The small window-panes which the poet describes as bearing

"The jovial rhymes, that still remain,

Writ near a century ago,

By the great Major Molineaux,

Whom Hawthorne has immortal made,"

are preserved in frames near the mantel in the parlor, one deeply

scratched by diamond ring with name of Major Molineaux and the

date, "June 24th, 1774," the other bears this inscription,--

"What do you think?

Here is good drink,

Perhaps you may not know it;

If not in haste, Do stop and taste,

You merry folk will show it."

A worthy, though not so gifted, successor of the jolly major

rendered the following "true accomp.," which, yellow and faded,

hangs on the bar-room wall:

"Thursday, August 7, 1777"

L s. d.

Super & Loging . . . . . . . 0 1 4

8th. Brakfast, Dinar and 0 1 9

Super and half mug of tody 0 2 6

9th. Lodging, one glass rum half 0 2 6

& Dinar, one mes oats 0 1 4

Super half mug flyp 0 3 0

10th Brakf.--one dram 0 1 8

Dinner, Lodging, horse-keeping 0 2 0

one mug flyp, horse bating 0 3 0

11th. horse keeping 1

13th. glass rum & Diner 1 8

14th. Horse bating 0 0 6

Horse Jorney 28 miles 0 5 10

A true accomp.--total 1 14 6

William Bradford,

Dilivered to Capt. Crosby 2 2 6

Alas! the major's inscription and the foregoing "accomp." are

hollow mockeries to the thirsty traveller, for there is neither

rum nor "flyp" to be had; the bar is dry as an old cork; the door

of the cupboard into which the jovial Howes were wont to stick the

awl with which they opened bottles still hangs, worn completely

through by the countless jabs, a melancholy reminder of the

convivial hours of other days. The restrictions of more abstemious

times have relegated the ancient bar to dust, the idle awl to

slow-consuming rust.

It is amazing how thirsty one gets in the presence of musty

associations of a convivial character. The ghost of a spree is a

most alluring fellow; it is the dust on the bottle that flavors

the wine; a musty bin is the soul's delight; we drink the vintage

and not the wine.

Drinking is a lost art, eating a forgotten ceremony. The pendulum

has swung from Trimalchio back to Trimalchio. Quality is lost in

quantity. The tables groan, the cooks groan, the guests groan,--

feasting is a nightmare.

Wine is a subject, not a beverage; it is discussed, not drunk; it

is sipped, tasted, and swallowed reluctantly; it lingers on the

palate in fragrant and delicious memory; it comes a bouquet and

departs an aroma; it is the fruition of years, the distillation of

ages; a liquid jewel, it reflects the subtle colors of the

rainbow, running the gamut from a dull red glow to the violet rays

that border the invisible.

But, alas! the appreciation of wine is lost. Everybody serves

wine, no one understands it; everybody drinks it, no one loves it.

From a fragrant essence wine has become a coarse reality,--a

convention. Chablis with the oysters, sherry with the soup,

sauterne with the fish, claret with the roast, Burgundy with the

game,--champagne somewhere, anywhere, everywhere; port, grand, old

ruddy port--that has disappeared; no one understands it and no one

knows when to serve it; while Madeira, that bloom of the vinous

century plant, that rare exotic which ripens with passing

generations, is all too subtle for our untutored discrimination.

And if, perchance, a good wine, like a strange guest, finds its

way to the table, we are at loss how to receive it, how to address

it, how to entertain it. We offend it in the decanting and

distress it in the serving. We buy our wines in the morning and

serve them in the evening to drink the sediment which the more

fastidious wine during long years has been slowly rejecting; we

mix the bright transparent liquid with its dregs and our rough

palates detect no difference. But the lover of wine, the more he

has the less he drinks, until, in the refinement and exaltation of

his taste, it is sufficient to look upon the dust-mantled bottle

and recall the delicious aroma and flavor, the recollection of

which is far too precious to risk by trying anew; he knows that if

a bottle be so much as turned in its couch it must sleep again for

years before it is really fit to drink; he knows how difficult it

is to get the wine out of the bottle clear as ruby or yellow

diamond; he knows that if so much as a speck of sediment gets into

the decanter, to precisely the extent of the speck is the wine

injured.

In serving wines, we of the Western world may learn something from

the tea ceremonies of the Japanese,--ceremonies so elaborate that

to our impatient notions they are infinitely tedious, and yet they

get from the tea all the exquisite delight it contains, and at the

same time invest its serving with a halo of form, tradition, and

association. Surely, if wine is to be taken at all, it is as

precious as a cup of tea; and if taken ceremoniously, it will be

taken moderately.

What is the use of serving good wine? No one recognizes it,

appreciates it, or cares for it. It is served by the butler and

removed by the footman without introduction, greeting, or comment.

The Hon. Sam Jones, from Podunk, is announced in stentorian tones

as he makes his advent, but the gem of the dinner, the treat of

the evening, the flower of the feast, an Haut Brion of '75, or an

Yquem of '64, or a Johannisberger of '61, comes in like a tramp

without a word. Possibly some one of the guests, whose palate has

not been blunted by coarse living or seared by strong drink, may

feel that he is drinking something out of the ordinary, and he may

linger over his glass, loath to sip the last drop; but all the

others gulp their wine, or leave it--with the indifference of

ignorance.

Good wine is loquacious; it is a great traveller and smacks of

many lands; it is a bon vivant and has dined with the select of

the earth; it recalls a thousand anecdotes; it reeks with

reminiscences; it harbors a kiss and reflects a glance, but it is

a silent companion to those who know it not, and it is quarrelsome

with those who abuse it.

It seemed a pity that somewhere about the inn, deep in some long

disused cellar, there were not a few--just a few--bottles of old

wine, a half-dozen port of 1815, one or two squat bottles of

Madeira brought over by men who knew Washington, an Yquem of '48,

a Margaux of '58, a Johannisberger Cabinet--not forgetting the

"Auslese"--of '61, with a few bottles of Romani Conti and Clos de

Vougeot of '69 or '70,--not to exceed two or three dozen all told;

not a plebeian among them, each the chosen of its race, and all so

well understood that the very serving would carry one back to

colonial days, when to offer a guest a glass of Madeira was a

subtle tribute to his capacity and appreciation.

It is a far cry from an imaginary banquet with Lucullus to the New

England Saturday night supper of pork and beans which was spread

before us that evening. The dish is a survival of the rigid

Puritanism which was the affliction and at the same time the

making of New England; it is a fast, an aggravated fast, a scourge

to indulgence, a reproach to gluttony; it comes Saturday night,

and is followed Sunday morning by the dry, spongy, antiseptic,

absorbent fish-ball as a castigation of nature and as a

preparation for the austere observance of the Sabbath; it is the

harsh, but no doubt deserved, punishment of the stomach for its

worldliness during the week; inured to suffering, the native

accepts the dose as a matter of course; to the stranger it seems

unduly severe. To be sent to bed supperless is one of the terrors

of childhood; to be sent to bed on pork and beans with the

certainty of fishballs in the morning is a refinement of torture

that could have been devised only by Puritan ingenuity.

At the very crisis of the trouble in China, when the whole world

was anxiously awaiting news from Pekin, the papers said that

Boston was perturbed by the reported discovery in Africa of a new

and edible bean.

To New England the bean is an obsession; it is rapidly becoming a

superstition. To the stranger it is an infliction; but, bad as the

bean is to the uninitiated, it is a luscious morsel compared with

the flavorless cod-fish ball which lodges in the throat and stays

there--a second Adam's apple--for lack of something to wash it

down.

If pork and beans is the device of the Puritans, the cod-fish ball

is the invention of the devil. It is as if Satan looked on

enviously while his foes prepared their powder of beans, and then,

retiring to his bottomless pit, went them one better by casting

his ball of cod-fish.

"But from the parlor of the inn

A pleasant murmur smote the ear,

Like water rushing through a weir;

Oft interrupted by the din

Of laughter and of loud applause

"The firelight, shedding over all

The splendor of its ruddy glow,

Filled the whole parlor large and low."

The room remains, but of all that jolly company which gathered in

Longfellow's days and constituted the imaginary weavers of tales

and romances, but one is alive to-day,--the "Young Sicilian."

"A young Sicilian, too, was there;

In sight of Etna born and bred,

Some breath of its volcanic air

Was glowing in his heart and brain,

And, being rebellious to his liege,

After Palermo's fatal siege,

Across the western seas he fled,

In good king Bomba's happy reign.

His face was like a summer night,

All flooded with a dusky light;

His hands were small; his teeth shone white

As sea-shells, when he smiled or spoke."

To the present proprietor of the inn the "Young Sicilian" wrote

the following letter:

Rome, July 4, 1898.

Dear Sir,--In answer to your letter of June 8, I am delighted to

learn that you have purchased the dear old house and carefully

restored and put it back in its old-time condition. I sincerely

hope that it may remain thus for a long, long time as a memento of

the days and customs gone by. It is very sad for me to think that

I am the only living member of that happy company that used to

spend their summer vacations there in the fifties; yet I still

hope that I may visit the old Inn once more before I rejoin those

choice spirits whom Mr. Longfellow has immortalized in his great

poem. I am glad that some of the old residents still remember me

when I was a visitor there with Dr. Parsons (the Poet), and his

sisters, one of whom, my wife, is also the only living member of

those who used to assemble there. Both my wife and I remember well

Mr. Calvin Howe, Mr. Parmenter, and the others you mention; for we

spent many summers there with Professor Treadwell (the Theologian)

and his wife, Mr. Henry W. Wales (the Student), and other visitors

not mentioned in the poem, till the death of Mr. Lyman Howe (the

Landlord), which broke up the party. The "Musician" and the

"Spanish Jew," though not imaginary characters, were never guests

at the "Wayside Inn." I remain,

Sincerely yours,

Luigi Monti (the "Young Sicilian").

But there was a "Musician," for Ole Bull was once a guest at the

Wayside,

"Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe,

His figure tall and straight and lithe,

And every feature of his face

Revealing his Norwegian race."

The "Spanish Jew from Alicant" in real life was Israel Edrehi.

The Landlord told his tale of Paul Revere; the "Student" followed

with his story of love:

"Only a tale of love is mine,

Blending the human and divine,

A tale of the Decameron, told

In Palmieri's garden old."

And one by one the tales were told until the last was said.

"The hour was late; the fire burned low,

The Landlord's eyes were closed in sleep,

And near the story's end a deep

Sonorous sound at times was heard,

As when the distant bagpipes blow,

At this all laughed; the Landlord stirred,

As one awaking from a swound,

And, gazing anxiously around,

Protested that he had not slept,

But only shut his eyes, and kept

His ears attentive to each word.

Then all arose, and said 'Good-Night.'

Alone remained the drowsy Squire

To rake the embers of the fire,

And quench the waning parlor light;

While from the windows, here and there,

The scattered lamps a moment gleamed,

And the illumined hostel seemed

The constellation of the Bear,

Downward, athwart the misty air,

Sinking and setting toward the sun.

Far off the village clock struck one."

Before leaving the next morning, we visited the ancient ballroom

which extends over the dining-room. It seemed crude and cruel to

enter this hall of bygone revelry by the garish light of day. The

two fireplaces were cold and inhospitable; the pen at one end

where the fiddlers sat was deserted; the wooden benches which

fringed the sides were hard and forbidding; but long before any of

us were born this room was the scene of many revelries; the vacant

hearths were bright with flame; the fiddlers bowed and scraped;

the seats were filled with belles and beaux, and the stately

minuet was danced upon the polished floor.

The large dining-room and ballroom were added to the house

something more than a hundred years ago; the little old

dining-room and old kitchen in the rear of the bar still remain,

but--like the bar--are no longer used.

The brass name plates on the bedroom doors--Washington, Lafayette,

Howe, and so on--have no significance, but were put on by the

present proprietor simply as reminders that those great men were

once beneath the roof; but in what rooms they slept or were

entertained, history does not record.

The automobile will bring new life to these deserted hostelries.

For more than half a century steam has diverted their custom,

carrying former patrons from town to town without the need of

half-way stops and rests. Coaching is a fad, not a fashion; it is

not to be relied upon for steady custom; but automobiling bids

fair to carry the people once more into the country, and there

must be inns to receive them.

Already the proprietor was struggling with the problem what to do

with automobiles and what to do for them who drove them. He was

vainly endeavoring to reconcile the machines with horses and house

them under one roof; the experiment had already borne fruit in

some disaster and no little discomfort.

The automobile is quite willing to be left out-doors over night;

but if taken inside it is quite apt to assert itself rather

noisily and monopolize things to the discomfort of the horse.

Stables--to rob the horse of the name of his home--must be

provided, and these should be equipped for emergencies.

Every country inn should have on hand gasoline--this is easily

stored outside in a tank buried in the ground--and lubricating

oils for steam and gasoline machines; these can be kept and sold

in gallon cans.

In addition to supplies there should be some tools, beginning with

a good jack strong enough to lift the heaviest machine, a small

bench and vise, files, chisels, punches, and one or two large

wrenches, including a pipe-wrench. All these things can be

purchased for little more than a song, and when needed they are

needed badly. But gasoline and lubricating oils are absolutely

essential to the permanent prosperity of any well-conducted

wayside inn.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN RHODE ISLAND AND CONNECTICUT

CALLING THE FERRY

Next morning, Sunday the 8th, we left the inn at eleven o'clock

for Providence. It was a perfect morning, neither hot nor cold,

sun bright, and the air stirring.

We took the narrow road almost opposite the entrance to the inn,

climbed the hill, threaded the woods, and were soon travelling

almost due south through Framingham, Holliston, Medway, Franklin,

and West Wrentham towards Pawtucket.

That route is direct, the roads are good, the country rolling and

interesting. The villages come in close succession; there are

many quaint places and beautiful homes.

In this section of Massachusetts it does not matter much what

roads are selected, they are all good. Some are macadamized, more

are gravelled, and where there is neither macadam nor gravel, the

roads have been so carefully thrown up that they are good; we

found no bad places at all, no deep sand, and no rough, hard blue

clay.

When we stopped for luncheon at a little village not far from

Pawtucket, the tire which had been put on in Boston was leaking

badly. It was the tire that had been punctured and sent to the

factory for repairs, and the repair proved defective. We managed

to get to Pawtucket, and there tried to stop the leak with liquid

preparations, but by the time we reached Providence the tire was

again flat and--as it proved afterwards--ruined.

Had it not been for the tire, Narragansett Pier would have been

made that afternoon with ease; but there was nothing to do but

wire for a new tire and await its arrival.

It was not until half-past three o'clock Monday that the new one

came from New York, and it was five when we left for the Pier.

The road from Providence to Narragansett Pier is something more

than fair, considerably less than fine; it is hilly and in places

quite sandy. For some distance out of Providence it was dusty and

worn rough by heavy travel.

It was seven o'clock, dark and quite cold, when we drew up in

front of Green's Inn.

The season was over, the Pier quite deserted. A summer resort

after the guests have gone is a mournful, or a delightful, place--

as one views it. To the gregarious individual who seeks and misses

his kind, the place is loneliness itself after the flight of the

gay birds who for a time strutted about in gorgeous plumage

twittering the time away; to the man who loves to be in close and

undisturbed contact with nature, who enjoys communing with the

sea, who would be alone on the beach and silent by the waves, the

flight of the throng is a relief. There is a selfish satisfaction

in passing the great summer caravansaries and seeing them closed

and silent; in knowing that the splendor of the night will not be

marred by garish lights and still more garish sounds.

Were it not for the crowd, Narragansett Pier would be an ideal

spot for rest and recreation. The beach is perfect,--hard, firm

sand, sloping so gradually into deep water, and with so little

undertow and so few dangers, that children can play in the water

without attendants. The village itself is inoffensive, the country

about is attractive; but the crowd--the crowd that comes in

summer--comes with a rush almost to the hour in July, and takes

flight with a greater rush almost to the minute in August,--the

crowd overwhelms, submerges, ignores the natural charms of the

place, and for the time being nature hides its honest head before

the onrush of sham and illusion.

Why do the people come in a week and go in a day? What is there

about Narragansett that keeps every one away until a certain time

each year, attracts them for a few weeks, and then bids them off

within twenty-four hours? Just nothing at all. All attractions the

place has--the ocean, the beach, the drives, the country--remain

the same; but no one dares come before the appointed time, no one

dares stay after the flight begins; no one? That is hardly true,

for in every beautiful spot, by the ocean and in the mountains,

there are a few appreciative souls who know enough to make their

homes in nature's caressing embrace while she works for their pure

enjoyment her wondrous panorama of changing seasons. There are

people who linger at the sea-shore until from the steel-gray

waters are heard the first mutterings of approaching winter; there

are those who linger in the woods and mountains until the green of

summer yields to the rich browns and golden russets of autumn,

until the honk of the wild goose foretells the coming cold; these

and their kind are nature's truest and dearest friends; to them

does she unfold a thousand hidden beauties; to them does she

whisper her most precious secrets.

But the crowd--the crowd--the painted throng that steps to the

tune of a fiddle, that hangs on the moods of a caterer, whose

inspiration is a good dinner, whose aspiration is a new dance,--

that crowd is never missed by any one who really delights in the

manifold attractions of nature.

Not that the crowd at Narragansett is essentially other than the

crowd at Newport--the two do not mix; but the difference is one of

degree rather than kind. The crowd at Newport is architecturally

perfect, while the crowd at Narragansett is in the adobe stage,--

that is the conspicuous difference; the one is pretentious and

lives in structures more or less permanent; the other lives in

trunks, and is even more pretentious. Neither, as a crowd, has

more than a superficial regard for the natural charms of its

surroundings. The people at both places are entirely preoccupied

with themselves--and their neighbors. At Newport a reputation is

like an umbrella--lost, borrowed, lent, stolen, but never

returned. Some one has cleverly said that the American girl,

unlike girls of European extraction, if she loses her reputation,

promptly goes and gets another,--to be strictly accurate, she

promptly goes and gets another's. What a world of bother could be

saved if a woman could check her reputation with her wraps on

entering the Casino; for, no matter how small the reputation, it

is so annoying to have the care of it during social festivities

where it is not wanted, or where, like dogs, it is forbidden the

premises. Then, too, if the reputation happens to be somewhat

soiled, stained, or tattered,--like an old opera cloak,--what

woman wants it about. It is difficult to sit on it, as on a wrap

in a theatre; it is conspicuous to hold in the lap where every one

may see its imperfections; perhaps the safest thing is to do as

many a woman does, ask her escort to look out for it, thereby

shifting the responsibility to him. It may pass through strange

vicissitudes in his careless hands,--he may drop it, damage it,

lose it, even destroy it, but she is reasonably sure that when the

time comes he will return her either the old in a tolerable state

of preservation, or a new one of some kind in its place.

Narragansett possesses this decided advantage over Newport, the

people do not know each other until it is too late. For six weeks

the gay little world moves on in blissful ignorance of antecedents

and reputations; no questions are asked, no information

volunteered save that disclosed by the hotel register,--

information frequently of apocryphal value. The gay beau of the

night may be the industrious clerk of the morrow; the baron of the

summer may be the barber of the winter; but what difference does

it make? If the beau beaus and the baron barons, is not the

feminine cup of happiness filled to overflowing? the only

requisite being that beau and baron shall preserve their incognito

to the end; hence the season must be short in order that no one's

identity may be discovered.

At Newport every one labors under the disadvantage of being

known,--for the most part too well known. How painful it must be

to spend summer after summer in a world of reality, where the

truth is so much more thrilling than any possible fiction that

people are deprived of the pleasure of invention and the

imagination falls into desuetude. At Narragansett every one is

veneered for the occasion,--every seam, scar, and furrow is hidden

by paint, powder, and rouge; the duchess may be a cook, but the

count who is a butler gains nothing by exposing her.

The very conditions of existence at Newport demand the exposure of

every frailty and every folly; the skeleton must sit at the feast.

There is no room for gossip where the facts are known. Nothing is

whispered; the megaphone carries the tale. What a ghastly society,

where no amount of finery hides the bald, the literal truth; where

each night the same ones meet and, despite the vain attempt to

deceive by outward appearances, relentlessly look each other

through and through. Of what avail is a necklace of pearls or a

gown of gold against such X-ray vision, such intimate knowledge of

one's past, of all one's physical, mental, and moral shortcomings?

The smile fades from the lips, the hollow compliment dies on the

tongue, for how is it possible to pretend in the presence of those

who know?

At Narragansett friends are strangers, in Newport they are

enemies; in both places the quality of friendship is strained. The

two problems of existence are, Whom shall I recognize? and, Who

will recognize me? A man's standing depends upon the women he

knows; a woman's upon the women she cuts. At a summer resort

recognition is a fine art which is not affected by any prior

condition of servitude or acquaintance. No woman can afford to

sacrifice her position upon the altar of friendship; in these

small worlds recognition has no relation whatsoever to friendship,

it is rather a convention. If your hostess of the winter passes

you with a cold stare, it is a matter of prudence rather than

indifference; the outside world does not understand these things,

but is soon made to.

Women are the arbiters of social fate, and as such must be

placated, but not too servilely. In society a blow goes farther

than a kiss; it is a warfare wherein it does not pay to be on the

defensive; those are revered who are most feared; those who nail

to their mast the black flag and show no quarter are the

recognized leaders,--Society is piracy.

Green's Inn was cheery, comfortable, and hospitable; but then the

season had passed and things had returned to their normal routine.

The summer hotel passes through three stages each season,--that of

expectation, of realization, and of regret; it is unpleasant

during the first stage, intolerable during the second, frequently

delightful during the third. During the first there is a period

when the host and guest meet on a footing of equality; during the

second the guest is something less than a nonentity, an humble

suitor at the monarch's throne; during the third the conditions

are reversed, and the guest is lord of all he is willing to

survey. It is conducive to comfort to approach these resorts

during the last stage,--unless, of course, they happen to be those

ephemeral caravansaries which close in confusion on the flight of

the crowd; they are never comfortable.

The best road from Boston to New York is said to be by way of

Worcester, Springfield, and through central Connecticut via

Hartford and New Haven; but we did not care to retrace our wheels

to Worcester and Springfield, and we did want to follow the shore;

but we were warned by many that after leaving the Pier we would

find the roads very bad.

As a matter of fact, the shore road from the Pier to New Haven is

not good; it is hilly, sandy, and rough; but it is entirely

practicable, and makes up in beauty and interest what it lacks in

quality.

We did not leave Green's Inn until half-past nine the morning

after our arrival, and we reached New Haven that evening at

exactly eight,--a delightful run of eighty or ninety miles by the

road taken.

The road is a little back from the shore and it is anything but

straight, winding in and out in the effort to keep near the coast.

Nearly all day long we were in sight of the ocean; now and then

some wooded promontory obscured our view; now and then we were

threading woods and valleys farther inland; now and then the road

almost lost itself in thickets of shrubbery and undergrowth, but

each time we would emerge in sight of the broad expanse of blue

water which lay like a vast mirror on that bright and still

September day.

We ferried across the river to New London. At Lyme there is a very

steep descent to the Connecticut River, which is a broad estuary

at that point. The ferry is a primitive side-wheeler, which might

carry two automobiles, but hardly more. It happened to be on the

far shore. A small boy pointed out a long tin horn hanging on a

post, the hoarse blast of which summons the sleepy boat.

There was no landing, and it seemed impossible for our vehicle to

get aboard; but the boat had a long shovel-like nose projecting

from the bow which ran upon the shore, making a perfect

gang-plank.

Carefully balancing the automobile in the centre so as not to list

the primitive craft, we made our way deliberately to the other

side, the entire crew of two men--engineer and captain--coming out

to talk with us.

The ferries at Lyme and New London would prove great obstacles to

anything like a club from New York to Newport along this road; the

day would be spent in getting machines across the two rivers.

It was dark when we ran into the city. This particular visit to

New Haven is chiefly memorable for the exceeding good manners of a

boy of ten, who watched the machine next morning as it was

prepared for the day's ride, offered to act as guide to the place

where gasoline was kept, and, with the grace of a Chesterfield,

made good my delinquent purse by paying the bill. It was all

charmingly and not precociously done. This little man was well

brought up,--so well brought up that he did not know it.

The automobile is a pretty fair touchstone to manners for both

young and old. A man is himself in the presence of the unexpected.

The automobile is so strange that it carries people off their

equilibrium, and they say and do things impulsively, and therefore

naturally.

The odd-looking stranger is ever treated with scant courtesy and

unbecoming curiosity; the strange machine fares no better. The man

or the boy who is not unduly curious, not unduly aggressive, not

unduly loquacious, not unduly insistent, who preserves his poise

in the presence of an automobile, is quite out of the ordinary,--

my little New Haven friend was of that sort.

It is a beautiful ride from New Haven to New York, and to it we

devoted the entire day, from half-past eight until half-past

seven.

At Norwalk the people were celebrating the two hundred and

fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the town; the hotel where

we dined may have antedated the town a century or two.

Later in the afternoon, while wheeling along at twenty miles an

hour, we caught a glimpse of a signpost pointing to the left and

reading, "To Sound Beach." The name reminded us of friends who

were spending a few weeks there; we turned back and made them a

flying call.

Again a little farther on we stopped for gasoline in a dilapidated

little village, and found it was Mianus, which we recalled as the

home of an artist whose paintings, full of charm and tender

sentiment, have spread the fame of the locality and river. It was

only a short run of two or three miles to the orchard and hill

where he has his summer home, and we renewed an acquaintance made

several years before.

It is interesting to follow an artist's career and note the

changes in manner and methods; for changes are inevitable; they

come to high and low alike. The artist may not be conscious that

he no longer sees things and paints things as he did, but time

tells and the truth is patent to others. But changes of manner and

changes of method are fundamentally unlike. Furthermore, changes

of either manner or method may be unconscious and natural, or

conscious and forced.

For the most part, an artist's manner changes naturally and

unconsciously with his environment and advancing years; but in the

majority of instances changes in method are conscious and forced,

made deliberately with the intention--frequently missed--of doing

better. One painter is impressed with the success of another and

strives to imitate, adopts his methods, his palette, his key, his

color scheme, his brush work, and so on;--these conscious efforts

of imitation usually result in failures which, if not immediately

conspicuous, soon make their shortcomings felt; the note being

forced and unnatural, it does not ring true.

A man may visit Madrid without imitating Velasquez; he may live in

Harlem without consciously yielding to Franz Hals; he may spend

days with Monet without surrendering his independence; but these

strong contacts will work their subtle effects upon all

impressionable natures; the effects, however, may be wrought

unconsciously and frequently against the sturdy opposition of an

original nature.

No painter could live for a season in Madrid without being

affected by the work of Velasquez; he might strive against the

influence, fight to preserve his own eccentric originality and

independence, but the very fact that for the time being he is

confronted with a force, an influence, is sufficient to affect his

own work, whether he accepts the influence reverentially or

rejects it scoffingly.

There is infinitely more hope for the man who goes to Madrid, or

any other shrine, in a spirit of opposition,--supremely

egotistical, supremely confident of his own methods, disposed to

belittle the teaching and example of others,--than there is for

the man who goes to servilely copy and imitate. The disposition to

learn is a good thing, but in all walks of life, as well as in

art, it may be carried too far. No man should surrender his

individuality, should yield that within him which is peculiarly

and essentially his own. An urchin may dispute with a Plato, if

the urchin sticks to the things he knows.

Between the lawless who defy all authority and the servile who

submit to all influences, there are the chosen few who assert

themselves, and at the same time clearly appreciate the strength

of those who differ from them. The urchin painter may assert

himself in the presence of Velasquez, providing he keeps within

the limits of his own originality.

It is for those who buy pictures to look out for the man who

arbitrarily and suddenly changes his manner or method; he is as a

cork tossed about on the surface of the waters, drifting with

every breeze, submerged by every ripple, fickle and unstable; if

his work possess any merit, it will be only the cheap merit of

cleverness; its brilliancy will be simply the gloss of dash.

It requires time to absorb an impression. Distance diminishes the

force of attraction. The best of painters will not regain

immediately his equilibrium after a winter in Florence or in Rome.

The enthusiasm of the hour may bring forth some good pictures, but

the effect of the impression will be too pronounced, the copy will

be too evident. Time and distance will modify an impression and

lessen the attraction; the effect will remain, but no longer

dominate.

It was so dark we could scarcely see the road as we approached New

York.

How gracious the mantle of night; like a veil it hides all

blemishes and permits only fair outlines to be observed. Details

are lost in vast shadows; huge buildings loom up vaguely towards

the heavens, impressive masses of masonry; the bridges, outlined

by rows of electric lights, are strings of pearls about the throat

of the dusky river. The red, white, and green lights of invisible

boats below are so many colored glow-worms crawling about, while

the countless lights of the vast city itself are as if a

constellation from above had settled for the time being on the

earth beneath.

It is by night that the earth communes with the universe. During

the blinding brightness of the day our vision penetrates no

farther than our own great sun; but at night, when our sun has run

its course across the heavens, and we are no longer dazzled by its

overpowering brilliancy, the suns of other worlds come forth one

by one until, as the darkness deepens, the vault above is dotted

with these twinkling lights. Dim, distant, beacons of suns and

planets like our own, what manner of life do they contain? what

are we to them? what are they to us? Is there aught between us

beyond the mechanical laws of repulsion and attraction? Is there

any medium of communication beyond the impalpable ether which

brings their light? Are we destined to know each other better by

and by, or does our knowledge forever end with what we see on a

cloudless night?

It was Wednesday evening, September 11, when we arrived in New

York. The Endurance Contest organized by the Automobile Club of

America had started for Buffalo on Monday morning, and the papers

each day contained long accounts of the heartbreaking times the

eighty-odd contestants were having,--hills, sand, mud, worked

havoc in the ranks of the faithful, and by midweek the automobile

stations in New York were crowded with sick and wounded veterans

returning from the fray.

The stories told by those who participated in that now famous run

possessed the charm of novelty, the absorbing fascination of

fiction.

Once upon a time, two fishermen, who were modestly relating

exploits, paused to listen to three chauffeurs who began

exchanging experiences. After listening a short time, the

fishermen, hats in hand, went over to the chauffeurs and said, "On

behalf of the Ancient and Honorable Order of Fishermen, which from

time immemorial has held the palm for large, generous, and

unrestricted stories of exploits, we confess the inadequacy of our

qualifications, the bald literalness of our narratives, the sober

and unadorned realism of our tales, and abdicate in favor of the

new and most promising Order of Chauffeurs; may the blessing of

Ananias rest upon you."

It is not that those who go down the pike in automobiles intend to

prevaricate, or even exaggerate, but the experience is so

extraordinary that the truth is inadequate for expression and

explanation. It seems quite impossible to so adjust our

perceptions as to receive strictly accurate impressions;

therefore, when one man says he went forty miles an hour, and

another says he went sixty, the latter assertion is based not upon

the exact speed,--for that neither knows,--but upon the belief of

the second man that he went much faster than the other. The exact

speeds were probably about ten and fifteen miles an hour

respectively; but the ratio is preserved in forty and sixty, and

the listening layman is deeply impressed, while no one who knows

anything about automobiling is for a moment deceived. At the same

time, in fairness to guests and strangers within the gates, each

club ought to post conspicuously the rate of discount on

narratives, for not only do clubs vary in their departures from

literal truth, but the narratives are greatly affected by seasons

and events; for instance, after the Endurance Contest the discount

rate in the Automobile Club of America was exceedingly high.

Every man who started finished ahead of the others,--except those

who never intended to finish at all. Each man went exactly as far

as he intended to go, and then took the train, road, or ditch

home. Some intended to go as far as Albany, others to Frankfort,

while quite a large number entered the contest for the express

purpose of getting off in the mud and walking to the nearest

village; a few, a very few, intended to go as far as Buffalo.

At one time or another each made a mile a minute, and a much

higher rate of speed would have been maintained throughout had it

not been necessary to identify certain towns in passing. Nothing

happened to any machine, but one or two required a little oiling,

and several were abandoned by the roadside because their occupants

had stubbornly determined to go no farther. One man who confessed

that a set-screw in his goggles worked loose was expelled from the

club as too matter-of-fact to be eligible for membership, and the

maker of the machine he used sent four-page communications to each

trade paper explaining that the loosening of the set-screw was due

to no defect in the machine, but was entirely the fault of the

driver, who jarred the screw loose by winking his eye.

Each machine surmounted Nelson Hill like a bird,--or would have,

if it had not been for the machine in front. There were those who

would have made the hill in forty-two seconds if they had not

wasted valuable time in pushing. The pitiful feat of the man who

crawled up at the rate of seventeen miles an hour was quite

discounted by the stories of those who would have made it in half

that time if their power had not oozed out in the first hundred

yards.

Then there was mud along the route, deep mud. According to

accounts, which were eloquently verified by the silence of all who

listened, the mud was hub deep everywhere, and in places the

machines were quite out of sight, burrowing like moles. Some took

to the tow-path along the canal, others to trolley lines and

telegraph wires.

Each man ran his own machine without the slightest expert

assistance; the men in over-alls with kits of tools lurking along

the roadside were modern brigands seeking opportunities for

hold-ups; now and then they would spring out upon an unoffending

machine, knock it into a state of insensibility, and abuse it most

unmercifully. A number of machines were shadowed throughout the

run by these rascals, and several did not escape their clutches,

but perished miserably. In one instance a babe in arms drove one

machine sixty-two miles an hour with one hand, the other being

occupied with a nursing-bottle.

There were one hundred and fifty-six dress-suit cases on the run,

but only one was used, and that to sit on during high tide in

Herkimer County, where the mud was deepest.

It would be quite superfluous to relate additional experience

tales, but enough has been told to illustrate the necessity of a

narrative discount notice in all places where the clans gather.

All men are liars, but some intend to lie,--to their credit, be it

said, chauffeurs are not among the latter.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN ANARCHISM

"BULLETINS FROM THE CHAMBER OF DEATH"

During these days the President was dying in Buffalo, though the

country did not know it until Friday.

Wednesday and Thursday the reports were so assuring that all

danger seemed past; but, as it turned out afterwards, there was

not a moment from the hour of the shooting when the fatal

processes of dissolution were not going on. Not only did the

resources of surgery and medicine fail most miserably, but their

gifted prophets were unable to foretell the end. Bulletins of the

most reassuring character turned out absolutely false. After it

was all over, there was a great deal of explanation how it

occurred and that it was inevitable from the beginning; but the

public did not, and does not, understand how the learned doctors

could have been so mistaken Wednesday and so wise Friday; and yet

the explanation is simple,--medicine is an art and surgery far

from an exact science. No one so well as the doctors knows how

impossible it is to predict anything with any degree of assurance;

how uncertain the outcome of simple troubles and wounds to say

nothing of serious; how much nature will do if left to herself,

how obstinate she often proves when all the skill of man is

brought to her assistance.

On Friday evening, and far into the night, Herald Square was

filled with a surging throng watching the bulletins from the

chamber of death. It was a dignified end. There must have been a

good deal of innate nobility in William McKinley. With all his

vacillation and infirmity of political purpose, he must have been

a man whose mind was saturated with fine thoughts, for to the very

last, in those hours of weakness when the will no longer sways and

each word is the half-unconscious muttering of the true self, he

shone forth with unexpected grandeur and died a hero.

Late in the evening a bulletin announced that when the message of

death came the bells would toll. In the midst of the night the

city was roused by the solemn pealing of great bells, and from the

streets below there came the sounds of flying horses, of moving

feet, of cries and voices. It seemed as if the city had been held

in check and was now released to express itself in its own

characteristic way. The wave of sound radiated from each newspaper

office and penetrated the most deserted street, the most secret

alley, telling the people of the death of their President.

Anarchy achieved its greatest crime in the murder of President

McKinley while he held the hand of his assassin in friendly grasp.

Little wonder this country was roused as never before, and at this

moment the civilized world is discussing measures for the

suppression, the obliteration, of anarchists, but we must take

heed lest we overshoot the mark.

Three Presidents--Lincoln, Garfield, and McKinley--have been

assassinated, but only the last as the result of anarchistic

teachings. The crime of Booth had nothing to do with anarchy; the

crime of half-witted Guiteau had nothing to do with anarchy; but

the deliberate crime of the cool and self-possessed Czolgoscz was

the direct outcome of the "propaganda of action."

Because, therefore, three Presidents have been assassinated, we

must not link the crimes together and unduly magnify the dangers

of anarchy. At most the two early crimes could only serve to

demonstrate how easy it is to reach and kill a President of the

United States, and therefore the necessity for greater safeguards

about his person is trebly demonstrated. The habit of handshaking,

at best, has little to recommend it; with public men it is a

custom without excuse. The notion that men in public life must

receive and mingle with great masses of people, or run the risk of

being called undemocratic, is a relic of the political dark ages.

The President of the United States is an executive official, not a

spectacle; he ought to be a very busy man, just a plain,

hard-working servant of the people,--that is the real democratic

idea. There is not the slightest need for him to expose himself to

assault. In the proper performance of his duties he ought to keep

somewhat aloof. The people have the right to expect that in their

interest he will take good care of himself.

As for anarchism, that is a political theory that possesses the

minds of a certain number of men, some of them entirely

inoffensive dreamers, and anarchism as a theory can no more be

suppressed by law than can any other political or religious

theory. The law is efficacious against acts, but powerless against

notions. But anarchism in the abstract is one thing and anarchism

in the concrete is another. It is one thing to preach anarchy as

the final outcome of progress, it is quite another thing to preach

anarchy as a present rule of conduct. The distinction must be

observed, for while the law is helpless against theories, it is

potent against the practical application of theories.

In a little book called "Politics for Young Americans," written

with most pious and orthodox intent by the late Charles Nordhoff,

the discussion of government begins with the epigram,--by no means

original with Nordhoff,--"Governments are necessary evils."

Therein lurks the germ of anarchism,--for if evil, why should

governments be necessary? The anarchist is quick to admit the

evil, but denies the necessity; and, in sooth, if government is an

evil, then the sooner it is dispensed with the better.

When Huxley defines anarchy as that "state of society in which the

rule of each individual by himself is the only government the

legitimacy of which is recognized," and then goes on to say, "in

this sense, strict anarchy may be the highest conceivable grade of

perfection of social existence; for, if all men spontaneously did

justice and loved mercy, it is plain that the swords might

advantageously be turned into ploughshares, and that the

occupation of judges and police would be gone," he lends support

to the theoretical anarchist. For if progress means the gradual

elimination of government and the final supremacy of the

individual, then the anarchist is simply the prophet who keeps in

view and preaches the end. If anarchy is an ideal condition, there

always will be idealists who will advocate it.

But government is necessary, and just because it is necessary

therefore it cannot be an evil. Hospitals are necessary, and just

because they are necessary therefore they cannot be evils. Places

for restraining the insane and criminal are necessary, and

therefore not evil.

The weaknesses of humanity may occasion these necessities; but the

evil, if any, is inherent in the constitution of man and not in

the social organization. It is the individual and not society that

has need of government, of hospitals, of asylums, of prisons.

Anarchy does not involve, as Huxley suggests, "the highest

conceivable grade of perfection of social existence." Not at all.

What it does involve is the highest conceivable grade of

individual existence; in fact, of a grade so high that it is quite

beyond conception,--in short, it involves human perfectibility.

Anarchy proper involves the complete emancipation of every

individual from all restraints and compulsions; it involves a

social condition wherein absolutely no authority is imposed upon

any individual, where no requirement of any kind is made against

the will of any member--man, woman, or child; where everything is

left to individual initiation.

So far from such a "state of society" being "the highest

conceivable grade of perfection of social existence," it is not

conceivable at all, and the farther the mind goes in attempting to

grasp it, the more hopelessly dreary does the scheme become.

When men spontaneously do justice and love mercy, as Huxley

suggests, and when each individual is mentally, physically, and

morally sound, as he must be to support and govern himself, then,

and not till then, will it be possible to dispense with

government; but even then it is more conceivable than otherwise

that these perfect individuals would--as a mere division of labor,

as a mere matter of economy--adopt and enforce some rules and

regulations for the benefit of all; it would be necessary to do so

unless the individuals were not only perfect, but also absolutely

of one mind on all subjects relating to their welfare. Can the

imagination picture existence more inane?

But regardless of what the mentally, physically, and morally

perfect individuals might do after attaining their perfection,

anarchy assumes the millennium,--and the millennium is yet a long

way off. If the future of anarchy depends upon the physical,

mental, and moral perfection of its advocates, the outlook is

gloomy indeed, for a theory never had a following more imperfect

in all these respects.

The patent fact that most governments, both national and local,

are corruptly, extravagantly, and badly administered tends to

obscure our judgment, so that we assent, without thinking, to the

proposition that government is an evil, and then argue that it is

a necessary evil. But government is not evil because there are

evils incidental to its administration. Every human institution

partakes of the frailties of the individual; it could not be

otherwise; all social institutions are human, not superhuman.

With progress it is to be hoped that there will be fewer wars,

fewer crimes, fewer wrongs, so that government will have less and

less to do and drop many of its functions,--that is the sort of

anarchy every one hopes for; that is the sort of anarchy the late

Phillips Brooks had in mind when he said, "He is the benefactor of

his race who makes it possible to have one law less. He is the

enemy of his kind who would lay upon the shoulders of arbitrary

government one burden which might be carried by the educated

conscience and character of the community."

But assume that war is no more and armies are disbanded; that

crimes are no more and police are dismissed; that wrongs are no

more and courts are dissolved,--what then?

My neighbor becomes slightly insane, is very noisy and

threatening; my wife and children, who are terrorized, wish him

restrained; but his friends do not admit that he is insane, or,

admitting his peculiarities, insist my family and I ought to put

up with them; the man himself is quite sane enough to appreciate

the discussion and object to any restraint. Now, who shall decide?

Suppose the entire community--save the man and one or two

sympathizing cranks--is clearly of the opinion the man is insane

and should be restrained, who is to decide the matter? and when it

is decided, who is to enforce the decision by imposing the

authority of the community upon the individual? If the community

asserts its authority in any manner or form, that is government.

If every institution, including government, were abolished

to-morrow, the percentage of births that would turn out blind,

crippled, and feeble both mentally and physically, wayward,

eccentric, and insane would continue practically the same, and the

community would be obliged to provide institutions for these

unfortunates, the community would be obliged to patrol the streets

for them, the community would be obliged to pass upon their

condition and support or restrain them; in short, the abolished

institutions--including tribunals of some kind, police, prisons,

asylums--would be promptly restored.

The anarchist would argue that all this may be done by voluntary

association and without compulsion; but the man arrested, or

confined in the insane asylum against his will, would be of a

contrary opinion. The debate might involve his friends and

sympathizers until in every close case--as now--the community

would be divided in hostile camps, one side urging release of the

accused, the other urging his detention. Who is to hold the scale

and decide?

The fundamental error of anarchists, and of most theorists who

discuss "government" and "the state," lies in the tacit assumption

that "government" and "the state" are entities to be dealt with

quite apart from the individual; that both may be modified or

abolished by laws or resolutions to that effect.

If anything is clearly demonstrated as true, it is that both

"government" and "the state" have been evolved out of our own

necessities; neither was imposed from without, but both have been

evolved from within; both are forms of co-operation. For the time

being the "state" and "government," as well as the "church" and

all human institutions, may be modified or seemingly abolished,

but they come back to serve essentially the same purpose. The

French Revolution was an organized attempt to overturn the

foundations of society and hasten progress by moving the hands of

the clock forward a few centuries,--the net result was a despotism

the like of which the world has not known since the days of Rome.

Anarchy as a system is a bubble, the iridescent hues of which

attract, but which vanish into thin air on the slightest contact

with reality; it is the perpetual motion of sociology; the fourth

dimension of economies; the squaring of the political circle.

The apostles of anarchy are a queer lot,--Godwin in England,

Proudhon, Grave, and Saurin in France, Schmidt ("Stirner"),

Faucher, Hess, and Marr in Germany, Bakunin and Krapotkin in

Russia, Reclus in Belgium, with Most and Tucker in America, sum up

the principal lights,--with the exception of the geographer

Reclus, not a sound and sane man among them; in fact, scarcely any

two agree upon a single proposition save the broad generalization

that government is an evil which must be eliminated. Until they do

agree upon some one measure or proposition of practical

importance, the world has little to fear from their discussions

and there is no reason why any attempt should be made to suppress

the debate. If government is an evil, as so many men who are not

anarchists keep repeating, then the sooner we know it and find the

remedy the better; but if government is simply one of many human

institutions developed logically and inevitably to meet conditions

created by individual shortcomings, then government will tend to

diminish as we correct our own failings, but that it will entirely

disappear is hardly likely, since it is inconceivable that men on

this earth should ever attain such a condition of perfection that

possibility of disagreement is absolutely and forever removed.

Anarchism as a doctrine, as a theory, involves no act of violence

any more than communism or socialism.

Between the assassination of a ruler and the doctrine of anarchy

there is no necessary connection. The philosophic anarchist simply

believes anarchy is to be the final result of progress and

evolution, just as the communist believes that communism will be

the outcome; neither theorist would see the slightest advantage in

trying to hasten the slow but sure progress of events by deeds of

violence; in fact, both theorists would regret such deeds as

certain to prove reactionary and retard the march of events.

The world has nothing to fear from anarchism as a theory, and up

to thirty or forty years ago it was nothing but a theory.

The "propaganda of action" came out of Russia about forty years

ago, and is the offspring of Russian nihilism.

The "propaganda of action" is the protest of impatience against

evolution; it is the effort to hasten progress by deeds of

violence.

From the few who, like Bakunin, Brousse, and Krapotkin, have

written about the "propaganda of action" with sufficient coherence

to make themselves understood, it appears that it is not their

hope to destroy government by removing all executive heads,--even

their tortured brains recognize the impossibility of that task;

nor do they hope to so far terrify rulers as to bring about their

abdication. Not at all; but they do hope by deeds of violence to

so attract attention to the theory of anarchy as to win

followers;--in other words, murders such as those of Humbert,

Carnot, and President McKinley were mere advertisements of

anarchism. In the words of Brousse, "Deeds are talked of on all

sides; the indifferent masses inquire about their origin, and thus

pay attention to the new doctrine and discuss it. Let men once get

as far as this, and it is not hard to win over many of them."

Hence, the greater the crime the greater the advertisement; from

that point of view, the shooting of President McKinley, under

circumstances so atrocious, is so far the greatest achievement of

the "propaganda of action."

It is worth noting that the "reign of terror" which the Nihilists

sought to and did create in Russia was for a far more practical

and immediate purpose. They sought to terrify the government into

granting reforms; so far from seeking to annihilate the

government, they sought to spur it into activity for the benefit

of the masses.

The methods of the Nihilists, without the excuse of their object,

were borrowed by the more fanatical anarchists, and applied to the

advertising of their belief. Since the adoption of the "propaganda

of action" by the extremists, anarchism has undergone a great

change. It has passed from a visionary and harmless theory, as

advocated by Godwin, Proudhon, and Reclus, to a very concrete

agency of crime and destruction under the teachings of such as

Bakunin, Krapotkin, and Most; not forgetting certain women like

Louise Michel in France and Emma Goldman in this country who out-

Herod Herod;--when a woman goes to the devil she frightens him;

his Satanic majesty welcomes a man, but dreads a woman; to a woman

the downward path is a toboggan slide, to a man it is a gentle but

seductive descent.

It is against the "propaganda of action" that legislation must be

directed, not because it is any part of anarchism, but because it

is the propaganda of crime.

Laws directed towards the suppression of anarchism might result in

more harm than good, but crime is quite another matter. It is one

thing to advocate less and less of government, to preach the final

disappearance of government and the evolution of anarchy; it is a

fundamentally different thing to advocate the destruction of life

or property as a means to hasten the end.

The criminal action and the criminal advice must be dissociated

entirely from any political or social theory. It does not matter

what a man's ultimate purpose may be; he may be a communist or a

socialist, a Republican or a Democrat, a Presbyterian or an

Episcopalian; when he advises, commits, or condones a murder, his

conduct is not measured by his convictions,--unless, of course, he

is insane; his advice is measured by its probable and actual

consequences; his deeds speak for themselves.

A man is not to be punished or silenced for saying he believes in

anarchy, his convictions on that point are a matter of

indifference to those who believe otherwise. But a man is to be

punished for saying or doing things which result in injuring

others; and the advice, whether given in person to the individual

who commits the deed, or given generally in lecture or print, if

it moves the individual to action, is equally criminal.

On August 20, 1886, eight men were found guilty of murder in

Chicago, seven were condemned to death and one to the

penitentiary; four were afterwards hanged, one killed himself in

jail, and three were imprisoned.

These men were convicted of a crime with which, so far as the

evidence showed, they had no direct connection; but their

speeches, writings, and conduct prior to the actual commission of

the crime had been such that they were held guilty of having

incited the murder.

During the spring of 1886 there were many strikes and a great deal

of excitement growing out of the "eight-hour movement in Chicago."

There was much disorder. On the evening of May 4 a meeting was

held in what was known as Haymarket Square, at this meeting three

of the condemned made speeches. About ten o'clock a platoon of

police marched to the Square, halted a short distance from the

wagon where the speakers were, and an officer commanded the

meeting to immediately and peaceably disperse. Thereupon a bomb

was thrown from near the wagon into the ranks of the policemen,

where it exploded, killing and wounding a number.

The man who threw the bomb was never positively identified, but it

was probably one Rudolph Schnaubelt, who disappeared. At all

events, the condemned were not connected with the actual throwing;

they were convicted upon the theory that they were co-conspirators

with him by reason of their speeches, writings, and conduct which

influenced his conduct.

An even broader doctrine of liability is announced in the

following paragraph from the opinion of the Supreme Court of

Illinois:

"If the defendants, as a means of bringing about the social

revolution and as a part of the larger conspiracy to effect such

revolution, also conspired to excite classes of workingmen in

Chicago into sedition, tumult, and riot, and to the use of deadly

weapons and the taking of human life, and for the purpose of

producing such tumult, riot, use of weapons and taking of life,

advised and encouraged such classes by newspaper articles and

speeches to murder the authorities of the city, and a murder of a

policeman resulted from such advice and encouragement, then

defendants are responsible therefor."

It is the logical application of this proposition that will defeat

the "propaganda of action." If it be enacted that any man who

advocates the commission of any criminal act, or who afterwards

condones the crime, shall be deemed guilty of an offence equal to

that advocated or condoned and punished accordingly, the

"propaganda of action" in all branches of criminal endeavor will

be effectually stifled without the doubtful expedient of directing

legislation against any particular social or economic theory.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN NEW YORK TO BUFFALO

UP THE HILL

It was Saturday, the 14th, at nine o'clock, when we left New York

for Albany, following the route of the Endurance Contest.

The morning was bright and warm. The roads were perfect for miles.

We passed Kings Bridge, Yonkers, Hastings, and Dobbs Ferry flying.

At Tarrytown we dropped the chain. A link had parted. Pushing the

machine under the shade of a tree, a half-hour was spent in

replacing the chain and riveting in a new link. All the pins

showed more or less wear, and a new chain should have been put on

in New York, but none that would fit was to be had.

We dined at Peekskill, and had a machinist go over the chain,

riveting the heads of the pins so none would come out again.

Nelson Hill, a mile and a half beyond Peekskill, proved all it was

said to be,--and more.

In the course of the trip we had mounted hills that were worse,

and hills that were steeper, but only in spots or for short

distances; for a steady steep climb Nelson Hill surpassed anything

we found in the entire trip. The hill seems one-half to

three-quarters of a mile long, a sharp ascent,--somewhat steeper

about half-way up than at the beginning or finish. Accurate

measurements were made for the Endurance Contest and the results

published.

The grade was just a little too much for the machine, with our

luggage and ourselves. It was tiresome walking so far beside the

machine, and in attempting to bring it to a stop for a moment's

rest the machine got started backward, and was well on its way

down the hill, gaining speed every fraction of a second. It was a

short, sharp chase to catch the lever operating the emergency

brake,--which luckily operated by being pushed forward from the

seat,--a pull on the lever and the machine was brought to a stop

with the rear wheels hanging over the edge of a gulley** at the

side. After that experience the machine was allowed to go to the

top without any more attempts to rest.

At Fishkill Village we saved a few miles and some bad road by

continuing on to Poughkeepsie by the inland road instead of going

down to the Landing.

We inquired the way from an old man, who said, "If you want to go

to P'keepsie, follow the road just this side the post-office; you

will save a good many miles, and have a good road; if you want to

follow the other fellers, then keep straight on down to the

Landing; but why they went down there, beats me."

It was six-thirty when we arrived at Poughkeepsie. As the next day

would be Sunday, we made sure of a supply of gasoline that night.

Up to this point the roads, barring Nelson Hill, and the weather

had been perfect, but conditions were about to change for the

worse.

Sunday morning was gray and drizzly. We left at eight-thirty. The

roads were soft and in places very slippery; becoming much worse

as we approached Albany, where we arrived at half-past three.

There we should have stopped. We had come seventy-five miles in

seven hours, including all stops, over bad roads, and that should

have sufficed; but it was such an effort to house the machine in

Albany and get settled in rooms, that we decided to go on at least

as far as Schenectady.

To the park it was all plain sailing on asphalt and macadam, but

from the park to the gate of the cemetery and to the turn beyond

the mud was so deep and sticky it seemed as if the machine could

not possibly get through. If we had attempted to turn about, we

would surely have been stuck; there was nothing to do but follow

the best ruts and go straight on, hoping for better things. The

dread of coming to a standstill and being obliged to get out in

that eight or ten inches of uninviting mud was a very appreciable

factor in our discomfort. Fortunately, the clutch held well and

the motor was not stalled. When we passed the corner beyond the

cemetery the road was much better, though still so soft the high

speed could be used only occasionally.

The tank showed a leak, which for some reason increased so rapidly

that a pail of water had to be added about every half-mile. At

last a pint of bran poured into the tank closed the leak in five

minutes.

On reaching Latham it was apparent that Schenectady could not be

made before dark, if at all, so we turned to the right into Troy.

We had made the two long sides of a triangle over the worst of

roads; whereas, had we run from Albany direct to Troy, we could

have followed a good road all the way.

The next morning was the 16th of September, the sun was shining

brightly and the wind was fresh; the roads were drying every

moment, so we did not hurry our departure.

The express office in Albany was telephoned for a new chain that

had been ordered, and in about an hour it was delivered. The

machine was driven into a side street in front of a metal roofing

factory, the tank taken out and so thoroughly repaired it gave no

further trouble. It was noon before the work was finished, for the

new chain and a new belt to the pump had to be put on, and many

little things done which consumed time.

At two o'clock we left Troy. The road to Schenectady in good

weather is quite good, but after the rain it was heavy with

half-dried mud and deep with ruts. From Schenectady to Fonda,

where we arrived at six-thirty, the roads were very bad; however,

forty-five miles in four hours and a half was fairly good travelling

under the adverse conditions. If the machine had been equipped with

an intermediate gear, an average of twelve or fifteen miles could

have been easily made. The going was just a little too heavy for the

fast speed and altogether too easy for the low, and yet we were

obliged to travel for hours on the low gear.

From New York to Buffalo there is a succession of cities and

villages which are, for the most part, very attractive, but good

hotels are scarce, and as for wayside inns there are none. With

the exception of Albany and one or two other cities the hotels are

old, dingy, and dirty. Here and there, as in Geneva, a new hotel

is found, but to most of the cities the hotels are a disgrace.

The automobile, however, accustoms one to discomforts, and one

gets so tired and hungry at night that the shortcomings of the

village hotel are overlooked, or not fully realized until seen the

next morning by the frank light of day.

Fonda is the occasion of these remarks upon New York hotels.

It was cloudy and threatening when we left Fonda at half-past

seven the next morning, and by ten the rain began to fall so

heavily and steadily that the roads, none too dry before, were

soon afloat.

It was slow going. At St. Johnsville we stopped to buy heavier

rubber coats. It did not seem possible we would get through the

day without coming to a stop, but, strange to relate, the machine

kept on doggedly all day, on the slow gear nearly every mile,

without a break of any kind.

It was bad enough from St. Johnsville to Herkimer, but the worst

was then to come.

When we came east from Utica to Herkimer, we followed the road on

the north side of the valley, and recalled it as hilly but very

dry and good. The Endurance Contest was out of Herkimer, through

Frankfort and along the canal on the south side of the valley. It

was a question whether to follow the road we knew was pretty good

or follow the contest route, which presumably was selected as the

better.

A liveryman at Herkimer said, "Take my advice and keep on the

north side of the valley; the road is hilly, but sandy and drier;

if you go through Frankfort, you will find some pretty fierce

going; the road is level but cut up and deep with mud,--keep on

the north side."

We should have followed that advice, the more so since it

coincided with our own impressions; but at the store where we

stopped for gasoline, a man who said he drove an automobile

advised the road through Frankfort as the better.

It was in Frankfort that several of the contestants in the

endurance run came to grief,--right on the main street of the

village. There was no sign of pavement, macadam, or gravel, just

deep, dark, rich muck; how deep no one could tell; a road so bad

it spoke volumes for the shiftlessness and lack of enterprise

prevailing in the village.

A little beyond Frankfort there is about a mile of State road,

laid evidently to furnish inhabitants an object lesson,--and laid

in vain.

A little farther on the black muck road leads between the canal

and towpath high up on the left, and a high board fence protecting

the railroad tracks on the right; in other words, the highway was

the low ground between two elevations. The rains of the week

before and the rains of the last two days had converted the road

into a vast ditch. We made our way slowly into it, and then

seizing an opening ran up on to the towpath, which was of sticky

clay and bad enough, but not quite so discouraging as the road. We

felt our way along carefully, for the machine threatened every

moment to slide either into the canal on the left or down the bank

into the road on the right.

Soon we were obliged to turn back to the road and take our chances

on a long steady pull on the slow gear. Again and again it seemed

as if the motor would stop; several times it was necessary to

throw out the clutch, let the motor race, and then throw in the

clutch to get the benefit of both the motor and the momentum of

the two-hundred pound fly-wheel; it was a strain on the chain and

gears, but they held, and the machine would be carried forward ten

or twelve feet by the impetus; in that way the worst spots were

passed.

Towards Utica the roads were better, though we nearly came to

grief in a low place just outside the city.

It required all Wednesday morning to clean and overhaul the

machine. Every crevice was filled with mud, and grit had worked

into the chain and every exposed part. There was also some lost

motion to be taken up to stop a disagreeable pounding. The strain

on the new chain had stretched it so a link had to be taken out.

It was two o'clock before we left Utica. A little beyond the

outskirts of the city the road forks, the right is the road to

Syracuse, and it is gravelled most of the way. Unfortunately, we

took the left fork, and for seven miles ploughed through red clay,

so sticky that several times we just escaped being stalled. It was

not until we reached Clinton that we discovered our mistake and

turned cross country to the right road. The cross-road led through

a low boggy meadow that was covered with water, and there we

nearly foundered. When the hard gravel of the turnpike was

reached, it was with a feeling of irritation that we looked back

upon the time wasted in the horrible roads we need not have taken.

The day was bright, and every hour of sun and wind improved the

roads, so that by the time we were passing Oneida Castle the going

was good. It was dark when we passed through Fayetteville; a

little beyond our reserve gallon of gasoline was put in the tank

and the run was made over the toll-road to Syracuse on "short

rations."

A well-kept toll-road is a boon in bad weather, but to the driver

of an automobile the stations are a great nuisance; one is

scarcely passed before another is in sight; it is stop, stop,

stop. There are so many old toll-roads upon which toll is no

longer collected that one is apt to get in the habit of whizzing

through the gates so fast that the keepers, if there be any, have

no time to come out, much less to collect the rates.

It was cold the next morning when we started from Syracuse, and it

waxed colder and colder all day long.

The Endurance Contest followed the direct road to Rochester, going

by way of Port Byron, Lyons, Palmyra, and Pittsford. That road is

neither interesting nor good. Even if one is going to Rochester,

the roads are better to the south; but as we had no intention of

visiting the city again, we took Genesee Street and intended to

follow it into Buffalo.

The old turnpike leads to the north of Auburn and Seneca Falls,

but we turned into the Falls for dinner. In trying to find and

follow the turnpike we missed it, and ran so far to the north that

we were within seven or eight miles of Rochester, so near, in

fact, that at the village of Victor the inhabitants debated

whether it would not be better to run into Rochester and thence to

Batavia by Bergen rather than southwest through Avon and

Caledonia.

Having started out with the intention of passing Rochester, we

were just obstinate enough to keep to the south. The result was

that for nearly the entire day the machine was laboring over the

indifferent roads that usually lie just between two main travelled

highways. It was not until dusk that the gravelled turnpike

leading into Avon was found, and it was after seven when we drew

up in front of the small St. George Hotel.

The glory of Avon has departed. Once it was a great resort, with

hotels in size almost equal to those now at Saratoga. The Springs

were famous and people came from all parts of the country. The

hotels are gone, some burned, some destroyed, but old registers

are preserved, and they bear the signatures of Webster, Clay, and

many noted men of that generation.

The Springs are a mile or two away; the water is supposed to

possess rare medicinal virtues, and invalids still come to test

its potency, but there is no life, no gayety; the Springs and the

village are quite forlorn.

At the St. George we found good rooms and a most excellent supper.

In the office after supper, with chairs tipped back and legs

crossed, the older residents told many a tale of the palmy days of

Avon when carriages filled the Square and the streets were gay

with people in search of pleasure rather than health.

It was a quick run the next morning through Caledonia to Le Roy

over roads hard and smooth as a floor.

Just out of Le Roy we met a woman, with a basket of eggs, driving

a horse that seemed sobriety itself. We drew off to one side and

stopped the machine to let her pass. The horse stopped, and

unfortunately she gave a "yank" on one of the reins, turning the

horse to one side; then a pull on the other rein, turning the

horse sharply to the other side. This was too much for the animal,

and he kept on around, overturning the light buck-board and

upsetting the woman, eggs, and all into the road. The horse then

kicked himself free and trotted off home.

The woman, fortunately, was not injured, but the eggs were, and

she mournfully remarked they were not hers, and that she was

taking them to market for a neighbor. The wagon was slightly

damaged. Relieved to find the woman unhurt, the damage to wagon

and eggs was more than made good; then we took the woman home in

the automobile,--her first ride.

It does not matter how little to blame one may be for a runaway;

the fact remains that were it not for the presence of the

automobile on the road the particular accident would not have

occurred. The fault may be altogether on the side of the

inexperienced or careless driver, but none the less the driver of

the automobile feels in a certain sense that he has been the

immediate cause, and it is impossible to describe the feeling of

relief one experiences when it turns out that no one is injured.

A machine could seldom meet a worse combination than a fairly

spirited horse, a nervous woman, and a large basket of eggs. With

housewifely instincts, the woman was sure to think first of the

eggs.

We stopped at Batavia for dinner, and made the run into Buffalo in

exactly two hours, arriving at four o'clock.

We ran the machine to the same station, and found unoccupied the

same rooms we had left four weeks and two days before. It seemed

an age since that Wednesday, August 24, when we started out, so

much had transpired, every hour had been so eventful. Measured by

the new things we had seen and the strange things that had

happened, the interval was months not weeks.

A man need not go beyond his doorstep to find a new world; his own

country, however small, is a universe that can never be fully

explored. And yet such is the perversity of human nature that we

know all countries better than our own; we travel everywhere

except at home. The denizens of the earth in their wanderings

cross each other en route like letters; all Europe longs to see

Niagara, all America to see Mont Blanc, and yet whoever sees the

one sees the other, for the grandeur of both is the same. It does

not matter whether a vast volume of water is pouring over the

sharp edge of a cliff, or a huge pile of scarred and serrated rock

rises to the heavens, the grandeur is the same; it is not the

outward form we stand breathless before, but the forces of nature

which produce every visible and invisible effect. The child of

nature worships the god within the mountains and the spirit behind

the waters; whereas we in our great haste observe only the outward

form, see only the falling waters and the towering peaks.

It is good for every man to come at least once in his life in

contact with some overpowering work of nature; it is better for

most men to never see but one; let the memory linger, let not the

impression be too soon effaced, rather let it sink deep into the

heart until it becomes a part of life.

Steam has impaired the imagination. Such is the facility of modern

transportation that we ride on the ocean to-day and sit at the

feet of the mountains to-morrow.

Nowadays we see just so much of nature as the camera sees and no

more; our vision is but surface deep, our eyes are but two clear,

bright lenses with nothing behind, not even a dry plate to record

the impressions. It is a physiological fact that the cells of the

brain which first receive impressions from the outward organs of

sense may be reduced to a condition of comparative inactivity by

too rapid succession of sights, sounds, and other sensations. We

see so much that we see nothing. To really see is to fully

comprehend, therefore our capacity for seeing is limited. No man

has really seen Niagara, no man has ever really seen Mont Blanc;

for that matter, no man has even fully comprehended so much as a

grain of sand; therefore the universe is at one's doorstep.

Nature is a unit; it is not a whole made up of many diverse parts,

but is a whole which is inherent in every part. No two persons see

the same things in a blossoming flower; to the botanist it is one

thing, to the poet another, to the painter another, to the child a

bit of bright color, to the maiden an emblem of love, to the

heart-broken woman a cluster of memories; to no two is it

precisely the same.

The longer we look at anything, however simple, the deeper it

penetrates into our being until it becomes a part of us. In time

we learn to know the tree that shades our porch, but years elapse

before we are on friendly terms, and a lifetime is spent before

the gnarled giant admits us to intimate companionship. Trees are

filled with reserve; when denuded of their neighbors, they stand

in melancholy solitude until the leaves fall for the last time,

until their branches wither, and their trunks ring hollow with

decay.

And if we never really see or know or understand the nature which

is about us, how is it possible that we should ever comprehend the

people we meet? What is the use of trying to know an Englishman or

a Frenchman when we do not know an American? What is the use of

struggling with the obstacle of a foreign tongue, when our own

will not suffice for the communication of thoughts? The only light

that we have is at home; travellers are men groping in the dark;

they fancy they see much, but for the most part they see nothing.

No great teacher has ever been a great traveller. Buddha,

Confucius, and Mahomet never left the confines of their respective

countries. Plato lived in Athens; Shakespeare travelled between

London and Stratford; these great souls found it quite sufficient

to know themselves and the vast universe as reflected from the

eyes of those about them. But then they are the exceptions.

For most men--including geniuses--travel and deliberate

observation are good, since most men will not observe at home.

Such is the singularity of our nature that we ignore the

interesting at home to study the commonplace abroad. We never

notice a narrow and crooked street in Boston or lower New York,

whereas a narrow and crooked street in London fills us with an

ecstasy of delight. We never visit the Metropolitan Art Museum,

but we cross Europe to visit galleries of lesser interest. We

choose a night boat down the majestic Hudson, and we suffer untold

discomforts by day on crowded little boats paddling down the

comparatively insignificant Rhine.

Every country possesses its own peculiar advantages and beauties.

There is no desert so barren, no mountains so bleak, no woods so

wild that to those who dwell therein their home is not beautiful.

The Esquimau would not exchange his blinding waste of snow and

dark fields of water for the luxuriance of tropic vegetation. Why

should we exchange the glories of the land we live in for the

footworn and sight-worn, the thumbed and fingered beauties of

other lands? If we desire novelty and adventure, seek it in the

unexplored regions of the great Northwest; if we crave grandeur,

visit the Yellowstone and the fastnesses of the Rockies; if we

wish the sublime, gaze in the mighty chasm of the Cañon of the

Colorado, where strong men weep as they look down; if we seek

desolation, traverse the alkali plains of Arizona where the trails

are marked by bones of men and beasts; but if the heart yearns for

beauty more serene, go forth among the habitations of men where

fields are green and sheltering woods offer refuge from the

noonday sun, where rivers ripple with laughter, and the great

lakes smile in soft content.

Unhappy the man who does not believe his country the best on earth

and his people the chosen of men.

The promise of automobiling is knowledge of one's own land. The

confines of a city are stifling to the sport; the machine snorts

with impatience on dusty pavements filled with traffic, and seeks

the freedom of country roads. Within a short time every hill and

valley within a radius of a hundred miles is a familiar spot; the

very houses become known, and farmers shout friendly greetings as

the machine flies by, or lend helping hands when it is in

distress.

Within a season or two it will be an every-day sight to see people

journeying leisurely from city to city; abandoned taverns will be

reopened, new ones built, and the highways, long since deserted by

pleasure, will once more be gay with life.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THROUGH CANADA HOME

HOME

We left Buffalo, Saturday the 20th, at four o'clock for St.

Catharines. At the Bridge we were delayed a short time by

customs formalities.

In going out of the States it is necessary to enter the machine

for export and return, otherwise on coming in again the officials

on our side will collect duty on its full value.

On crossing to the Canadian side, it is necessary to enter the

machine and pay the duty of thirty per cent. on its valuation. The

machine is entered for temporary use in Canada, under a law

providing for the use of bicycles, hunting and fishing outfits,

and sporting implements generally, and the port at which you

intend to go out is named; a receipt for the duty deposited is

given and the money is either refunded at the port of exit or the

machine is simply identified by the officials, and remittance made

upon returning the receipt to the port of entry.

It is something of a bother to deposit thirty per cent. upon the

valuation of an automobile, but the Canadian officials are

obliging; and where it is clearly apparent that there is no

intention of selling the machine in the province, they are not

exacting as to the valuation; a two-thousand-dollar machine may be

valued pretty low as second-hand. If, however, anything should

occur which would make it desirable to leave or sell the machine

in Canada, a re-entry at full market valuation should be made

immediately, otherwise the machine is--very properly--subject to

confiscation.

Parties running across the river from Buffalo for a day's run are

not bothered at all. The officials on both sides let the machines

pass, but any one crossing Canada would better comply with all

regulations and save trouble.

It was six o'clock when we arrived at St. Catharines. The Wendell

Hotel happens to be a mineral water resort with baths for

invalids, and therefore much better as a hotel than most Canadian

houses; in fact, it may be said once for all, that Canadian

hotels, with the exception of two or three, are very poor; they

are as indifferent in the cities as in the smaller towns, being

for the most part dingy and dirty.

But what Canada lacks in hotels she more than makes up in roads.

Miles upon miles of well-made and well-kept gravel roads cross the

province of Ontario in every direction. The people seem to

appreciate the economy of good hard highways over which teams can

draw big loads without undue fatigue.

We left St. Catharines at nine o'clock Sunday morning, taking the

old Dundas road; this was a mistake, the direct road to Hamilton

being the better. Off the main travelled roads we found a good

deal of sand; but that was our fault, for it was needless to take

these little travelled by-ways. Again, out of Hamilton to London

we did not follow the direct and better road; this was due to

error in directions given us at the drug store where we stopped

for gasoline.

Gasoline is not so easily obtained in Canada as in the States; it

is not to be had at all in many of the small villages, and in the

cities it is not generally kept in any quantity. One drug store in

Hamilton had half-a-dozen six-ounce bottles neatly put up and

labelled "Gasoline: Handle with Care;" another had two gallons,

which we purchased. The price was high, but the price of gasoline

is the very least of the concerns of automobiling.

On the way to London a forward spring collapsed entirely. Binding

the broken leaves together with wire we managed to get in all

right, but the next morning we were delayed an hour while a

wheelwright made a more permanent repair.

Monday, the 22d, was one of the record days. Leaving London at

half-past nine we took the Old Sarnia Gravel for Sarnia, some

seventy miles away. With scarcely a pause, we flew over the superb

road, hard gravel every inch of it, and into Sarnia at one o'clock

for luncheon.

Over an hour was spent in lunching, ferrying across the river, and

getting through the two custom-houses.

Canada is an anachronism. Within the lifetime of men now living,

the Dominion will become a part of the United States; this is fate

not politics, evolution not revolution, destiny not design. How it

will come about no man can tell; that it will come about is as

certain as fate.

With an area almost exactly that of the United States, Canada has

a population of but five millions, or about one-fifteenth the

population of this country. Between 1891 and 1901 the population

of the Dominion increased only five hundred thousand, or about ten

per cent., as against an increase of fourteen millions, or

twenty-one per cent., in this country.

For a new country in a new world Canada stagnates. In the decade

referred to Chicago alone gained more in population than the

entire Dominion. The fertile province of Ontario gained but

fifty-four thousand in the ten years, while the States of Michigan,

Indiana, and Ohio, which are near by, gained each nearly ten times

as much; and the gain of New York, lying just across the St.

Lawrence, was over twelve hundred thousand. The total area of

these four States is about four-fifths that of Ontario, and yet

their increase of population in ten years more than equals the

entire population of the province.

In population, wealth, industries, and resources Ontario is the

Dominion's gem; yet in a decade she could attract and hold but

fifty-odd thousand persons,--not quite all the children born

within her borders.

All political divisions aside, there is no reason in the world why

population should be dense on the west bank of the Detroit River

and sparse on the east; why people should teem to suffocation to

the south of the St. Lawrence and not to the north.

These conditions are not normal, and sooner or later must change.

It is not in the nature of things that this North American

continent should be arbitrarily divided in its most fertile midst

by political lines, and by and by it will be impossible to keep

the multiplying millions south of the imaginary line from surging

across into the rich vacant territory to the north. The outcome is

inevitable; neither diplomacy nor statecraft can prevent it.

When the population of this country is a hundred or a hundred and

fifty millions the line will have disappeared. There may be a

struggle of some kind over some real or fancied grievance, but,

struggle or no struggle, it is not for man to oppose for long

inevitable tendencies. In the long run, population, like water,

seeks its level; in adjacent territories, the natural advantages

and attractions of which are alike, the population tends strongly

to become equally dense; political conditions and differences in

race and language may for a time hold this tendency in check, but

where race and language are the same, political barriers must soon

give way.

All that has preserved Canada from absorption up to this time is

the existence of those mighty natural barriers, the St. Lawrence

and the great lakes. As population increases in the Northwest,

where the dividing line is known only to surveyors, the situation

will become critical. Already the rush to the Klondike has

produced trouble in Alaska. The aggressive miners from this side,

who constitute almost the entire population, submit with ill-grace

to Canadian authority. They do not like it, and Dawson or some

near point may yet become a second Johannesburg.

In all controversies so far, Canada has been as belligerent as

England has been conciliatory. With rare tact and diplomacy

England has avoided all serious differences with this country over

Canadian matters without at the same time offending the pride of

the Dominion; just how long this can be kept up no man can tell;

but not for more than a generation to come, if so long.

So far as the people of Canada are concerned, practically all

would be opposed to any form of annexation. The great majority of

the people are Englishmen at heart and very English in thought,

habit, speech, and accent; they are much more closely allied to

the mother country than to this; and they are exceedingly

patriotic.

They do not like us because they rather fear us,--not physically,

not as man against man,--but overwhelming size and increasing

importance, fear for the future, fear what down deep in their

hearts many of them know must come. Their own increasing

independence has taught them the sentimental and unsubstantial

character of the ties binding them to England, and yet they know

full well that with those ties severed their independence would

soon disappear.

Michigan roads are all bad, but some are worse than others.

About Port Huron is sand. Out of the city there is a rough stone

road made of coarse limestone; it did not lead in the direction we

wished to go, but by taking it we were able to get away from the

river and the lake and into a country somewhat less sandy.

Towards evening, while trying to follow the most direct road into

Lapeer, and which an old lady said was good "excepting one hill,

which isn't very steep," we came to a hill which was not steep,

but sand, deep, bottomless, yellow sand. Again and again the

machine tried to scale that hill; it was impossible. There was

nothing to do but turn about and find a better road. An old

farmer, who had been leaning on the fence watching our efforts,

sagely remarked:

"I was afeard your nag would balk on that thar hill; it is little

but the worst rise anywhere's about here, and most of us know

better'n to attempt it; but I guess you're a stranger."

We dined at Lapeer, and by dark made the run of eighteen miles

into Flint, where we arrived at eight-thirty. We had covered one

hundred and forty miles in twelve hours, including all stops,

delays, and difficulties.

It was the Old Sarnia Gravel which helped us on our journey that

day.

At Flint another new chain was put on, and also a rear sprocket

with new differential gears. The old sprocket was badly worn and

the teeth of the gears showed traces of hard usage. A new spring

was substituted for the broken, and the machine was ready for the

last lap of the long run.

Leaving Flint on Friday morning, the 26th, a round-about run was

made to Albion for the night. The intention was to follow the line

of the Grand Trunk through Lansing, Battle Creek, and Owosso, but,

over-persuaded by some wiseacres, a turn was made to Jackson,

striking there the old State road.

The roads through Lansing and Battle Creek can be no worse than

the sandy and hilly turnpike. Now and then a piece of gravel is

found, but only for a short distance, ending usually in sand.

On Saturday the run was made from Albion to South Bend. As far as

Kalamazoo and for some distance beyond the roads were hilly and

for the most part sandy,--a disgrace to so rich and prosperous a

State.

Through Paw Paw and Dowagiac some good stretches of gravel were

found and good time was made. It was dark when we reached the

Oliver House in South Bend, a remarkably fine hotel for a place of

the size.

The run into Chicago next day was marked by no incident worthy of

note. As already stated, the roads of Indiana are generally good,

and fifteen miles an hour can be averaged with ease.

It was four o'clock, Sunday, September 28, when the machine pulled

into the stable whence it departed nearly two months before. The

electricity was turned off, with a few expiring gasps the motor

stopped.

Taking into consideration the portions of the route covered twice,

the side trips, and making some allowance for lost roads, the

distance covered was over twenty-six hundred miles; a journey, the

hardships and annoyances of which were more, far more, than

counterbalanced by the delights.

No one who has not travelled through America on foot, horseback,

or awheel knows anything about the variety and charm of this great

country. We traversed but a small section, and yet it seemed as if

we had spent weeks and months in a strange land. The sensations

from day to day are indescribable. It is not alone the novel

sport, but the country and the people along the way seemed so

strange, possibly because automobiling has its own point of view,

and certainly people have their own and widely varying views of

automobiling. In the presence of the machine people everywhere

become for the time-being childlike and naive, curious and

enthusiastic; they lose the veneer of sophistication, and are as

approachable and companionable as children. Automobiling is

therefore doubly delightful in these early days of the sport. By

and by, when the people become accustomed to the machine, they

will resume their habit of indifference, and we shall see as

little of them as if we were riding or driving.

With some exceptions every one we met treated the machine with a

consideration it did not deserve. Even those who were put to no

little inconvenience with their horses seldom showed the

resentment which might have been expected under the circumstances.

On the contrary, they seemed to recognize the right of the strange

car to the joint use of the highway, and to blame their horses for

not behaving better. Verily, forbearance is an American virtue.

The machine itself stood the journey well, all things considered.

It lacked power and was too light for such a severe and prolonged

test; but, when taken apart to be restored to perfect condition,

it was astonishing how few parts showed wear. The bearings had to

be adjusted and one or two new ones put in. A number of little

things were done, but the mechanic spent only forty hours' time

all told in making the machine quite as good as new. A coat of

paint and varnish removed all outward signs of rough usage.

However, one must not infer that automobiling is an inexpensive

way of touring, but measured by the pleasure derived, the expense

is as nothing; at the same time look out for the man who says "My

machine has not cost me a cent for repairs in six months."

It is singular how reticent owners of automobiles are concerning

the shortcomings and eccentricities of their machines; they seem

leagued together to deceive one another and the public. The

literal truth can be found only in letters of complaint written to

the manufacturers. The man who one moment says his machine is a

paragon of perfection, sits down the next and writes the factory a

letter which would be debarred the mails if left unsealed. Open

confession is good for the soul, and owners of automobiles must

cultivate frankness of speech, for deep in our innermost hearts we

all know that a machine would have so tried the patience of Job

that even Bildad the Shuhite would have been silenced.

In the year 1735 a worthy Puritan divine, pastor over a little

flock in the town of Malden, made the following entries in his

diary:

"January 31.--Bought a shay for L27 10s. The Lord grant it may be

a comfort and a blessing to my family.

"March, 1735.--Had a safe and comfortable journey to York.

"April 24.--Shay overturned, with my wife and I in it; yet neither

of us much hurt. Blessed be our generous Preserver! Part of the

shay, as it lay upon one side, went over my wife, and yet she was

scarcely anything hurt. How wonderful the preservation.

"May 5.--Went to the Beach with three of the children. The beast

being frighted, when we were all out of the shay, overturned and

broke it. I desire it (I hope I desire it) that the Lord would

teach me suitably to repent this Providence, and make suitable

remarks on it, and to be suitably affected with it. Have I done

well to get me a shay? Have I not been proud or too fond of this

convenience? Do I exercise the faith in the divine care and

protection which I ought to do? Should I not be more in my study

and less fond of diversion? Do I not withhold more than is meet

from pious and charitable uses?

"May 15.--Shay brought home; mending cost thirty shillings.

Favored in this beyond expectation.

"May 16.--My wife and I rode to Rumney Marsh. The beast frighted

several times.

"June 4.--Disposed of my shay to Rev. Mr. White."

Moral.--Under conditions of like adversity, let every chauffeur

cultivate the same spirit of humility,--and look for a Deacon

White.