORDER.

The disappearance of Morgan is still a mystery,--a myth to most
people nowadays; a very stirring reality in central and western
New York seventy-five years ago; even now in the localities
concerned the old embers of bitter feeling show signs of life if
fanned by so much as a breath.

Six miles beyond Batavia, on the road to Le Roy, is the little
village of Stafford; some twenty or thirty houses bordering the
highway; a church, a schoolhouse, the old stage tavern, and
several buildings that are to-day very much as they were nearly
one hundred years ago. This is the one place which remains very
much as it was seventy-five years ago when Morgan was kidnapped
and taken through to Canandaigua. As one approaches the little
village, on the left hand side of the highway set far back in an
open field is an old stone church long since abandoned and
disused, but so substantially built that it has defied time and
weather. It is a monument to the liberality of the people of that
locality in those early days, for it was erected for the
accommodation of worshippers regardless of sect; it was at the
disposal of any denomination that might wish to hold services
therein. Apparently the foundation of the weather-beaten structure
was too liberal, for it has been many years since it has been used
for any purpose whatsoever.

As one approaches the bridge crossing the little stream which cuts
the village in two, there is at the left on the bank of the stream
a large three-story stone dwelling. Eighty years ago the first
story of this dwelling was occupied as a store; the third story
was the Masonic lodge-room, and no doubt the events leading up to
the disappearance of Morgan were warmly discussed within the four
walls of this old building. Across from the three-story stone
building is a brick house set well back from the highway,
surrounded by shrubbery, and approached by a gravel walk bordered
by old-fashioned boxwood hedges. This house was built in 1812, and
is still well preserved. For many years it was a quite famous
private school for young ladies, kept by a Mr. Radcliffe.

Across the little bridge on the right is a low stone building now
used as a blacksmith shop, but which eighty years ago was a
dwelling. A little farther on the opposite side of the street is
the old stage tavern, still kept as a tavern, and to-day in
substantially the same condition inside and out as it was
seventy-five years ago. It is now only a roadside inn, but before
railroads were, through stages from Buffalo, Albany, and New York
stopped here. A charming old lady living just opposite, said,--

"I have sat on this porch many a day and watched the stages and
private coaches come rattling up with horn and whip and carrying
the most famous people in the country,--all stopped there just
across the road at that old red tavern; those were gay days; I
shall never see the like again; but perhaps you may, for now
coaches like yours stop at the old tavern almost every day."

The ballroom of the tavern remains exactly as it was,--a fireplace
at one end filled with ashes of burnt-out revelries, a little
railing at one side where the fiddlers sat, the old benches along
the side,--all remind one of the gayeties of long ago.

In connection with the Morgan mystery the village of Stafford is
interesting, because the old tavern and the three-story stone
building are probably the only buildings still standing which were
identified with the events leading up to the disappearance of
Morgan. The other towns, like Batavia and Canandaigua, have grown
and changed, so that the old buildings have long since made way
for modern. One of the last to go was the old jail at Canandaigua
where Morgan was confined and from which he was taken. When that
old jail was torn down some years ago, people carried away pieces
of his cell as souvenirs of a mystery still fascinating because
still a mystery.

As we came out of the old tavern there were a number of men
gathered about the machine, looking at it. I asked them some
questions about the village, and happened to say,--

"I once knew a man who, seventy-five years ago, lived in that
little stone building by the bridge."

"That was in Morgan's time," said an old man, and every one in the
crowd turned instantly from the automobile to look at me.

"Yes, he lived here as a young man."

"They stopped at this very tavern with Morgan on their way
through," said some one in the crowd.

"And that stone building just the other side of the bridge is
where the Masons met in those days," said another.

"That's where they took Miller," interrupted the old man.

"Who was Miller?" I asked.

"He was the printer in Batavia who was getting out Morgan's book;
they brought him here to Stafford, and took him up into the
lodge-room in that building and tried to frighten him, but he wasn't
to be frightened, so they took him on to Le Roy and let him go."

"Did they ever find out what became of Morgan?" I asked.

There was silence for a moment, and then the old man, looking
first at the others, said,--

"No-o-o, not for sartain, but the people in this locality hed
their opinion, and hev it yet."

"You bet they have," came from some one in the crowd.

Thursday we started for Rochester by way of Stafford and Le Roy
instead of Newkirk, Byron, and Bergen, which is the more direct
route and also a good road.

The morning was bright and very warm, scarcely a cloud in the sky,
but there was a feeling of storm in the air,--the earth was
restless.

As we neared Stafford dark clouds were gathering in the far
distant skies, but not yet near enough to cause apprehension.
Driving slowly into the village, we again visited the three-story
stone house. Here, no doubt, as elsewhere, Morgan's forthcoming
exposures were discussed and denounced, here the plot to seize
him--if plot there was--may have been formed; but then there was
probably no plot, conspiracy, or action on the part of any lodge
or body of Masons. Morgan was in their eyes a most despicable
traitor,--a man who proposed to sell--not simply disclose, but
sell--the secrets of the order he joined. There is no reason to
believe that he had the good of any one at heart; that he had
anything in view but his own material prosperity. He made a
bargain with a printer in Batavia to expose Masonry, and lost his
life in attempting to carry out that bargain. Lost his life!--who
knows? The story is a strange one, as strange as anything in the
Arabian Nights; there are men still living who faintly recollect
the excitement, the fends and controversies which lasted for
years. From Batavia to Canandaigua the name of Morgan calls forth
a flood of reminiscences. A man whose father or grandfather had
anything to do with the affair is a character in the community;
now and then a man is found who knew a man who caught a glimpse of
Morgan during that mysterious midnight ride from the Canandaigua
jail over the Rochester road, and on to the end in the magazine of
the old fort at Lewiston. One cannot spend twenty-four hours in
this country without being drawn into the vortex of this absorbing
mystery; it hangs over the entire section, lingers along the
road-sides, finds outward sign and habitation in old buildings,
monuments, and ruins; it echoes from the past in musty books,
papers, and pamphlets; it once was politics, now is history; the
years have not solved it; time is helpless.

At Le Roy we sought shelter under the friendly roof of an old, old
house. How it did storm; the Rochester papers next day said that
no such storm had ever been known in that part of the State. The
rain fell in torrents; the main street was a stream of water
emptying into the river; the flashes of lightning were followed so
quickly by crashes of thunder that we knew trees and buildings
were struck near by, as in fact they were. It seemed as if the
heavens were laying siege to the little village and bringing to
bear all nature's great guns.

The house was filled with old books and mementoes of the past;
every nook and corner was interesting. In an old secretary in an
upper room was found a complete history of Morgan's disappearance,
together with the affidavits taken at the time and records of such
court proceedings as were had.

These papers had been gathered together in 1829. One by one I
turned the yellow leaves and read the story from beginning to end;
it is in brief as follows:

In the summer of 1826 it was rumored throughout Western New York
that one William Morgan, then living in the village of Batavia,
was writing an exposure of the secrets of Free Masonry, under
contract with David Miller, a printer of the same place, who was
to publish the pamphlet.

Morgan was a man entirely without means; he was said to have
served in the War of 1812, and was known to have been a brewer,
but had not made a success in business; he was rooming with a
family in Batavia with his wife and two small children, one a
child of two years, the other a babe of two months. He was quite
irresponsible, and apparently not overscrupulous in either
contracting debts or the use of the property of others.

There is not the slightest reason to believe that his so-called
exposure of Masonry was prompted by any motives other than the
profits he might realize from the sale of the pamphlet. Nor is
there any evidence that he enjoyed the confidence of the community
where he lived. His monument--as in many another case--awards him
virtues he did not possess. The figure of noble bearing on the top
of the shaft is the idealization of subsequent events, and
probably but illy corresponds with the actual appearance of the
impecunious reality. The man's fate made him a hero.

On August 9 the following notice appeared in a newspaper published
in Canandaigua:

"Notice and Caution.--If a man calling himself William Morgan
should intrude himself on the community, they should be on their
guard, particularly the Masonic Fraternity. Morgan was in the
village in May last, and his conduct while here and elsewhere
calls forth this notice. Any information in relation to Morgan can
be obtained by calling at the Masonic Hall in this village.
Brethren and Companions are particularly requested to observe,
mark, and govern themselves accordingly.

"Morgan is considered a swindler and a dangerous man.

"There are people in the village who would be happy to see this
Captain Morgan.

"Canandaigua, August 9, 1826."

This notice was copied in two newspapers published in Batavia.

About the middle of August a stranger by the name of Daniel Johns
appeared in Batavia and took up his lodgings in one of the public
houses of the village. He made the acquaintance of Miller, offered
to go in business with him, and to furnish whatever money might be
necessary for the publication of the Morgan book. Miller accepted
his proposition and took the man into his confidence. As it
afterwards turned out, Johns's object in seeking the partnership
was to secure possession of the Morgan manuscript, so that Miller
could not publish the work; the man's subsequent connection with
this strange narrative appears from the affidavit of Mrs. Morgan,
referred to farther on.

During the month of August, Morgan with his family boarded at a
house in the heart of the village; but to avoid interruption in
his work he had an upper room in the house of John David, on the
other side of the creek from the town.

August 19 three well-known residents of the village accompanied by
a constable from Pembroke went to David's house, inquired for
David and Towsley, who both lived there with their families, and
on being told they were not at home, rushed up-stairs to the room
where Morgan was writing, seized him and the papers which he was
even then arranging for the printer. He was taken to the county
jail and kept from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning, when
he was bailed out.

On the same Saturday evening the same men went to the house where
Morgan boarded, and saying they had an execution, inquired of Mrs.
Morgan whether her husband had any property. They were told he had
none, but nevertheless two of the men went into Morgan's room and
made a search for papers. On leaving the house one of them said to
Mrs. Morgan, "We have just conducted your husband to jail, and
shall keep him there until we find his papers."

September 8, James Ganson, who kept the tavern at Stafford, was
notified from Batavia that between forty and fifty men would be
there for supper. The men came and late at night departed for
Batavia, where they found a number of men gathered from other
points. From an affidavit taken afterwards it seems the object of
the party was to destroy Miller's office, but they found Miller
and Morgan had been warned. At any rate, the party dispersed
without doing anything. Part of them reassembled at Ganson's, and
charges of cowardice were freely exchanged; certain of the leaders
were afterwards indicted for their part in this affair, but no
trial was had.

To this day the business portion of Batavia stretches along both
sides of a broad main street; instead of cross-streets at regular
intervals there are numerous alleys leading off the main street,
with here and there a wider side street. In those days nearly all
the buildings were of wood and but one or two stories in height.
Miller's printing-offices occupied the second stories of two
wooden buildings; a side alley separating the two buildings,
dividing also, of course, the two parts of the printing
establishment.

On Sunday night, September 10, fire was discovered under the
stairways leading to the printing-offices; on extinguishing the
blaze, straw and cotton balls saturated with turpentine were found
under the stairways, and some distance from the buildings a dark
lantern was found.

On this same Sunday morning, September 10, a man--the coroner of
the county--in the village of Canandaigua, fifty miles east of
Batavia, obtained from a justice of the peace a warrant for the
arrest of Morgan on the charge of stealing a shirt and a cravat in
the month of May from an innkeeper named Kingsley.

Having obtained the warrant, which was directed to him as coroner,
the complainant called a constable, and together with four
well-known residents of Canandaigua they hired a special stage and
started for Batavia.

At Avon, Caledonia, and Le Roy they were joined by others who
seemed to understand that Morgan was to be arrested.

At Stafford they stopped for supper at Ganson's tavern. After
supper they proceeded towards Batavia, but stopped about a mile
and a half east of the village, certain of the party returning
with the stage.

Early the next morning Morgan was arrested, and an extra stage
engaged to take the party back. The driver, becoming uneasy as to
the regularity of the proceedings, at first refused to start, but
was persuaded to go as far as Stafford, where Ganson--whom the
driver knew--said everything was all right and that he would
assume all responsibility.

About sunset of the same day--Monday, September 11--they arrived
at Canandaigua, and Morgan was at once examined by the justice;
the evidence was held insufficient and the prisoner discharged.

The same complainant immediately produced a claim for two dollars
which had been assigned to him. Morgan admitted the debt,
confessed judgment, and pulled off his coat, offering it as
security.

The constable refused to take the coat and took Morgan to jail.

Tuesday noon, September 12, a crowd of strangers appeared in
Batavia, assembling at Donald's tavern. A constable went to
Miller's office, arrested him, and took him to the tavern, where
he was detained in a room for about two hours. He was then put in
an open wagon with some men, all strangers to him. The constable
mounted his horse and the party proceeded to Stafford. Arriving
there Miller was conducted to the third story of the stone
building beside the creek, and was there confined, guarded by five
men.

About dusk the constable and the crowd took Miller to Le Roy,
where he was taken before the justice who had issued the warrant,
when all his prosecutors, together with constable and warrant,
disappeared. As no one appeared against the prisoner, the justice
told him he was at liberty to go.

From the docket of the justice it appeared that the warrant had
been issued at the request of Daniel Johns, Miller's partner.

The leaders were indicted for riot, assault, and false
imprisonment, tried, three found guilty and imprisoned. At the
trial there was evidence to show that on the morning of the 12th a
meeting was held in the third story of the stone building at
Stafford, a leader selected, and plans arranged.

On the evening of Tuesday 12th a neighbor of Morgan's called at
the Canandaigua jail and asked to see Morgan. The jailer was
absent. His wife permitted the man to speak to Morgan, and the man
said that he had come to pay the debt for which Morgan was
committed and to take him home. Morgan was asked if he were
willing to go; he answered that he was willing, but that it did
not matter particularly that night, for he could just as well wait
until morning; but the man said "No," that he would rather take
him out that night, for he had run around all day for him and was
very tired and wished to get home. The man offered to deposit with
the jailer's wife five dollars as security for the payment of the
debt and all costs, but she would not let Morgan out, saying that
she did not know the man and that he was not the owner of the
judgment.

The man went out and was gone a few minutes, and brought back a
well-known resident of the village of Canandaigua and the owner of
the judgment; these two men said that it was all right for the
jailer's wife to accept two dollars, the amount of the judgment,
and release Morgan. Taking the money, the woman opened the inside
door of the prison, and Morgan was requested to get ready quickly
and come out. He was soon ready, and walked out of the front door
between the man who had called for him and another. The jailer's
wife while fastening the inside prison-door heard a cry of murder
near the outer door of the jail, and running to the door she saw
Morgan struggling with the two men who had come for him. He
continued to scream and cry in the most distressing manner, at the
same time struggling with all his strength; his voice was
suppressed by something that was put over his mouth, and a man
following behind rapped loudly upon the well-curb with a stick; a
carriage came up, Morgan was put in it by the two men with him,
and the carriage drove off. It was a moonlight night, and the
jailer's wife clearly saw all that transpired, and even remembered
that the horses were gray. Neither the man who made the complaint
nor the resident of Canandaigua who came to the jail and advised
the jailer's wife that she could safely let Morgan go went with
the carriage. They picked up Morgan's hat, which was lost in the
struggle, and watched the carriage drive away.

The account given by the wife of the jailer was corroborated by a
number of entirely reliable and reputable witnesses.

A man living near the jail went to the door of his house and saw
the men struggling in the street, one of them apparently down and
making noises of distress; the man went towards the struggling
man, and asked a man who was a little behind the others what was
the matter, to which he answered, "Nothing; only a man has been
let out of jail, and been taken on a warrant, and is going to be
tried, or have his trial."

In January following, when the feeling was growing against the
abductors of Morgan, the three men in Canandaigua most prominently
connected with all that transpired at the jail on the night in
question made statements in court under oath, which admitted the
facts to be substantially as above outlined, except they insisted
that they did not know why Morgan struggled before getting into
the carriage. These men expressed regret that they did not go to
the assistance of Morgan, and insisted that was the only fault
they committed on the night in question. They admitted that they
understood that Morgan was compiling a book on the subject of
Masonry at the instigation of Miller the publisher at Batavia, and
alleged that he was getting up the book solely for pecuniary
profit, and they believed it was desirable to remove Morgan to
some place beyond the influence of Miller, where his friends and
acquaintances might convince him of the impropriety of his conduct
and persuade him to abandon the publication of the book.

In passing sentence, the court said:

"The legislature have not seen fit, perhaps, from the supposed
improbability that the crime would be attempted, to make your
offence a felony. Its grade and punishment have been left to the
provisions of the common law, which treats it as a misdemeanor,
and punishes it with fine and imprisonment in the common jail. The
court are of opinion that your liberty ought to be made to answer
for the liberty of Morgan: his person was restrained by force; and
the court, in the exercise of its lawful powers, ought not to be
more tender of your liberty than you, in the plenitude of lawless
force, were of his."

It is quite clear that up to this time none of the to do parties
connected directly or indirectly with the abduction of Morgan had
any intention whatsoever of doing him bodily harm. If such had
been their purpose, the course they followed was foolish in the
extreme. The simple fact was the Masons were greatly excited over
the threatened exposure of the secrets of their order by one of
their own members, and they desired to get hold of the manuscript
and proofs and prevent the publication, and the misguided
hot-heads who were active in the matter thought that by getting
Morgan away from Miller they could persuade him to abandon his
project. This theory is borne out by the fact that on the day Morgan
was taken to Canandaigua several prominent men of Batavia called
upon Mrs. Morgan and told her that if she would give up to the
Masons the papers she had in her possession Morgan would be brought
back. She gave up all the papers she could find; they were submitted
to Johns, the former partner of Miller, who said that part of the
manuscript was not there. However, the men took Mrs. Morgan to
Canandaigua, stopping at Avon over night. These men expected to find
Morgan still in Canandaigua, but were surprised to learn that he had
been taken away the night before, whereupon Mrs. Morgan, having left
her two small children at home, returned as quickly as possible.

So far as Morgan's manuscript is concerned, it seems that a
portion of it was already in the hands of Miller, and another
portion secreted inside of a bed at the time he was arrested, so
that not long after his disappearance what purports to be his book
was published.

Nearly two years later, in August, 1828, three men were tried for
conspiracy to kidnap and carry away Morgan. At that time it was
believed by many that Morgan was either simply detained abroad or
in hiding, although it was strenuously insisted by others that he
had been killed. All that was ever known of his movements after he
left the jail at Canandaigua on the night of September 11 was
developed in the testimony taken at this trial.

One witness who saw the carriage drive past the jail testified
that a man was put in by four others, who got in after him and the
carriage drove away; the witness was near the men when they got
into the carriage, and as it turned west he heard one of them cry
to the driver, "Why don't you drive faster? why don't you drive
faster?"

The driver testified that some time prior to the date in question
a man came to him and arranged for him to take a party to
Rochester on or about the 12th. On the night in question he took
his yellow carriage and gray horses about nine o'clock and drove
just beyond the Canandaigua jail on the Palmyra road. A party of
five got into the carriage, but he heard no noise and saw no
resistance, nor did he know any of the men. He was told to go on
beyond Rochester, and he took the Lewiston road. On arriving at
Hanford's one of the party got out; he then drove about one
hundred yards beyond the house, stopping near a piece of woods,
where the others who were in the carriage got out, and he turned
around and drove back.

Another man who lived at Lewiston and worked as a stage-driver
said that he was called between ten and twelve o'clock at night
and told to drive a certain carriage into a back street alongside
of another carriage which he found standing there without any
horse attached to it; some men were standing near it. He drove
alongside the carriage, and one or two men got out of it and got
into his hack. He saw no violence, but on stopping at a point
about six miles farther on some of the men got out, and while they
were conversing, some one in the carriage asked for water in a
whining voice, to which one of the men replied, "You shall have
some in a moment." No water was handed to the person in the
carriage, but the men got in, and he drove them on to a point
about half a mile from Fort Niagara, where they told him to stop;
there were no houses there; the party, four in number, got out and
proceeded side by side towards the fort; he drove back with his
carriage.

A man living in Lewiston swore that he went to his door and saw a
carriage coming, which went a little distance farther on, stopping
beside another carriage which was in the street without horses; he
recognized the driver of the carriage and one other man; he
thought something strange was going on and went into his garden,
where he had a good view of what took place in the road; he saw a
man go from the box of the carriage which had driven by to the one
standing in the street and open the door; some one got out
backward with the assistance of two men in the carriage. The
person who was taken out had no hat, but a handkerchief on his
head, and appeared to be intoxicated and helpless. They took him
to the other carriage and all got in. One of the men went back and
took something from the carriage they had left, which seemed to be
a jug, and then they drove off.

At the trial in question the testimony of a man by the name of
Giddins, who had the custody of old Fort Niagara, was not received
because it appeared he had no religious beliefs whatsoever, but
his brother-in-law testified that on a certain night in September,
shortly after the events narrated, he was staying at Giddins's
house, which was twenty or thirty rods from the magazine of the
old fort; that before going to the installation of the lodge at
Lewiston he went with Giddins to the magazine. Previously to
starting out Giddins had a pistol, which he requested the witness
to carry, but witness declined. Giddins had something else with
him, which the witness did not recognize. When they came within
about two rods of the magazine, Giddins went up to the door and
something was said inside the door. A man's voice came from inside
the magazine; witness was alarmed, and thought he had better get
out of the way, and he at once retreated, followed soon after by
Giddins.

From the old records it seemed that the evidence tracing Morgan to
the magazine of old Fort Niagara was satisfactory to court and
jury; but what became of him no man knows. In January, 1827, the
fort and magazine were visited by certain committees appointed to
make investigations, who reported in detail the condition of the
magazine, which seemed to indicate that some one had been confined
therein not long before, and that the prisoner had made violent
and reiterated efforts to force his way out. A good many hearsay
statements were taken to the effect that Morgan was as a matter of
fact put in the magazine and kept there some days.

Governor De Witt Clinton issued three proclamations, two soon
after September, 1826, and the last dated March 19, 1827, offering
rewards for "Authentic information of the place where the said
William Morgan has been conveyed," and "for the discovery of the
said William Morgan, if alive; and, if murdered, a reward of two
thousand dollars for the discovery of the offender or offenders,
etc."

In the autumn of 1827 a body was cast up on the shore of Lake
Ontario near the mouth of Oak Orchard Creek. Mrs. Morgan and a Dr.
Strong identified the body as that of William Morgan by a scar on
the foot and by the teeth.

The identification was disputed; the disappearance of Morgan was
then a matter of politics, and the anti-masons, headed by Thurlow
Weed, originated the saying, "It's a good enough Morgan for us
until you produce the live one," which afterwards become current
political slang in the form, "It's a good enough Morgan until
after election."




CHAPTER NINE THROUGH WESTERN NEW YORK
IN THE MUD

The afternoon was drawing to a close, the rain had partially
subsided, but the trees were heavy with water, and the streets ran
rivulets.

Prudence would seem to dictate remaining in Le Roy over-night,
but, so far as roads are concerned, it is always better to start
out in, or immediately after, a rain than to wait until the water
has soaked in and made the mud deep. A heavy rain washes the
surface off the roads; it is better not to give it time to
penetrate; we therefore determined to start at once.

There was not a soul on the streets as we pulled out a few moments
after five o'clock, and in the entire ride of some thirty miles we
met scarcely more than three or four teams.

We took the road by Bergen rather than through Caledonia; both
roads are good, but in very wet weather the road from Bergen to
Rochester is apt to be better than that from Caledonia, as it is
more sandy.

To Bergen, eight miles, we found hard gravel, with one steep hill
to descend; from Bergen in, it was sandy, and after the rain, was
six inches deep in places with soft mud.

It was slow progress and eight o'clock when we pulled into
Rochester.

We were given rooms where all the noises of street and trolley
could be heard to best advantage; sleep was a struggle, rest an
impossibility.

Hotel construction has quite kept pace with the times, but hotel
location is a tradition of the dark ages, when to catch patrons it
was necessary to get in their way.

At Syracuse the New York Central passes through the principal
hotels,--the main tracks bisecting the dining-rooms, with side
tracks down each corridor and a switch in each bed-room; but this
is an extreme instance.

It was well enough in olden times to open taverns on the highways;
an occasional coach would furnish the novelty and break the
monotony, but people could sleep.

The erection of hotels in close proximity to railroad tracks, or
upon the main thoroughfares of cities where stone or asphalt
pavements resound to every hoof-fall, and where street cars go
whirring and clanging by all night long, is something more than an
anachronism; it is a fiendish disregard of human comfort.

Paradoxical as it may seem,--a pious but garrulous old gentleman
was one time invited to lead in prayer; consenting, he approached
the throne of grace with becoming humility, saying, "Paradoxical
as it may seem, O Lord, it is nevertheless true," etc., the phrase
is a good one, it lingers in the ear,--therefore, once more,
--paradoxical as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that those
who go about all day in machines do not like to be disturbed by
machines at night.

We soon learned to keep away from the cities at night. It is so
much more delightful to stop in smaller towns and villages; your
host is glad to see you; you are quite the guest of honor, perhaps
the only guest; there is a place in the adjoining stable for the
machine; the men are interested, and only too glad to care for it
and help in the morning; the best the house affords is offered; as
a rule the rooms are quite good, the beds clean, and nowadays many
of these small hotels have rooms with baths; the table is plain;
but while automobiling one soon comes to prefer plain country
living.

In the larger cities it costs a fortune in tips before the machine
and oneself are well housed; to enter Albany, Boston, or New York
at night, find your hotel, find the automobile station, find your
luggage, and find yourself, is a bore.

No one who has ever ridden day after day in the country cares
anything about riding in cities; it is as artificial and
monotonous as riding a hunter over pavements. If one could just
approach a city at night, steal into it, enjoy its lights and
shadows, its confusion and strange sounds, all in passing, and
slip through without stopping long enough to feel the thrust of
the reality, it would be delightful. But the charm disappears, the
dream is brought to earth, the vision becomes tinsel when you draw
up in front of a big caravansary and a platoon of uniformed
porters, bell-boys, and pages swoop down upon everything you have,
including your pocket-book; then the Olympian clerk looks at you
doubtfully, puzzled for the first time in his life, does not know
whether you are a mill-hand from Pittsburgh who should be assigned
a hall bed-room in the annex, or a millionaire from Newport who
should be tendered the entire establishment on a silver platter.

The direct road from Rochester to Syracuse is by way of Pittsford,
Palmyra, Newark, Lyons, Clyde, Port Byron, and Camillus, but it is
neither so good nor so interesting as the old roads through Geneva
and Auburn.

In going from Buffalo to Albany _via_ Syracuse, Rochester is to
the north and some miles out of the way; unless one especially
desires to visit the city, it is better to leave it to one side.
Genesee Street out of Buffalo is Genesee Street into Syracuse and
Utica; it is the old highway between Buffalo and Albany, and may
be followed to-day from end to end.

Instead of turning to the northeast at Batavia and going through
Newkirk, Byron, Bergen, North Chili, and Gates to Rochester, keep
more directly east through Le Roy, Caledonia, Avon, and
Canandaigua to Geneva; the towns are old, the hotels, most of
them, good, the roads are generally gravel and the country
interesting; it is old New York. No one driving through the State
for pleasure would think of taking the direct road from Rochester
to Syracuse; the beautiful portions of this western end of the
State are to the south, in the Genesee and Wyoming Valleys, and
through the lake region.

We left Rochester at ten o'clock, Saturday, the 24th, intending to
go east by Egypt, Macedon, Palmyra,--the Oriental route, as my
companion called it; but after leaving Pittsford we missed the
road and lost ourselves among the hills, finding several grades so
steep and soft that we both were obliged to dismount.

An old resident was decidedly of the opinion that the roads to the
southeast were better than those to the northeast, and we turned
from the Nile route towards Canandaigua.

Though the roads were decidedly better, in many places being well
gravelled, the heavy rains of the previous two days made the going
slow, and it was one-thirty before we pulled up at the old hotel
in Canandaigua for dinner.

As the machine had been there before, we were greeted as friends.
The old negro porter is a character,--quite the irresponsible head
of the entire establishment.

"Law's sakes! you heah agen? glad to see you; whar you come from
dis time? Rochester! No, foh sure?--dis mawning?--you doan say so;
that jes' beats me; to think I live to see a thing like that; it's
a reg'lar steam-engine, aint it?"

"Sambo," called out a bystander, making fun of the old darkey, "do
you know what you are looking at?"

"Well, if I doan, den I can't find out frum dis yere crowd."

"What do they call it, Sambo?" some one else asked.

"Sh-sh'h--that's a secret; an' if I shud tell you, you cudn't keep
it."

"Is it yours?"

"I dun sole mine to Mistah Vand'bilt las' week; he name it de
White Ghos'--after me."

"You mean the Black Devil."

"No, I doan; he didn't want to hu't youah feelings; Mistah
Vand'bilt a very consid'rate man."

Sambo carried our things in, talking all the time.

"Now you jes' go right into dinnah; I'll take keer of the
auto'bile; I'll see that nun of those ign'rant folk stannin' roun'
lay their han's on it; they think Sambo doan know an auto'bile;
didn't I see you heah befoh? an' didn't I hole de hose when you
put de watah in? Me an' you are de only two pussons in dis whole
town who knows about de auto'bile,--jes' me an' you."

After dinner we rode down the broad main street and around the
lake to the left in going to Geneva. Barring the fact that the
roads were soft in places, the afternoon's ride was delightful,
the roads being generally very good.

It was about five o'clock when we came to the top of the hills
overlooking Geneva and the silvery lake beyond. It was a sight not
to be forgotten by the American traveller, for this country has
few towns so happily situated as the village of Geneva,--a cluster
of houses against a wooded slope with the lake like a mirror
below.

The little hotel was almost new and very good; the rooms were
large and comfortable. There was but one objection, and that the
location at the very corner of the busiest and noisiest streets.
But Geneva goes to bed early,--even on Saturday nights,--and by
ten or eleven o'clock the streets were quiet, while on Sunday
mornings there is nothing to disturb one before the bells ring for
church.

We were quite content to rest this first Sunday out.

It was so delightfully quiet all the morning that we lounged about
and read until dinner-time. In the afternoon a walk, and in the
evening friends came to supper with us. In a moment of ambitious
emulation of metropolitan customs the small hotel had established
a roof garden, with music two or three evenings a week, but the
innovation had not proven profitable; the roof remained with some
iron framework that once supported awnings, several disconsolate
tables, and some lonesome iron chairs; we visited this scene of
departed glory and obtained a view of the lake at evening.

The irregular outlines of the long shadows of the hills stretched
far out over the still water; beyond these broken lines the
slanting rays of the setting sun fell upon the surface of the
lake, making it to shine like a mass of burnished silver.

Some white sails glimmered in the light far across; near by we
caught the sound of church-bells; the twilight deepened, the
shadows lengthened, the luminous stretch of water grew narrower
and narrower until it disappeared entirely and all was dark upon
the lake, save here and there the twinkle of lights from moving
boats,--shifting stars in the void of night.

The morning was bright as we left Geneva, but the roads, until we
struck the State road, were rough and still muddy from the recent
rains.

It was but a short run to Auburn, and from there into Syracuse the
road is a fine gravel.

The machine had developed a slight pounding and the rear-axle
showed signs of again parting at the differential.

After luncheon the machine was run into a machine shop, and three
hours were spent in taking up the lost motion in the eccentric
strap, at the crank-pin, and in a loose bushing.

On opening up the differential gear case both set-screws holding
the axles were found loose. The factory had been most emphatically
requested to put in larger keys so as to fit the key-ways snugly
and to lock these set-screws in some way--neither of these things
had been done; and both halves of the rear-axle were on the verge
of working out.

Small holes were bored through the set-screws, wires passed
through and around the shoulders of the gears, and we had no
further trouble from this source.

It was half-past five before we left Syracuse for Oneida. The road
is good, and the run of twenty-seven miles was made in little over
two hours, arriving at the small, old-fashioned tavern in Oneida
at exactly seven forty-five.

A number of old-timers dropped into the hotel office that evening
to see what was going on and hear about the strange machine. Great
stories were exchanged on all sides; the glories of Oneida quite
eclipsed the lesser claims of the automobile to fame and
notoriety, for it seemed that some of the best known men of New
York and Chicago were born in the village or the immediate
vicinity; the land-marks remain, traditions are intact, the men
departed to seek their fortunes elsewhere, but their successes are
the town's fame.

The genial proprietor of the hotel carried his seventy-odd years
and two hundred and sixty pounds quite handily in his
shirt-sleeves, moving with commendable celerity from office to
bar-room, supplying us in the front room with information and
those in the back with refreshment.

"So you never heard that those big men were born in this locality.
That's strange; tho't ev'rybody knew that. Why 'Neida has produced
more famous men than any town same size in 'Merika,--Russell Sage,
General New,--comin'" (to those in the bar-room); "say, you
fellers, can't you wait?" As he disappeared in the rear we heard
his rotund voice, "What'll you take? Was jest tellin' that chap
with the threshin'-machine a thing or two about this country. Rye?
no, thet's Bourbon--the reel corn juice--ten years in wood--"

"Mixed across the street at the drug store--ha! ha! ha!"
interrupted some one.

"Don't be faceshus, Sam; this ain't no sody-fountin."

"Where'd that feller cum frum with his steam pianer,--Syr'cuse?"

"Naw! Chicago."

"Great cranberries! you don't say so,--all the way from Chicago!
When did he start?"

"Day 'fore yesterday," replied the old man, and we could hear him
putting back the bottles; a chorus of voices,--

"What!"

"Holy Mo--"

"Day afore yester--say, look here, you're jokin'."

"Mebbe I am, but if you don't believe it, ask him."

"Why Chicago is further'n Buf'lo--an' that's faster'n a train."

"Yes," drawled the old man; "he passed the Empire Express th'
other side Syr'cuse."

"Get out."

"What do you take us fer?"

"Wall, when you cum in, I took you fer fellers who knowed the
diff'rence betwixt whiskey and benzine, but I see my mistake. You
fellers shud buy your alc'hol across the way at the drug store; it
don't cost s' much, and burns better."

"Thet's one on us. Your whiskey is all right, grandpa, the reel
corn juice--ten year in wood--too long in bottl'spile if left over
night, so pull the stopper once more."




CHAPTER TEN THE MOHAWK VALLEY
IN THE VALLEY

On looking over the machine the next morning, Tuesday, the 27th,
the large cap-screws holding the bearings of the main-shaft were
found slightly loose. The wrench with the machine was altogether
too light to turn these screws up as tight as they should be; it
was therefore necessary to have a wrench made from tool steel;
that required about half an hour, but it was time well spent.

The road from Oneida to Utica is very good; rolling but no steep
grades; some sand, but not deep; some clay, but not rough; for the
most part gravel.

The run of twenty miles was quickly made. We stopped only for a
moment to inquire for letters and then on to Herkimer by the road
on the north side of the valley. Returning some weeks later we
came by the south road, through Frankford, between the canal and
the railroad tracks, through Mohawk and Ilion. This is the better
known and the main travelled road; but it is far inferior to the
road on the north; there are more hills on the latter, some of the
grades being fairly steep, but in dry weather the north road is
more picturesque and more delightful in every way, while in wet
weather there is less deep mud.

At Herkimer, eighteen and one-half miles from Utica and
thirty-eight from Oneida, we had luncheon, then inquired for
gasoline. Most astonishing! in the entire village no gasoline to be
had. A town of most respectable size, hotel quite up to date, large
brick blocks of stores, enterprise apparent--but no gasoline. Only
one man handled it regularly, an old man who drove about the country
with his tank-wagon distributing kerosene and gasoline; he had no
place of business but his house, and he happened to be entirely out
of gasoline. In two weeks the endurance run of the Automobile Club
of America would be through there; at Herkimer those in the contest
were to stop for the night,--and no gasoline.

In the entire pilgrimage of over two thousand miles through nine
States and the province of Ontario, we did not find a town or
village of any size where gasoline could not be obtained, and
frequently we found it at cross-road stores,--but not at Herkimer.

Happily there was sufficient gasoline in the tank to carry us on;
besides, we always had a gallon in reserve. At the next village we
found all we needed.

When we returned through Herkimer some weeks later nearly every
store had gasoline.

If hotels, stables, and drug stores, wherever automobiles are apt
to come, would keep a five-gallon can of gasoline on hand, time
and trouble would be saved, and drivers of automobiles would be
only too glad to pay an extra price for the convenience.

The grades of gasoline sold in this country vary from the common
so-called "stove gasoline," or sixty-eight, to seventy-four.

The country dealers are becoming wise in their generation, and all
now insist they keep only seventy-four. As a matter of fact nearly
all that is sold in both cities and country is the "stove
gasoline," because it is kept on hand principally for stoves and
torches, and they do not require higher than sixty-eight. In fact,
one is fortunate if the gasoline tests so high as that.

American machines, as a rule, get along very well with the low
grades, but many of the foreign machines require the better
grades. If a machine will not use commercial stove gasoline, the
only safe thing is to carry a supply of higher grade along, and
that is a nuisance.

It is difficult to find a genuine seventy-four even in the cities,
since it is commonly sold only in barrels. If the exhaust of a
gasoline stationary engine is heard anywhere along the road-side,
stop, for there will generally be found a barrel or two of the
high-grade, and a supply may be laid in.

The best plan, however, is to have a carburetor and motor that
will use the ordinary "stove-grade;" as a matter of fact, it
contains more carbon and more explosive energy if thoroughly
ignited, but it does not make gas so readily in cold weather and
requires a good hot spark.

All day we rode on through the valley, now far up on the
hill-sides, now down by the meadows; past Palatine Church,
Palatine Bridge; through Fonda and Amsterdam to Schenectady.

It was a glorious ride. The road winds along the side of the
valley, following the graceful curves and swellings of the hills.
The little towns are so lost in the recesses that one comes upon
them quite unexpectedly, and, whirling through their one long main
street, catches glimpses of quaint churches and buildings which
fairly overhang the highway, and narrow vistas of lawns, trees,
shrubbery, and flowers; then all is hidden by the next bend in the
road.

During the long summer afternoon we sped onward through this
beautiful valley. Far down on the tracks below trains would go
scurrying by; now and then a slow freight would challenge our
competition; trainmen would look up curiously; occasionally an
engineer would sound a note of defiance or a blast of victory with
his whistle.

The distant river followed lazily along, winding hither and
thither through the lowland, now skirting the base of the hills,
now bending far to the other side as if resentful of such rude
obstructions to its once impetuous will.

Far across on the distant slopes we could see the cattle grazing,
and farther still tiny specks that were human beings like
ourselves moving upon the landscape. Nature's slightest effort
dwarfs man's mightiest achievements. That great railroad with its
many tracks and rushing trains seemed a child's plaything,--a
noisy, whirring, mechanical toy beside the lazy river; for did not
that placid, murmuring, meandering stream in days gone by hollow
out this valley? did not nature in moments of play rear those
hills and carve out those distant mountains? Compared with these
traces of giant handiwork, what are the works of man? just little
putterings for our own convenience, just little utilizations of
waste energies for our own purposes.

One should view nature with the setting sun. It may gratify a
bustling curiosity to see nature at her toilet, but that is the
part of a "Peeping Tom."

The hour of sunrise is the hour for work, it is the hour when
every living thing feels the impulse to do something. The birds do
not fly to the tree-tops to view the morning sun, the animals do
not rush forth from their lairs to watch the landscape lighten
with the morning's glow; no, all nature is refreshed and eager to
be doing, not seeing; acting, not thinking. Man is no exception to
this all-embracing rule; his innate being protests against
idleness; the most secret cells of his organization are charged to
overflowing with energy and demand relief in work.

Morning is not the hour for contemplation; but when evening comes,
as the sun sinks towards the west, and lengthening shadows make it
seem as if all nature were stretching herself in repose, then do
we love to rest and contemplate the rich loveliness of the earth
and the infinite tenderness of the heavens. Every harsh line,
every glare of light, every crude tone has disappeared. We stroke
nature and she purrs. We sink at our ease in a bed of moss and
nature nestles at our side; we linger beside the silvery brook and
it sings to us; we listen attentively to the murmuring trees and
they whisper to us; we gaze upon the frowning hills and they smile
upon us. And by and by as the shadows deepen all outlines are
lost, and we see vaguely the great masses of tone and color;
nature becomes heroic; the petty is dissolved; the insignificant
is lost; hills and trees and streams are blended in one mighty
composition, in the presence of which all but the impalpable soul
of man is as nothing.

We left Schenectady at nine o'clock, taking the Troy road as far
as Latham's Corners, then to the right into Albany.

We reached the city at half-past ten. Albany is not a convenient
place for automobiles. There are no special stations for the
storing of machines, and the stables are most inaccessible on
account of the hills and steep approaches.




CHAPTER ELEVEN THE VALLEY OF LEBANON
THE SICK TURKEY

It was four o'clock, next day, when we left Albany, going down
Green Street and crossing the long bridge, taking the straight
road over the ridges for Pittsfield.

Immediately on leaving the eastern end of the bridge the ascent of
a long steep grade is begun. This is the first ridge, and from
this on for fifteen miles is a succession of ridges, steep rocky
hills, and precipitous declines. These continue until Brainerd is
reached, where the valley of Lebanon begins.

These ridges can be partially avoided by turning down the Hudson
to the right after crossing the bridge and making a detour to
Brainerd; the road is about five miles longer, but is very
commonly taken by farmers going to the city with heavy loads, and
may well be taken by all who wish to avoid a series of stiff
grades.

Many farmers were amazed to hear we had come over the hills
instead of going around, and wondered how the machine managed to
do it.

Popular notions concerning the capabilities of a machine are
interesting; people estimate its strength and resources by those
of a horse. In speaking of roads, farmers seem to assume the
machine--like the horse--will not mind one or two hills, no matter
how steep, but that it will mind a series of grades, even though
none are very stiff.

Steam and electric automobiles do tire,--that is, long pulls
through heavy roads or up grades tell on them,--the former has
trouble in keeping up steam, the latter rapidly consumes its store
of electricity. The gasoline machine does not tire. Within its
limitations it can keep going indefinitely, and it is immaterial
whether it is up or down grade--save in the time made; it will go
all day through deep mud, or up steep hills, quite as smoothly,
though by no means so fast, as on the level; but let it come to
one hole, spot, or hill that is just beyond the limit of its
power, and it is stuck; it has no reserve force to draw upon. The
steam machine can stop a moment, accumulate two or three hundred
pounds of steam, open the throttle and, for a few moments, exert
twice its normal energy to get out of the difficulty.

It is not a series of hills that deters the gasoline operator, but
the one hill, the one grade, the one bad place, which is just
beyond the power he has available. The road the farmer calls good
may have that one bad place or hill in it, and must therefore be
avoided. The road that is pronounced bad may be, every foot of it,
well within the power of the machine, and is therefore the road to
take.

In actual road work the term "horse-power" is very misleading.

When steam-engines in early days began to take the place of
horses, they were rated as so many horse-power according to the
number of horses they displaced. It then became important to find
out what was the power of the horse. Observing the strong dray
horses used by the London breweries, Watt found that a horse could
go two and one-half miles per hour and at the same time raise a
weight of one hundred and fifty pounds suspended by a rope over a
pulley; this is equivalent to thirty-three thousand pounds raised
one foot in one minute, which is said to be one horse-power.

No horse, of course, could raise thirty-three thousand pounds a
foot or any portion of a foot in a minute or an hour, but the
horse can travel at the rate of two and one-half miles an hour
raising a weight of one hundred and fifty pounds, and the horse
can do more; while it cannot move so heavy a weight as
thirty-three thousand pounds, it can in an emergency and by sudden
strain move much more than one hundred and fifty pounds; with good
foothold it can pull more than its own weight along a road, out of a
hole, or up a hill. It could not lift or pull so great a weight very
far; in fact, no farther than the equivalent of approximately
thirty-three thousand pounds raised one foot in one minute; but for
the few seconds necessary a very great amount of energy is at the
command of the driver of the horse. Hence eight horses, or even
four, or two can do things on the road that an eight horse-power
gasoline machine cannot do; for the gasoline machine cannot
concentrate all its power into the exertion of a few moments. If it
is capable of lifting a given load up a given grade at a certain
speed on its lowest gear, it cannot lift twice the load up the same
grade, or the same load up a steeper grade in double the time, for
its resources are exhausted when the limit of the power developed
through the lowest gear is reached. The grade may be only a mud
hole, out of which the rear wheels have to rise only two feet to be
free, but it is as fatal to progress as a hill a mile long.

Of course it is always possible to race the engine, throw in the
clutch, and gain some power from the momentum of the fly-wheel,
and many a bad place may be surmounted step by step in this way;
but this process has its limitations also, and the fact remains
that with a gasoline machine it is possible to carry a given load
only so fast, but if the machine moves it all, it will continue to
move on until the load is increased, or the road changes for the
worse.

When the farmer hears of an eight horse-power machine he thinks of
the wonderful things eight good horses can do on the road, and is
surprised when the machine fails to go up hills that teams travel
every day; he does not understand it, and wonders where the power
comes in. He is not enough of a mechanic to reflect that the eight
horse-power is demonstrated in the carrying of a ton over average
roads one hundred and fifty miles in ten hours, something eight
horses could not possibly do.

Just as we were entering the valley of Lebanon, beyond the village
of Brainerd, while going down a slight descent, my Companion
exclaimed,--

"The wheel is coming off." I threw out the clutch, applied the
brake, looked, and saw the left front wheel roll gracefully and
quite deliberately out from under the big metal mud guard; the
carriage settled down at that corner, and the end of the axle
ploughed a furrow in the road for a few feet, when we came to a
stop.

The steering-head had broken short off at the inside of the hub.
We were not going very fast at the time, and the heavy metal mud
guard which caught the wheel, acting as a huge brake, saved us
from a bad smash.

On examination, the shank of the steering-head was found to
contain two large flaws, which reduced its strength more than
one-half, and the surprising thing was that it had not parted long
before, when subjected to much severer strains.

This was a break that no man could repair on the road. Under
pressure of circumstances the steering-head could have been taken
to the nearest blacksmith shop and a weld made, but that would
require time, and the results would be more than doubtful. By far
the easier thing to do was to wire the factory for a new head and
patiently wait its coming.

Happily, we landed in the hands of a retired farmer, whose
generous hospitality embraced our tired selves as well as the
machine.

Before supper a telegram was sent from Brainerd to the factory for
a new steering-head.

While waiting inside for the operator to finish selling tickets
for the one evening train about to arrive, a curious crowd
gathered outside about my host, and the questions asked were
plainly audible; the names are fictitious.

"What'r ye down t' the stashun fur this hur o' day, Joe?"

"Broke my new aut'mobile," carelessly replied my host, flicking a
fly off the nigh side of his horse.

"Shu!"

"What'r given us?"

"Git out--"

"You ain't got no aut'mobile," chorused the crowd.

"Mebbe I haven't; but if you fellows know an aut'mobile from a hay
rake, you might take a look in my big barn an' let me know what
you see."

"Say, Joe, you're jokin',--hev you really got one?"

"You can look for yourselves."

"I saw one go through here 'bout six o'clock," interrupted a
new-comer. "Great Jehosephat, but 't went like a streak of greased
lightnin'."

"War that your'n, Joe?"

"Well--"

"Naw," said the new-comer, scornfully. "Joe ain't got no
aut'mobile; there's the feller in there now who runs it," and the
crowd turned my way with such interest that I turned to the little
table and wrote the despatch, quite losing the connection of the
subdued murmurs outside; but it was quite evident from the broken
exclamations that my host was filling the populace up with
information interesting inversely to its accuracy.

"Mile a minute--faster'n a train--Holy Moses! what's that, Joe?
broke axle--telegraphed--how many--four more--you don't say so?--
what's his name? I'll bet it's Vanderbilt. Don't you believe it--
it costs money to run one of those machines. I'll bet he's a dandy
from 'way back--stopping at your house--bridal chamber--that's
right--you want to kill the fatted calf for them fellers--say--"

But further comments were cut short as I came out, jumped in, and
we drove back to a good supper by candle-light.

The stars were shining over head, the air was clear and crisp,
down in the valley of Lebanon the mist was falling, and it was
cool that night. Lulled by the monotonous song of the tree-toad
and the deep bass croaking of frogs by the distant stream, we fell
asleep.

There was nothing to do next day. The new steering-head could not
possibly arrive until the morning following. As the farm was
worked by a tenant, our host had little to do, and proposed that
we drive to the Shaker village a few miles beyond.

The visit is well worth making, and we should have missed it
entirely if the automobile had not broken down, for the new State
road over the mountain does not go through the village, but back
of it. From the new road one can look down upon the cluster of
large buildings on the side of the mountain, but the old roads are
so very steep, with such interesting names as "Devil's Elbow," and
the like, that they would not tempt an automobile. Many with
horses get out and walk at the worst places.

One wide street leads through the settlement; on each side are the
huge community buildings, seven in all, each occupied by a
"family," so called, or community, and each quite independent in
its management and enterprises from the others; the common ties
being the meeting-house near the centre and the school-house a
little farther on.

We stopped at the North Family simply because it was the first at
hand, and we were hungry. Ushered into a little reception-room in
one of the outer buildings, we were obliged to wait for dinner
until the party preceding us had finished, for the little
dining-room devoted to strangers had only one table, seating but six
or eight, and it seemed to be the commendable policy of the
institution to serve each party separately.

A printed notice warned us that dinner served after one o'clock
cost ten cents per cover extra, making the extravagant charge of
sixty cents. We arrived just in time to be entitled to the regular
rate, but the dilatory tactics of the party in possession kept us
beyond the hour and involved us in the extra expense, with no
compensation in the shape of extra dishes. Morally and--having
tendered ourselves within the limit--legally we were entitled to
dine at the regular rate, or the party ahead should have paid the
additional tariff, but the good sister could not see the matter in
that light, plead ignorance of law, and relied entirely upon
custom.

The man who picks up a Shaker maiden for a fool will let her drop.

Having waited until nearly famished, the sister blandly told us,
as if it were a matter of local interest, but otherwise of small
consequence, that the North Family were strict vegetarians,
serving no meat whatsoever; the only meat family was at the other
end of the village.

We were ready for meat, for chickens, ducks, green goose, anything
that walked on legs; we were not ready for pumpkin, squash, boiled
potatoes, canned peas, and cabbage; but a theory as well as a
condition confronted us; it was give in or move on. We gave in,
but for fifteen cents more per plate bargained for preserves,
maple syrup, and honey,--for something cloying to deceive the
outraged palate.

But that dinner was a revelation of what a good cook can do with
vegetables in season; it was the quintessence of delicacy, the
refinement of finesse, the veritable apotheosis of the kitchen
garden; meat would have been brutal, the intrusion of a chop
inexcusable, the assertion of a steak barbarous, even a terrapin
would have felt quite out of place amidst things so fragrant and
impalpable as the marvellous preparations of vegetables from that
wonderful Shaker kitchen.

Everything was good, but the various concoctions of sweet corn
were better; and such sweet corn! it is still a savory
recollection.

Then the variety of preserves, jellies, and syrups; fifteen cents
extra were never bestowed to better advantage. We cast our coppers
upon the water and they returned Spanish galleons laden with good
things to eat.

After dining, we were walked through the various buildings, up
stairs and down, through kitchens, pantries, and cellars,--a wise
exercise after so bountiful a repast. In the cellar we drank
something from a bottle labelled "Pure grape juice," one of those
non-alcoholic beverages with which the teetotaler whips the devil
around the stump; another glass would have made Shakers of us all,
for the juice of the grape in this instance was about twenty-five
per cent. proof. If the good sisters supply their worthy brothers
in faith with this stimulating cordial, it is not unlikely that
life in the village is less monotonous than is commonly supposed.
It certainly was calculated to add emphasis to the eccentricities
of even a "Shaking Quaker."

Although the oldest and the wealthiest of all the socialistic
communities, there are only about six thousand Shakers in the
United States, less than one-fourth of what there were in former
times.

At Mt. Lebanon, the first founded of the several societies in this
country, there are seven families, or separate communities, each
with its own home and buildings. The present membership is about
one hundred and twenty, nearly all women,--scarcely enough men to
provide the requisite deacons for each family.

Large and well-managed schools are provided to attract children
from the outside world, and so recruit the diminishing ranks of
the faithful; but while many girls remain, the boys steal away to
the heathen world, where marriage is an institution.

Celibacy is the cardinal principle and the curse of Shakerism; it
is slowly but surely bringing the sect to an end. It takes a lot
of fanaticism to remain single, and fanaticism is in the sere and
yellow leaf. In Massachusetts, where so many women are compelled
to remain single, there ought to be many Shakers; there are a few,
and Mt. Lebanon is just over the line.

Celibacy does not appeal strongly to men. A man is quite willing
to live alone if it is not compulsory, but celibates cannot stand
restraint; the bachelor is bound to have his own way--until he is
married. Tell a man he may not marry, and he will; that he must
marry, and he won't.

The sect which tries to get along with either too little or too
much marriage is bound to peter out. There were John Noyes and
Brigham Young. John founded the Oneida Community upon the
proposition that everything should be in common, including
husbands, wives, and children; from the broadest possible
communism his community has regenerated into the closet of stock
companies "limited," with a capital stock of seven hundred and
fifty thousand dollars, a surplus of one hundred and fifty
thousand, and only two hundred and nineteen stockholders.

In the palmy days of Mormonism the men could have as many wives as
they could afford,--a scheme not without its practical advantages
in the monotonous life of pioneer settlements, since it gave the
women something to quarrel about and the men something to think
about, thereby keeping both out of mischief,--but with the advent
of civilization with its diverse interests, the men of Salt Lake,
urged also by the law, are getting tired of more than one wife at
a time, and the community will soon be absorbed and lost in the
commonplace. The ancient theory of wives in multiples is giving
place to the modern practice of wives in series.

The story is told that a dear Shaker brother once fell from grace
and disappeared in the maelstrom of the carnal world; in a few
years he came back as penitent as he was penniless, with strange
accounts of how men had fleeced him of all he possessed save the
clothes--none too desirable--on his back. Men were so scarce that
the credulous sisters and charitable deacons voted to accept his
tales as true and receive him once more into the fold.

It was in 1770, while in prison in England, that Ann Lee claimed
to have had a great revelation concerning original sin, wherein it
was revealed that a celibate life is a condition precedent to
spiritual regeneration. Her revelation may have been biased by the
fact that she herself was married, but not comfortably.

In 1773, on her release from prison, another revelation told her
to go to America. Her husband did not sympathize with the celibacy
proposition, left "Mother Ann," as she was then known, and went
off with another woman who was unhampered by revelations. This was
the beginning of desertions which have continued ever since, until
the men are reduced to a corporal's guard.

The principles of the Shakers, barring celibacy, are sound and
practical, and, so far as known, they live up to them quite
faithfully. Like the original Oneida community, they believe in
free criticism of one another in open meetings. They admit n

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