THE PENNSYLVANIANS
And then there was this matter of Pennsylvania and its rumored poor
roads to consider, and the smallness and non-celebrity of its
population, considering the vastness of its territory—all of which
consumed at least an hour of words, once we were started. This matter
interested us greatly, for now that we had come to think of it we could
not recall anyone in American political history or art or science who
had come from Pennsylvania. William Penn (a foreigner) occurred to me,
Benjamin Franklin and a certain Civil War governor of the name of
Cameron, and there I stuck. Certain financial geniuses, as Franklin was
quick to point out, had made money there; a Carnegie, Scotchman; Frick,
an American; Widener, an American; Dolan, an Irishman; Elkins, and
others; although, as we both agreed, America could not be vastly proud
of these. The taint of greed or graft seemed to hang heavy in their
wake.
“But where are the poets, writers, painters?” asked Franklin.
I paused. Not a name occurred to me.
“What Pennsylvanian ever did anything?” I asked. “Here is a state one
hundred and sixty miles wide, and more than three hundred miles long
from east to west, and with five or six fair-sized cities in it, and not
a name!” We tried to explain it on the ground that mountainous countries
are never prolific of celebrities, but neither of us seemed to know very
much about mountainous countries, and so we finally dropped the subject.
But what about Pennsylvania, anyhow? Why hasn’t it produced anything in
particular? How many millions of men must live and die before a real
figure arises? Or do we need figures? Are just men better?
The run from the Water Gap to Factoryville was accomplished under
varying conditions. The day promised to be fine, a milky, hazy
atmosphere which was still warm and bright like an opal. We were all in
the best of spirits, Speed whistling gaily to himself as we raced along.
Our way led first through a string of small towns set in great hills or
mountains—Stroudsburg, Bartonsville, Tannersville, Swiftwater. We were
trying to make up our minds as we rode whether we would cut
Wilkes-Barré, since, according to our map, it appeared to be
considerably south of a due west course, or whether, because of its
repute as a coal center, we would go there. Something, a sense of
mountains and picturesque valleys, lured me on. I was for going to
Wilkes-Barré if it took us as much as fifty miles out of our course.
But meanwhile our enjoyment in seeing Pennsylvania was such that we did
not need to worry very much over its lack of human distinction.
Everything appeared to be beautiful to such casual travelers. As we
climbed and climbed out of the Water Gap, we felt a distinct change
between the life of New Jersey and that of this hilly, almost
mountainous land. Great slopes rose on either hand. We came upon long
stretches of woodland and barren, rocky fields. The country houses from
here to Wilkes-Barré, which we finally reached, were by no means so
prosperous. Stroudsburg seemed a stringy, mountain-top town, composed
principally of summer hotels, facing the principal street, hotels and
boarding houses. Bartonsville and Tannersville, both much smaller, were
much the same. The air was much lighter here, almost feathery compared
to that of the lowlands farther east. But the barns and houses and stock
were so poor. At Swiftwater, another small town or crossroads, we came
to a wood so dense, so deep, so black and even purple in its shades that
we exclaimed in surprise. The sun was still shining in its opalescent
way, but in here was a wonder of rare darks and solitudes which seemed
like the depths of some untenanted cathedral at nightfall. And there was
a river or stream somewhere nearby, for stopping the car we could hear
it tumbling over rough stones. We dismounted, quite spontaneously, and
without any “shall we’s,” and wandered into this bit of forest which was
such a splendid natural wonder. Under these heavy cedars and tangled
vines all was still, save for the river, and at the foot of trees, in a
mulch of rich earth, were growing whole colonies of Indian pipes, those
rare fragile, waxylooking orchids. Neither Franklin nor Speed had ever
seen any and I aired my knowledge with great gusto. Speed was quite
taken aback by the fact that they really looked like pipes with a small
fire in their bowls. We sat down—it was too wonderful to leave
instantly. I felt that I must come back here some time and camp.
It was about here that our second blowout occurred. Back in Stroudsburg,
passing through the principal street, I had spied a horseshoe lying in
the road—a new shoe—and jumped out to get it as a sign of good luck. For
this I was rewarded by an indulgent glance from Franklin and
considerable show of sympathetic interest from Speed. The latter
obviously shared my belief in horseshoes as omens of good fortune. He
promptly hung it over the speedometer, but alas, within the next
three-quarters of an hour this first breakdown occurred. Speed was just
saying that now he was sure he would get through safely, and I was
smiling comfortably to think that my life was thus charmingly guarded,
when “whee!”—have you heard a whistle blowout? It sounds like a spent
bullet instead of a revolver shot. Out we climbed to contemplate a large
jagged rent in the rim of the tire and the loss of fifteen minutes. This
rather dampened my ardor for my omen. Luck signs and omens are rather
difficult things at best, for one can really never connect the result
with the fact. I have the most disturbing difficulties with my luck
signs. A cross-eyed man or boy should mean immediate good luck, but
alas, I have seen scores and scores of cross-eyed boys at one time and
another and yet my life seemed to go on no better than usual. Cross-eyed
women should spell immediate disaster, but to my intense satisfaction I
am able to report that this does not seem to be invariably true. Then
Franklin and I sat back in the cushions and began to discuss blowouts in
general and the mystic power of mind to control such matters—the
esoteric or metaphysical knowledge that there is no such thing as evil
and that blowouts really cannot occur.
This brings me again to Christian Science, which somehow hung over this
whole tour, not so much as a religious irritant as a pleasant safeguard.
It wasn’t religious or obtrusive at all. Franklin, as I have said, is
inclined to believe that there is no evil, though he is perfectly
willing to admit that the material appearances seem all against that
assumption at times.
“It’s a curious thing,” he said to me and Speed, “but that makes the
fifth blowout to occur in that particular wheel. All the trouble we have
had this spring and summer has been in that particular corner of the
wagon. I don’t understand it quite. It isn’t because we have been using
poor tires on that wheel or any other. As a matter of fact I put a set
of new Silvertown cord tires on the wheels last May. It’s just that
particular wheel.”
He gazed meditatively at the serene hills around us, and I volunteered
that it might be “just accident.” I could see by Franklin’s face that he
considered it a lesion in the understanding of truth.
“It may be,” he said. “Still you’ll admit it’s a little curious.”
A little later on we ran on to a wonderful tableland, high up in the
mountains, where were a lake, a golf course, a perfect macadam road, and
interesting inns and cottages—quite like an ideal suburban section of a
great city. As we neared a four corners or railway station center I
spied there one of those peculiarly constructed wagons intended
originally to haul hay, latterly to convey straw-ride parties around the
country in mountain resorts—a diversion which seems never to lose its
charm for the young. This one, or rather three, for there turned out to
be three in a row, was surrounded by a great group of young girls, as I
thought, all of them in short skirts and with a sort of gymnasium
costume which seemed to indicate that they were going out to indulge in
outdoor exercises.
As we drew nearer we discovered, however, to our astonishment, that a
fair proportion were women over forty or fifty. It seemed more like a
school with many monitors than a mountain outing.
Contemplating this very modern show of arms and legs, I felt that we had
come a very long way from the puritanic views of the region in which I
had been raised if an inland summer resort permitted this freedom of
appearance. In my day the idea of any woman, young or old, save those
under fourteen, permitting anything more than their shoe tip and ankles
to be seen was not to be thought of. And here were mothers and spinsters
of forty and fifty as freely garbed as any bather at a summer resort.
Speed and Franklin and myself were fascinated by the spectacle. There
was a general store near at hand and Franklin went to buy some
chocolate. Speed sat upright at his wheel and curled his mustachios. I
leaned back and endeavored to pick out the most beautiful of the younger
ones. It was a difficult task. There were many beauties.
By this spectacle we were led to discuss for a few moments whether
sex—the tendency to greater freedom of relationship between men and
women—was taking America or the world in an unsatisfactory direction.
There had been so much talk on the subject of late in the newspapers and
elsewhere that I could not resist sounding Franklin as to his views.
“Are we getting better or worse?” I inquired.
“Oh, better,” he replied with the air of one who has given the matter a
great deal of thought. “I cannot feel that there is any value in
repression, or certainly very little. Life as it appeals to me is a
flowering out, not a recession. If it is flowering it is becoming
richer, fuller, freer. I can see no harm in those girls showing their
legs or in peoples' bodies coming into greater and greater evidence. It
seems to me it will make for a kind of natural innocence after a while.
The mystery will be taken out of sex and only the natural magnetism
left. I never see boys bathing naked in the water but what I wish we
could all go naked if the climate would only permit.” And then he told
me about a group of boys in Carmel whom he had once seen on a rainy day
racing naked upon the backs of some horses about a field near their
swimming hole, their white, rain-washed bodies under lowering clouds
making them look like centaurs and fawns. Personally I follow life, or
like to, with a hearty enthusiasm wherever it leads.
As we were talking, it began to rain, and we decided to drive on more
speedily. A few miles back, after some cogitation at a crossroads, we
had decided to take the road to Wilkes-Barré. I shall never feel
grateful enough for our decision, though for a time it looked as though
we had made a serious mistake. After a time the fine macadam road ended
and we took to a poorer and finally a rutty dirt road. The grades became
steeper and steeper—more difficult to ascend and descend. In a valley
near a bounding stream—Stoddartsville the place was—we had another
blowout—or something which caused a flat tire, in the same right rear
wheel; and this time in a driving rain. We had to get out and help
spread tools in the wet road and hunt leaks in the rubber rim. When this
was repaired and the chains put on the wheels we proceeded, up hill and
down dale, past miles of apparently tenantless woods and rocky fields—on
and on in search of Wilkes-Barré. We had concluded from our maps and
some signs that it must be about thirtysix miles farther. As it turned
out it was nearly seventy. The roads had a tendency to curve downwards
on each side into treacherous hollows, and as I had recently read of an
automobile skidding on one of these, overturning and killing three
people, I was not very giddy about the prospect. Even with the chains
the machine was skidding and our able driver kept his eye fixed on the
road. I never saw a man pay more minute attention to his wheel nor work
harder to keep his machine evenly balanced. A good chauffeur is a jewel,
and Speed was one.
But this ride had other phases than a mere bad road. The clouds were so
lowery and the rain so heavy that for a part of the way we had to have
the storm curtains on. We could see that it was a wonderful country that
we were traversing, deliciously picturesque, but a sopping rain makes
one’s spirits droop. Franklin sat in his corner and I in mine with
scarcely a word. Speed complained at times that we were not making more
than four miles an hour. I began to calculate how long it would take to
get to Indiana at that rate. Franklin began to wonder if we were not
making a mistake trying to cut straight across the poorly equipped state
of Pennsylvania.
“Perhaps it would have been better after all if we had gone up the
Hudson.”
I felt like a criminal trying to wreck a three thousand dollar car.
But beyond a place called Bear Creek things seemed to get better. This
was a town in a deep ravine with a railroad and a thundering stream,
plunging over a waterfall. The houses were charming. It seemed as if
many well-to-do people must live here, for the summer anyhow. But when
we asked for food no one seemed to have any. “Better go to
Wilkes-Barré,” advised the local inn keeper. “It’s only fifteen miles.”
At four miles an hour we would be there in four hours.
Out we started. The rain ceased for a time, though the clouds hung low,
and we took up the storm curtains. It was now nearly two o’clock and by
three it was plain we were nearing Wilkes-Barré. The roads were better;
various railroads running in great cuts came into view. We met miners
with bright tin buckets, their faces as black as coal, their caps
ornamented with their small lamps. There were troops of foreign women
and poorly clad children carrying buckets to or from the mines. Turning
a corner of the road we came suddenly upon one of the most entrancing
things in the way of a view that I have ever seen. There are city scapes
that seem some to mourn and some to sing. This was one that sang. It
reminded me of the pen and ink work of Rops or Vierge or Whistler, the
paintings of Turner and Moran. Low hanging clouds, yellowish or black,
or silvery like a fish, mingled with a splendid filigree of smoke and
chimneys and odd sky lines. Beds of goldenglow ornamented and relieved a
group of tasteless low red houses or sheds in the immediate foreground,
which obviously sheltered the heavy broods of foreign miners and their
wives. The lines of red, white, blue and grey wash, the honking flocks
of white geese, the flocks of pigeons overhead, the paintless black
fences protecting orderly truck gardens, as well as the numerous babies
playing about, all attested this. As we stood there a group of
heavy-hipped women and girls (the stocky peasant type of the
Hungarian-Silesian plains) crossed the foreground with their buckets.
Immense mounds of coal and slag with glimpses of distant breakers
perfected the suggestion of an individual and characterful working
world. Anyhow we paused and applauded while Franklin got his sketching
board and I sauntered to find more, if any, attractive angles. In the
middle distance a tall white skyscraper stood up, a prelude, or a
foretouch to a great yellowish black cloud behind it. A rich, smoky,
sketchy atmosphere seemed to hang over everything.
“Isn’t Walkes-Barré wonderful?” I said to Franklin. “Aren’t you glad now
you’ve come?”
“I am coming down here to paint soon,” he said. “This is the most
wonderful thing I have seen in a long while.”
And so we stood on this hillside overlooking Wilkes-Barré for a
considerable period while Franklin sketched, and finally, when he had
finished and I had wandered a mile down the road to see more, we
entered.