The morning was bright and very warm, scarcely a cloud in the sky, but there was a feeling of storm in the air,—the earth was restless.
As we neared Stafford dark clouds were gathering in the far distant skies, but not yet near enough to cause apprehension. Driving slowly into the village, we again visited the three-story stone house. Here, no doubt, as elsewhere, Morgan's forthcoming exposures were discussed and denounced, here the plot to seize him—if plot there was—may have been formed; but then there was probably no plot, conspiracy, or action on the part of any lodge or body of Masons. Morgan was in their eyes a most despicable traitor,—a man who proposed to sell—not simply disclose, but sell—the secrets of the order he joined. There is no reason to believe that he had the good of any one at heart; that he had anything in view but his own material prosperity. He made a bargain with a printer in Batavia to expose Masonry, and lost his life in attempting to carry out that bargain. Lost his life!—who knows? The story is a strange one, as strange as anything in the Arabian Nights; there are men still living who faintly recollect the excitement, the fends and controversies which lasted for years. From Batavia to Canandaigua the name of Morgan calls forth a flood of reminiscences. A man whose father or grandfather had anything to do with the affair is a character in the community; now and then a man is found who knew a man who caught a glimpse of Morgan during that mysterious midnight ride from the Canandaigua jail over the Rochester road, and on to the end in the magazine of the old fort at Lewiston. One cannot spend twenty-four hours in this country without being drawn into the vortex of this absorbing mystery; it hangs over the entire section, lingers along the road-sides, finds outward sign and habitation in old buildings, monuments, and ruins; it echoes from the past in musty books, papers, and pamphlets; it once was politics, now is history; the years have not solved it; time is helpless.
At Le Roy we sought shelter under the friendly roof of an old, old house. How it did storm; the Rochester papers next day said that no such storm had ever been known in that part of the State. The rain fell in torrents; the main street was a stream of water emptying into the river; the flashes of lightning were followed so quickly by crashes of thunder that we knew trees and buildings were struck near by, as in fact they were. It seemed as if the heavens were laying siege to the little village and bringing to bear all nature's great guns.
The house was filled with old books and mementoes of the past; every nook and corner was interesting. In an old secretary in an upper room was found a complete history of Morgan's disappearance, together with the affidavits taken at the time and records of such court proceedings as were had.
These papers had been gathered together in 1829. One by one I turned the yellow leaves and read the story from beginning to end; it is in brief as follows:
In the summer of 1826 it was rumored throughout Western New York that one William Morgan, then living in the village of Batavia, was writing an exposure of the secrets of Free Masonry, under contract with David Miller, a printer of the same place, who was to publish the pamphlet.
Morgan was a man entirely without means; he was said to have served in the War of 1812, and was known to have been a brewer, but had not made a success in business; he was rooming with a family in Batavia with his wife and two small children, one a child of two years, the other a babe of two months. He was quite irresponsible, and apparently not overscrupulous in either contracting debts or the use of the property of others.
There is not the slightest reason to believe that his so-called exposure of Masonry was prompted by any motives other than the profits he might realize from the sale of the pamphlet. Nor is there any evidence that he enjoyed the confidence of the community where he lived. His monument—as in many another case—awards him virtues he did not possess. The figure of noble bearing on the top of the shaft is the idealization of subsequent events, and probably but illy corresponds with the actual appearance of the impecunious reality. The man's fate made him a hero.
On August 9 the following notice appeared in a newspaper published in Canandaigua:
"Notice and Caution.—If a man calling himself William Morgan should intrude himself on the community, they should be on their guard, particularly the Masonic Fraternity. Morgan was in the village in May last, and his conduct while here and elsewhere calls forth this notice. Any information in relation to Morgan can be obtained by calling at the Masonic Hall in this village. Brethren and Companions are particularly requested to observe, mark, and govern themselves accordingly.
"Morgan is considered a swindler and a dangerous man.
"There are people in the village who would be happy to see this
Captain Morgan.
"Canandaigua, August 9, 1826."
This notice was copied in two newspapers published in Batavia.
About the middle of August a stranger by the name of Daniel Johns appeared in Batavia and took up his lodgings in one of the public houses of the village. He made the acquaintance of Miller, offered to go in business with him, and to furnish whatever money might be necessary for the publication of the Morgan book. Miller accepted his proposition and took the man into his confidence. As it afterwards turned out, Johns's object in seeking the partnership was to secure possession of the Morgan manuscript, so that Miller could not publish the work; the man's subsequent connection with this strange narrative appears from the affidavit of Mrs. Morgan, referred to farther on.
During the month of August, Morgan with his family boarded at a house in the heart of the village; but to avoid interruption in his work he had an upper room in the house of John David, on the other side of the creek from the town.
August 19 three well-known residents of the village accompanied by a constable from Pembroke went to David's house, inquired for David and Towsley, who both lived there with their families, and on being told they were not at home, rushed up-stairs to the room where Morgan was writing, seized him and the papers which he was even then arranging for the printer. He was taken to the county jail and kept from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning, when he was bailed out.
On the same Saturday evening the same men went to the house where Morgan boarded, and saying they had an execution, inquired of Mrs. Morgan whether her husband had any property. They were told he had none, but nevertheless two of the men went into Morgan's room and made a search for papers. On leaving the house one of them said to Mrs. Morgan, "We have just conducted your husband to jail, and shall keep him there until we find his papers."
September 8, James Ganson, who kept the tavern at Stafford, was notified from Batavia that between forty and fifty men would be there for supper. The men came and late at night departed for Batavia, where they found a number of men gathered from other points. From an affidavit taken afterwards it seems the object of the party was to destroy Miller's office, but they found Miller and Morgan had been warned. At any rate, the party dispersed without doing anything. Part of them reassembled at Ganson's, and charges of cowardice were freely exchanged; certain of the leaders were afterwards indicted for their part in this affair, but no trial was had.
To this day the business portion of Batavia stretches along both sides of a broad main street; instead of cross-streets at regular intervals there are numerous alleys leading off the main street, with here and there a wider side street. In those days nearly all the buildings were of wood and but one or two stories in height. Miller's printing-offices occupied the second stories of two wooden buildings; a side alley separating the two buildings, dividing also, of course, the two parts of the printing establishment.
On Sunday night, September 10, fire was discovered under the stairways leading to the printing-offices; on extinguishing the blaze, straw and cotton balls saturated with turpentine were found under the stairways, and some distance from the buildings a dark lantern was found.
On this same Sunday morning, September 10, a man—the coroner of the county—in the village of Canandaigua, fifty miles east of Batavia, obtained from a justice of the peace a warrant for the arrest of Morgan on the charge of stealing a shirt and a cravat in the month of May from an innkeeper named Kingsley.
Having obtained the warrant, which was directed to him as coroner, the complainant called a constable, and together with four well-known residents of Canandaigua they hired a special stage and started for Batavia.
At Avon, Caledonia, and Le Roy they were joined by others who seemed to understand that Morgan was to be arrested.
At Stafford they stopped for supper at Ganson's tavern. After supper they proceeded towards Batavia, but stopped about a mile and a half east of the village, certain of the party returning with the stage.
Early the next morning Morgan was arrested, and an extra stage engaged to take the party back. The driver, becoming uneasy as to the regularity of the proceedings, at first refused to start, but was persuaded to go as far as Stafford, where Ganson—whom the driver knew—said everything was all right and that he would assume all responsibility.
About sunset of the same day—Monday, September 11—they arrived at Canandaigua, and Morgan was at once examined by the justice; the evidence was held insufficient and the prisoner discharged.
The same complainant immediately produced a claim for two dollars which had been assigned to him. Morgan admitted the debt, confessed judgment, and pulled off his coat, offering it as security.
The constable refused to take the coat and took Morgan to jail.
Tuesday noon, September 12, a crowd of strangers appeared in Batavia, assembling at Donald's tavern. A constable went to Miller's office, arrested him, and took him to the tavern, where he was detained in a room for about two hours. He was then put in an open wagon with some men, all strangers to him. The constable mounted his horse and the party proceeded to Stafford. Arriving there Miller was conducted to the third story of the stone building beside the creek, and was there confined, guarded by five men.
About dusk the constable and the crowd took Miller to Le Roy, where he was taken before the justice who had issued the warrant, when all his prosecutors, together with constable and warrant, disappeared. As no one appeared against the prisoner, the justice told him he was at liberty to go.
From the docket of the justice it appeared that the warrant had been issued at the request of Daniel Johns, Miller's partner.
The leaders were indicted for riot, assault, and false imprisonment, tried, three found guilty and imprisoned. At the trial there was evidence to show that on the morning of the 12th a meeting was held in the third story of the stone building at Stafford, a leader selected, and plans arranged.
On the evening of Tuesday 12th a neighbor of Morgan's called at the Canandaigua jail and asked to see Morgan. The jailer was absent. His wife permitted the man to speak to Morgan, and the man said that he had come to pay the debt for which Morgan was committed and to take him home. Morgan was asked if he were willing to go; he answered that he was willing, but that it did not matter particularly that night, for he could just as well wait until morning; but the man said "No," that he would rather take him out that night, for he had run around all day for him and was very tired and wished to get home. The man offered to deposit with the jailer's wife five dollars as security for the payment of the debt and all costs, but she would not let Morgan out, saying that she did not know the man and that he was not the owner of the judgment.
The man went out and was gone a few minutes, and brought back a well-known resident of the village of Canandaigua and the owner of the judgment; these two men said that it was all right for the jailer's wife to accept two dollars, the amount of the judgment, and release Morgan. Taking the money, the woman opened the inside door of the prison, and Morgan was requested to get ready quickly and come out. He was soon ready, and walked out of the front door between the man who had called for him and another. The jailer's wife while fastening the inside prison-door heard a cry of murder near the outer door of the jail, and running to the door she saw Morgan struggling with the two men who had come for him. He continued to scream and cry in the most distressing manner, at the same time struggling with all his strength; his voice was suppressed by something that was put over his mouth, and a man following behind rapped loudly upon the well-curb with a stick; a carriage came up, Morgan was put in it by the two men with him, and the carriage drove off. It was a moonlight night, and the jailer's wife clearly saw all that transpired, and even remembered that the horses were gray. Neither the man who made the complaint nor the resident of Canandaigua who came to the jail and advised the jailer's wife that she could safely let Morgan go went with the carriage. They picked up Morgan's hat, which was lost in the struggle, and watched the carriage drive away.
The account given by the wife of the jailer was corroborated by a number of entirely reliable and reputable witnesses.
A man living near the jail went to the door of his house and saw the men struggling in the street, one of them apparently down and making noises of distress; the man went towards the struggling man, and asked a man who was a little behind the others what was the matter, to which he answered, "Nothing; only a man has been let out of jail, and been taken on a warrant, and is going to be tried, or have his trial."
In January following, when the feeling was growing against the abductors of Morgan, the three men in Canandaigua most prominently connected with all that transpired at the jail on the night in question made statements in court under oath, which admitted the facts to be substantially as above outlined, except they insisted that they did not know why Morgan struggled before getting into the carriage. These men expressed regret that they did not go to the assistance of Morgan, and insisted that was the only fault they committed on the night in question. They admitted that they understood that Morgan was compiling a book on the subject of Masonry at the instigation of Miller the publisher at Batavia, and alleged that he was getting up the book solely for pecuniary profit, and they believed it was desirable to remove Morgan to some place beyond the influence of Miller, where his friends and acquaintances might convince him of the impropriety of his conduct and persuade him to abandon the publication of the book.
In passing sentence, the court said:
"The legislature have not seen fit, perhaps, from the supposed improbability that the crime would be attempted, to make your offence a felony. Its grade and punishment have been left to the provisions of the common law, which treats it as a misdemeanor, and punishes it with fine and imprisonment in the common jail. The court are of opinion that your liberty ought to be made to answer for the liberty of Morgan: his person was restrained by force; and the court, in the exercise of its lawful powers, ought not to be more tender of your liberty than you, in the plenitude of lawless force, were of his."
It is quite clear that up to this time none of the to do parties connected directly or indirectly with the abduction of Morgan had any intention whatsoever of doing him bodily harm. If such had been their purpose, the course they followed was foolish in the extreme. The simple fact was the Masons were greatly excited over the threatened exposure of the secrets of their order by one of their own members, and they desired to get hold of the manuscript and proofs and prevent the publication, and the misguided hot-heads who were active in the matter thought that by getting Morgan away from Miller they could persuade him to abandon his project. This theory is borne out by the fact that on the day Morgan was taken to Canandaigua several prominent men of Batavia called upon Mrs. Morgan and told her that if she would give up to the Masons the papers she had in her possession Morgan would be brought back. She gave up all the papers she could find; they were submitted to Johns, the former partner of Miller, who said that part of the manuscript was not there. However, the men took Mrs. Morgan to Canandaigua, stopping at Avon over night. These men expected to find Morgan still in Canandaigua, but were surprised to learn that he had been taken away the night before, whereupon Mrs. Morgan, having left her two small children at home, returned as quickly as possible.
So far as Morgan's manuscript is concerned, it seems that a portion of it was already in the hands of Miller, and another portion secreted inside of a bed at the time he was arrested, so that not long after his disappearance what purports to be his book was published.
Nearly two years later, in August, 1828, three men were tried for conspiracy to kidnap and carry away Morgan. At that time it was believed by many that Morgan was either simply detained abroad or in hiding, although it was strenuously insisted by others that he had been killed. All that was ever known of his movements after he left the jail at Canandaigua on the night of September 11 was developed in the testimony taken at this trial.
One witness who saw the carriage drive past the jail testified that a man was put in by four others, who got in after him and the carriage drove away; the witness was near the men when they got into the carriage, and as it turned west he heard one of them cry to the driver, "Why don't you drive faster? why don't you drive faster?"
The driver testified that some time prior to the date in question a man came to him and arranged for him to take a party to Rochester on or about the 12th. On the night in question he took his yellow carriage and gray horses about nine o'clock and drove just beyond the Canandaigua jail on the Palmyra road. A party of five got into the carriage, but he heard no noise and saw no resistance, nor did he know any of the men. He was told to go on beyond Rochester, and he took the Lewiston road. On arriving at Hanford's one of the party got out; he then drove about one hundred yards beyond the house, stopping near a piece of woods, where the others who were in the carriage got out, and he turned around and drove back.
Another man who lived at Lewiston and worked as a stage-driver said that he was called between ten and twelve o'clock at night and told to drive a certain carriage into a back street alongside of another carriage which he found standing there without any horse attached to it; some men were standing near it. He drove alongside the carriage, and one or two men got out of it and got into his hack. He saw no violence, but on stopping at a point about six miles farther on some of the men got out, and while they were conversing, some one in the carriage asked for water in a whining voice, to which one of the men replied, "You shall have some in a moment." No water was handed to the person in the carriage, but the men got in, and he drove them on to a point about half a mile from Fort Niagara, where they told him to stop; there were no houses there; the party, four in number, got out and proceeded side by side towards the fort; he drove back with his carriage.
A man living in Lewiston swore that he went to his door and saw a carriage coming, which went a little distance farther on, stopping beside another carriage which was in the street without horses; he recognized the driver of the carriage and one other man; he thought something strange was going on and went into his garden, where he had a good view of what took place in the road; he saw a man go from the box of the carriage which had driven by to the one standing in the street and open the door; some one got out backward with the assistance of two men in the carriage. The person who was taken out had no hat, but a handkerchief on his head, and appeared to be intoxicated and helpless. They took him to the other carriage and all got in. One of the men went back and took something from the carriage they had left, which seemed to be a jug, and then they drove off.
At the trial in question the testimony of a man by the name of Giddins, who had the custody of old Fort Niagara, was not received because it appeared he had no religious beliefs whatsoever, but his brother-in-law testified that on a certain night in September, shortly after the events narrated, he was staying at Giddins's house, which was twenty or thirty rods from the magazine of the old fort; that before going to the installation of the lodge at Lewiston he went with Giddins to the magazine. Previously to starting out Giddins had a pistol, which he requested the witness to carry, but witness declined. Giddins had something else with him, which the witness did not recognize. When they came within about two rods of the magazine, Giddins went up to the door and something was said inside the door. A man's voice came from inside the magazine; witness was alarmed, and thought he had better get out of the way, and he at once retreated, followed soon after by Giddins.
From the old records it seemed that the evidence tracing Morgan to the magazine of old Fort Niagara was satisfactory to court and jury; but what became of him no man knows. In January, 1827, the fort and magazine were visited by certain committees appointed to make investigations, who reported in detail the condition of the magazine, which seemed to indicate that some one had been confined therein not long before, and that the prisoner had made violent and reiterated efforts to force his way out. A good many hearsay statements were taken to the effect that Morgan was as a matter of fact put in the magazine and kept there some days.
Governor De Witt Clinton issued three proclamations, two soon after September, 1826, and the last dated March 19, 1827, offering rewards for "Authentic information of the place where the said William Morgan has been conveyed," and "for the discovery of the said William Morgan, if alive; and, if murdered, a reward of two thousand dollars for the discovery of the offender or offenders, etc."
In the autumn of 1827 a body was cast up on the shore of Lake
Ontario near the mouth of Oak Orchard Creek. Mrs. Morgan and a Dr.
Strong identified the body as that of William Morgan by a scar on
the foot and by the teeth.
The identification was disputed; the disappearance of Morgan was then a matter of politics, and the anti-masons, headed by Thurlow Weed, originated the saying, "It's a good enough Morgan for us until you produce the live one," which afterwards become current political slang in the form, "It's a good enough Morgan until after election."
CHAPTER NINE THROUGH WESTERN NEW YORK IN THE MUD
The afternoon was drawing to a close, the rain had partially subsided, but the trees were heavy with water, and the streets ran rivulets.
Prudence would seem to dictate remaining in Le Roy over-night, but, so far as roads are concerned, it is always better to start out in, or immediately after, a rain than to wait until the water has soaked in and made the mud deep. A heavy rain washes the surface off the roads; it is better not to give it time to penetrate; we therefore determined to start at once.
There was not a soul on the streets as we pulled out a few moments after five o'clock, and in the entire ride of some thirty miles we met scarcely more than three or four teams.
We took the road by Bergen rather than through Caledonia; both roads are good, but in very wet weather the road from Bergen to Rochester is apt to be better than that from Caledonia, as it is more sandy.
To Bergen, eight miles, we found hard gravel, with one steep hill to descend; from Bergen in, it was sandy, and after the rain, was six inches deep in places with soft mud.
It was slow progress and eight o'clock when we pulled into
Rochester.
We were given rooms where all the noises of street and trolley could be heard to best advantage; sleep was a struggle, rest an impossibility.
Hotel construction has quite kept pace with the times, but hotel location is a tradition of the dark ages, when to catch patrons it was necessary to get in their way.
At Syracuse the New York Central passes through the principal hotels,—the main tracks bisecting the dining-rooms, with side tracks down each corridor and a switch in each bed-room; but this is an extreme instance.
It was well enough in olden times to open taverns on the highways; an occasional coach would furnish the novelty and break the monotony, but people could sleep.
The erection of hotels in close proximity to railroad tracks, or upon the main thoroughfares of cities where stone or asphalt pavements resound to every hoof-fall, and where street cars go whirring and clanging by all night long, is something more than an anachronism; it is a fiendish disregard of human comfort.
Paradoxical as it may seem,—a pious but garrulous old gentleman was one time invited to lead in prayer; consenting, he approached the throne of grace with becoming humility, saying, "Paradoxical as it may seem, O Lord, it is nevertheless true," etc., the phrase is a good one, it lingers in the ear,—therefore, once more, —paradoxical as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that those who go about all day in machines do not like to be disturbed by machines at night.
We soon learned to keep away from the cities at night. It is so much more delightful to stop in smaller towns and villages; your host is glad to see you; you are quite the guest of honor, perhaps the only guest; there is a place in the adjoining stable for the machine; the men are interested, and only too glad to care for it and help in the morning; the best the house affords is offered; as a rule the rooms are quite good, the beds clean, and nowadays many of these small hotels have rooms with baths; the table is plain; but while automobiling one soon comes to prefer plain country living.
In the larger cities it costs a fortune in tips before the machine and oneself are well housed; to enter Albany, Boston, or New York at night, find your hotel, find the automobile station, find your luggage, and find yourself, is a bore.
No one who has ever ridden day after day in the country cares anything about riding in cities; it is as artificial and monotonous as riding a hunter over pavements. If one could just approach a city at night, steal into it, enjoy its lights and shadows, its confusion and strange sounds, all in passing, and slip through without stopping long enough to feel the thrust of the reality, it would be delightful. But the charm disappears, the dream is brought to earth, the vision becomes tinsel when you draw up in front of a big caravansary and a platoon of uniformed porters, bell-boys, and pages swoop down upon everything you have, including your pocket-book; then the Olympian clerk looks at you doubtfully, puzzled for the first time in his life, does not know whether you are a mill-hand from Pittsburgh who should be assigned a hall bed-room in the annex, or a millionaire from Newport who should be tendered the entire establishment on a silver platter.
The direct road from Rochester to Syracuse is by way of Pittsford, Palmyra, Newark, Lyons, Clyde, Port Byron, and Camillus, but it is neither so good nor so interesting as the old roads through Geneva and Auburn.
In going from Buffalo to Albany via Syracuse, Rochester is to the north and some miles out of the way; unless one especially desires to visit the city, it is better to leave it to one side. Genesee Street out of Buffalo is Genesee Street into Syracuse and Utica; it is the old highway between Buffalo and Albany, and may be followed to-day from end to end.
Instead of turning to the northeast at Batavia and going through Newkirk, Byron, Bergen, North Chili, and Gates to Rochester, keep more directly east through Le Roy, Caledonia, Avon, and Canandaigua to Geneva; the towns are old, the hotels, most of them, good, the roads are generally gravel and the country interesting; it is old New York. No one driving through the State for pleasure would think of taking the direct road from Rochester to Syracuse; the beautiful portions of this western end of the State are to the south, in the Genesee and Wyoming Valleys, and through the lake region.
We left Rochester at ten o'clock, Saturday, the 24th, intending to go east by Egypt, Macedon, Palmyra,—the Oriental route, as my companion called it; but after leaving Pittsford we missed the road and lost ourselves among the hills, finding several grades so steep and soft that we both were obliged to dismount.
An old resident was decidedly of the opinion that the roads to the southeast were better than those to the northeast, and we turned from the Nile route towards Canandaigua.
Though the roads were decidedly better, in many places being well gravelled, the heavy rains of the previous two days made the going slow, and it was one-thirty before we pulled up at the old hotel in Canandaigua for dinner.
As the machine had been there before, we were greeted as friends. The old negro porter is a character,—quite the irresponsible head of the entire establishment.
"Law's sakes! you heah agen? glad to see you; whar you come from dis time? Rochester! No, foh sure?—dis mawning?—you doan say so; that jes' beats me; to think I live to see a thing like that; it's a reg'lar steam-engine, aint it?"
"Sambo," called out a bystander, making fun of the old darkey, "do you know what you are looking at?"
"Well, if I doan, den I can't find out frum dis yere crowd."
"What do they call it, Sambo?" some one else asked.
"Sh-sh'h—that's a secret; an' if I shud tell you, you cudn't keep it."
"Is it yours?"
"I dun sole mine to Mistah Vand'bilt las' week; he name it de
White Ghos'—after me."
"You mean the Black Devil."
"No, I doan; he didn't want to hu't youah feelings; Mistah
Vand'bilt a very consid'rate man."
Sambo carried our things in, talking all the time.
"Now you jes' go right into dinnah; I'll take keer of the auto'bile; I'll see that nun of those ign'rant folk stannin' roun' lay their han's on it; they think Sambo doan know an auto'bile; didn't I see you heah befoh? an' didn't I hole de hose when you put de watah in? Me an' you are de only two pussons in dis whole town who knows about de auto'bile,—jes' me an' you."
After dinner we rode down the broad main street and around the lake to the left in going to Geneva. Barring the fact that the roads were soft in places, the afternoon's ride was delightful, the roads being generally very good.
It was about five o'clock when we came to the top of the hills overlooking Geneva and the silvery lake beyond. It was a sight not to be forgotten by the American traveller, for this country has few towns so happily situated as the village of Geneva,—a cluster of houses against a wooded slope with the lake like a mirror below.
The little hotel was almost new and very good; the rooms were large and comfortable. There was but one objection, and that the location at the very corner of the busiest and noisiest streets. But Geneva goes to bed early,—even on Saturday nights,—and by ten or eleven o'clock the streets were quiet, while on Sunday mornings there is nothing to disturb one before the bells ring for church.
We were quite content to rest this first Sunday out.
It was so delightfully quiet all the morning that we lounged about and read until dinner-time. In the afternoon a walk, and in the evening friends came to supper with us. In a moment of ambitious emulation of metropolitan customs the small hotel had established a roof garden, with music two or three evenings a week, but the innovation had not proven profitable; the roof remained with some iron framework that once supported awnings, several disconsolate tables, and some lonesome iron chairs; we visited this scene of departed glory and obtained a view of the lake at evening.
The irregular outlines of the long shadows of the hills stretched far out over the still water; beyond these broken lines the slanting rays of the setting sun fell upon the surface of the lake, making it to shine like a mass of burnished silver.
Some white sails glimmered in the light far across; near by we caught the sound of church-bells; the twilight deepened, the shadows lengthened, the luminous stretch of water grew narrower and narrower until it disappeared entirely and all was dark upon the lake, save here and there the twinkle of lights from moving boats,—shifting stars in the void of night.
The morning was bright as we left Geneva, but the roads, until we struck the State road, were rough and still muddy from the recent rains.
It was but a short run to Auburn, and from there into Syracuse the road is a fine gravel.
The machine had developed a slight pounding and the rear-axle showed signs of again parting at the differential.
After luncheon the machine was run into a machine shop, and three hours were spent in taking up the lost motion in the eccentric strap, at the crank-pin, and in a loose bushing.
On opening up the differential gear case both set-screws holding the axles were found loose. The factory had been most emphatically requested to put in larger keys so as to fit the key-ways snugly and to lock these set-screws in some way—neither of these things had been done; and both halves of the rear-axle were on the verge of working out.
Small holes were bored through the set-screws, wires passed through and around the shoulders of the gears, and we had no further trouble from this source.
It was half-past five before we left Syracuse for Oneida. The road is good, and the run of twenty-seven miles was made in little over two hours, arriving at the small, old-fashioned tavern in Oneida at exactly seven forty-five.
A number of old-timers dropped into the hotel office that evening to see what was going on and hear about the strange machine. Great stories were exchanged on all sides; the glories of Oneida quite eclipsed the lesser claims of the automobile to fame and notoriety, for it seemed that some of the best known men of New York and Chicago were born in the village or the immediate vicinity; the land-marks remain, traditions are intact, the men departed to seek their fortunes elsewhere, but their successes are the town's fame.
The genial proprietor of the hotel carried his seventy-odd years and two hundred and sixty pounds quite handily in his shirt-sleeves, moving with commendable celerity from office to bar-room, supplying us in the front room with information and those in the back with refreshment.
"So you never heard that those big men were born in this locality. That's strange; tho't ev'rybody knew that. Why 'Neida has produced more famous men than any town same size in 'Merika,—Russell Sage, General New,—comin'" (to those in the bar-room); "say, you fellers, can't you wait?" As he disappeared in the rear we heard his rotund voice, "What'll you take? Was jest tellin' that chap with the threshin'-machine a thing or two about this country. Rye? no, thet's Bourbon—the reel corn juice—ten years in wood—"
"Mixed across the street at the drug store—ha! ha! ha!" interrupted some one.
"Don't be faceshus, Sam; this ain't no sody-fountin."
"Where'd that feller cum frum with his steam pianer,—Syr'cuse?"
"Naw! Chicago."
"Great cranberries! you don't say so,—all the way from Chicago!
When did he start?"
"Day 'fore yesterday," replied the old man, and we could hear him putting back the bottles; a chorus of voices,—
"What!"
"Holy Mo—"
"Day afore yester—say, look here, you're jokin'."
"Mebbe I am, but if you don't believe it, ask him."
"Why Chicago is further'n Buf'lo—an' that's faster'n a train."
"Yes," drawled the old man; "he passed the Empire Express th' other side Syr'cuse."
"Get out."
"What do you take us fer?"
"Wall, when you cum in, I took you fer fellers who knowed the diff'rence betwixt whiskey and benzine, but I see my mistake. You fellers shud buy your alc'hol across the way at the drug store; it don't cost s' much, and burns better."
"Thet's one on us. Your whiskey is all right, grandpa, the reel corn juice—ten year in wood—too long in bottl'spile if left over night, so pull the stopper once more."
CHAPTER TEN THE MOHAWK VALLEY IN THE VALLEY
On looking over the machine the next morning, Tuesday, the 27th, the large cap-screws holding the bearings of the main-shaft were found slightly loose. The wrench with the machine was altogether too light to turn these screws up as tight as they should be; it was therefore necessary to have a wrench made from tool steel; that required about half an hour, but it was time well spent.
The road from Oneida to Utica is very good; rolling but no steep grades; some sand, but not deep; some clay, but not rough; for the most part gravel.
The run of twenty miles was quickly made. We stopped only for a moment to inquire for letters and then on to Herkimer by the road on the north side of the valley. Returning some weeks later we came by the south road, through Frankford, between the canal and the railroad tracks, through Mohawk and Ilion. This is the better known and the main travelled road; but it is far inferior to the road on the north; there are more hills on the latter, some of the grades being fairly steep, but in dry weather the north road is more picturesque and more delightful in every way, while in wet weather there is less deep mud.
At Herkimer, eighteen and one-half miles from Utica and thirty-eight from Oneida, we had luncheon, then inquired for gasoline. Most astonishing! in the entire village no gasoline to be had. A town of most respectable size, hotel quite up to date, large brick blocks of stores, enterprise apparent—but no gasoline. Only one man handled it regularly, an old man who drove about the country with his tank-wagon distributing kerosene and gasoline; he had no place of business but his house, and he happened to be entirely out of gasoline. In two weeks the endurance run of the Automobile Club of America would be through there; at Herkimer those in the contest were to stop for the night,—and no gasoline.
In the entire pilgrimage of over two thousand miles through nine States and the province of Ontario, we did not find a town or village of any size where gasoline could not be obtained, and frequently we found it at cross-road stores,—but not at Herkimer.
Happily there was sufficient gasoline in the tank to carry us on; besides, we always had a gallon in reserve. At the next village we found all we needed.
When we returned through Herkimer some weeks later nearly every store had gasoline.
If hotels, stables, and drug stores, wherever automobiles are apt to come, would keep a five-gallon can of gasoline on hand, time and trouble would be saved, and drivers of automobiles would be only too glad to pay an extra price for the convenience.
The grades of gasoline sold in this country vary from the common so-called "stove gasoline," or sixty-eight, to seventy-four.
The country dealers are becoming wise in their generation, and all now insist they keep only seventy-four. As a matter of fact nearly all that is sold in both cities and country is the "stove gasoline," because it is kept on hand principally for stoves and torches, and they do not require higher than sixty-eight. In fact, one is fortunate if the gasoline tests so high as that.
American machines, as a rule, get along very well with the low grades, but many of the foreign machines require the better grades. If a machine will not use commercial stove gasoline, the only safe thing is to carry a supply of higher grade along, and that is a nuisance.
It is difficult to find a genuine seventy-four even in the cities, since it is commonly sold only in barrels. If the exhaust of a gasoline stationary engine is heard anywhere along the road-side, stop, for there will generally be found a barrel or two of the high-grade, and a supply may be laid in.
The best plan, however, is to have a carburetor and motor that will use the ordinary "stove-grade;" as a matter of fact, it contains more carbon and more explosive energy if thoroughly ignited, but it does not make gas so readily in cold weather and requires a good hot spark.
All day we rode on through the valley, now far up on the hill-sides, now down by the meadows; past Palatine Church, Palatine Bridge; through Fonda and Amsterdam to Schenectady.
It was a glorious ride. The road winds along the side of the valley, following the graceful curves and swellings of the hills. The little towns are so lost in the recesses that one comes upon them quite unexpectedly, and, whirling through their one long main street, catches glimpses of quaint churches and buildings which fairly overhang the highway, and narrow vistas of lawns, trees, shrubbery, and flowers; then all is hidden by the next bend in the road.
During the long summer afternoon we sped onward through this beautiful valley. Far down on the tracks below trains would go scurrying by; now and then a slow freight would challenge our competition; trainmen would look up curiously; occasionally an engineer would sound a note of defiance or a blast of victory with his whistle.
The distant river followed lazily along, winding hither and thither through the lowland, now skirting the base of the hills, now bending far to the other side as if resentful of such rude obstructions to its once impetuous will.
Far across on the distant slopes we could see the cattle grazing, and farther still tiny specks that were human beings like ourselves moving upon the landscape. Nature's slightest effort dwarfs man's mightiest achievements. That great railroad with its many tracks and rushing trains seemed a child's plaything,—a noisy, whirring, mechanical toy beside the lazy river; for did not that placid, murmuring, meandering stream in days gone by hollow out this valley? did not nature in moments of play rear those hills and carve out those distant mountains? Compared with these traces of giant handiwork, what are the works of man? just little putterings for our own convenience, just little utilizations of waste energies for our own purposes.
One should view nature with the setting sun. It may gratify a bustling curiosity to see nature at her toilet, but that is the part of a "Peeping Tom."
The hour of sunrise is the hour for work, it is the hour when every living thing feels the impulse to do something. The birds do not fly to the tree-tops to view the morning sun, the animals do not rush forth from their lairs to watch the landscape lighten with the morning's glow; no, all nature is refreshed and eager to be doing, not seeing; acting, not thinking. Man is no exception to this all-embracing rule; his innate being protests against idleness; the most secret cells of his organization are charged to overflowing with energy and demand relief in work.
Morning is not the hour for contemplation; but when evening comes, as the sun sinks towards the west, and lengthening shadows make it seem as if all nature were stretching herself in repose, then do we love to rest and contemplate the rich loveliness of the earth and the infinite tenderness of the heavens. Every harsh line, every glare of light, every crude tone has disappeared. We stroke nature and she purrs. We sink at our ease in a bed of moss and nature nestles at our side; we linger beside the silvery brook and it sings to us; we listen attentively to the murmuring trees and they whisper to us; we gaze upon the frowning hills and they smile upon us. And by and by as the shadows deepen all outlines are lost, and we see vaguely the great masses of tone and color; nature becomes heroic; the petty is dissolved; the insignificant is lost; hills and trees and streams are blended in one mighty composition, in the presence of which all but the impalpable soul of man is as nothing.
We left Schenectady at nine o'clock, taking the Troy road as far as Latham's Corners, then to the right into Albany.
We reached the city at half-past ten. Albany is not a convenient place for automobiles. There are no special stations for the storing of machines, and the stables are most inaccessible on account of the hills and steep approaches.
CHAPTER ELEVEN THE VALLEY OF LEBANON THE SICK TURKEY
It was four o'clock, next day, when we left Albany, going down Green Street and crossing the long bridge, taking the straight road over the ridges for Pittsfield.
Immediately on leaving the eastern end of the bridge the ascent of a long steep grade is begun. This is the first ridge, and from this on for fifteen miles is a succession of ridges, steep rocky hills, and precipitous declines. These continue until Brainerd is reached, where the valley of Lebanon begins.
These ridges can be partially avoided by turning down the Hudson to the right after crossing the bridge and making a detour to Brainerd; the road is about five miles longer, but is very commonly taken by farmers going to the city with heavy loads, and may well be taken by all who wish to avoid a series of stiff grades.
Many farmers were amazed to hear we had come over the hills instead of going around, and wondered how the machine managed to do it.
Popular notions concerning the capabilities of a machine are interesting; people estimate its strength and resources by those of a horse. In speaking of roads, farmers seem to assume the machine—like the horse—will not mind one or two hills, no matter how steep, but that it will mind a series of grades, even though none are very stiff.
Steam and electric automobiles do tire,—that is, long pulls through heavy roads or up grades tell on them,—the former has trouble in keeping up steam, the latter rapidly consumes its store of electricity. The gasoline machine does not tire. Within its limitations it can keep going indefinitely, and it is immaterial whether it is up or down grade—save in the time made; it will go all day through deep mud, or up steep hills, quite as smoothly, though by no means so fast, as on the level; but let it come to one hole, spot, or hill that is just beyond the limit of its power, and it is stuck; it has no reserve force to draw upon. The steam machine can stop a moment, accumulate two or three hundred pounds of steam, open the throttle and, for a few moments, exert twice its normal energy to get out of the difficulty.
It is not a series of hills that deters the gasoline operator, but the one hill, the one grade, the one bad place, which is just beyond the power he has available. The road the farmer calls good may have that one bad place or hill in it, and must therefore be avoided. The road that is pronounced bad may be, every foot of it, well within the power of the machine, and is therefore the road to take.
In actual road work the term "horse-power" is very misleading.
When steam-engines in early days began to take the place of horses, they were rated as so many horse-power according to the number of horses they displaced. It then became important to find out what was the power of the horse. Observing the strong dray horses used by the London breweries, Watt found that a horse could go two and one-half miles per hour and at the same time raise a weight of one hundred and fifty pounds suspended by a rope over a pulley; this is equivalent to thirty-three thousand pounds raised one foot in one minute, which is said to be one horse-power.
No horse, of course, could raise thirty-three thousand pounds a foot or any portion of a foot in a minute or an hour, but the horse can travel at the rate of two and one-half miles an hour raising a weight of one hundred and fifty pounds, and the horse can do more; while it cannot move so heavy a weight as thirty-three thousand pounds, it can in an emergency and by sudden strain move much more than one hundred and fifty pounds; with good foothold it can pull more than its own weight along a road, out of a hole, or up a hill. It could not lift or pull so great a weight very far; in fact, no farther than the equivalent of approximately thirty-three thousand pounds raised one foot in one minute; but for the few seconds necessary a very great amount of energy is at the command of the driver of the horse. Hence eight horses, or even four, or two can do things on the road that an eight horse-power gasoline machine cannot do; for the gasoline machine cannot concentrate all its power into the exertion of a few moments. If it is capable of lifting a given load up a given grade at a certain speed on its lowest gear, it cannot lift twice the load up the same grade, or the same load up a steeper grade in double the time, for its resources are exhausted when the limit of the power developed through the lowest gear is reached. The grade may be only a mud hole, out of which the rear wheels have to rise only two feet to be free, but it is as fatal to progress as a hill a mile long.
Of course it is always possible to race the engine, throw in the clutch, and gain some power from the momentum of the fly-wheel, and many a bad place may be surmounted step by step in this way; but this process has its limitations also, and the fact remains that with a gasoline machine it is possible to carry a given load only so fast, but if the machine moves it all, it will continue to move on until the load is increased, or the road changes for the worse.
When the farmer hears of an eight horse-power machine he thinks of the wonderful things eight good horses can do on the road, and is surprised when the machine fails to go up hills that teams travel every day; he does not understand it, and wonders where the power comes in. He is not enough of a mechanic to reflect that the eight horse-power is demonstrated in the carrying of a ton over average roads one hundred and fifty miles in ten hours, something eight horses could not possibly do.
Just as we were entering the valley of Lebanon, beyond the village of Brainerd, while going down a slight descent, my Companion exclaimed,—
"The wheel is coming off." I threw out the clutch, applied the brake, looked, and saw the left front wheel roll gracefully and quite deliberately out from under the big metal mud guard; the carriage settled down at that corner, and the end of the axle ploughed a furrow in the road for a few feet, when we came to a stop.
The steering-head had broken short off at the inside of the hub. We were not going very fast at the time, and the heavy metal mud guard which caught the wheel, acting as a huge brake, saved us from a bad smash.
On examination, the shank of the steering-head was found to contain two large flaws, which reduced its strength more than one-half, and the surprising thing was that it had not parted long before, when subjected to much severer strains.
This was a break that no man could repair on the road. Under pressure of circumstances the steering-head could have been taken to the nearest blacksmith shop and a weld made, but that would require time, and the results would be more than doubtful. By far the easier thing to do was to wire the factory for a new head and patiently wait its coming.
Happily, we landed in the hands of a retired farmer, whose generous hospitality embraced our tired selves as well as the machine.
Before supper a telegram was sent from Brainerd to the factory for a new steering-head.
While waiting inside for the operator to finish selling tickets for the one evening train about to arrive, a curious crowd gathered outside about my host, and the questions asked were plainly audible; the names are fictitious.
"What'r ye down t' the stashun fur this hur o' day, Joe?"
"Broke my new aut'mobile," carelessly replied my host, flicking a fly off the nigh side of his horse.
"Shu!"
"What'r given us?"
"Git out—"
"You ain't got no aut'mobile," chorused the crowd.
"Mebbe I haven't; but if you fellows know an aut'mobile from a hay rake, you might take a look in my big barn an' let me know what you see."
"Say, Joe, you're jokin',—hev you really got one?"
"You can look for yourselves."
"I saw one go through here 'bout six o'clock," interrupted a new-comer. "Great Jehosephat, but 't went like a streak of greased lightnin'."
"War that your'n, Joe?"
"Well—"
"Naw," said the new-comer, scornfully. "Joe ain't got no aut'mobile; there's the feller in there now who runs it," and the crowd turned my way with such interest that I turned to the little table and wrote the despatch, quite losing the connection of the subdued murmurs outside; but it was quite evident from the broken exclamations that my host was filling the populace up with information interesting inversely to its accuracy.
"Mile a minute—faster'n a train—Holy Moses! what's that, Joe? broke axle—telegraphed—how many—four more—you don't say so?— what's his name? I'll bet it's Vanderbilt. Don't you believe it— it costs money to run one of those machines. I'll bet he's a dandy from 'way back—stopping at your house—bridal chamber—that's right—you want to kill the fatted calf for them fellers—say—"
But further comments were cut short as I came out, jumped in, and we drove back to a good supper by candle-light.
The stars were shining over head, the air was clear and crisp, down in the valley of Lebanon the mist was falling, and it was cool that night. Lulled by the monotonous song of the tree-toad and the deep bass croaking of frogs by the distant stream, we fell asleep.
There was nothing to do next day. The new steering-head could not possibly arrive until the morning following. As the farm was worked by a tenant, our host had little to do, and proposed that we drive to the Shaker village a few miles beyond.
The visit is well worth making, and we should have missed it entirely if the automobile had not broken down, for the new State road over the mountain does not go through the village, but back of it. From the new road one can look down upon the cluster of large buildings on the side of the mountain, but the old roads are so very steep, with such interesting names as "Devil's Elbow," and the like, that they would not tempt an automobile. Many with horses get out and walk at the worst places.
One wide street leads through the settlement; on each side are the huge community buildings, seven in all, each occupied by a "family," so called, or community, and each quite independent in its management and enterprises from the others; the common ties being the meeting-house near the centre and the school-house a little farther on.
We stopped at the North Family simply because it was the first at hand, and we were hungry. Ushered into a little reception-room in one of the outer buildings, we were obliged to wait for dinner until the party preceding us had finished, for the little dining-room devoted to strangers had only one table, seating but six or eight, and it seemed to be the commendable policy of the institution to serve each party separately.
A printed notice warned us that dinner served after one o'clock cost ten cents per cover extra, making the extravagant charge of sixty cents. We arrived just in time to be entitled to the regular rate, but the dilatory tactics of the party in possession kept us beyond the hour and involved us in the extra expense, with no compensation in the shape of extra dishes. Morally and—having tendered ourselves within the limit—legally we were entitled to dine at the regular rate, or the party ahead should have paid the additional tariff, but the good sister could not see the matter in that light, plead ignorance of law, and relied entirely upon custom.
The man who picks up a Shaker maiden for a fool will let her drop.
Having waited until nearly famished, the sister blandly told us, as if it were a matter of local interest, but otherwise of small consequence, that the North Family were strict vegetarians, serving no meat whatsoever; the only meat family was at the other end of the village.
We were ready for meat, for chickens, ducks, green goose, anything that walked on legs; we were not ready for pumpkin, squash, boiled potatoes, canned peas, and cabbage; but a theory as well as a condition confronted us; it was give in or move on. We gave in, but for fifteen cents more per plate bargained for preserves, maple syrup, and honey,—for something cloying to deceive the outraged palate.
But that dinner was a revelation of what a good cook can do with vegetables in season; it was the quintessence of delicacy, the refinement of finesse, the veritable apotheosis of the kitchen garden; meat would have been brutal, the intrusion of a chop inexcusable, the assertion of a steak barbarous, even a terrapin would have felt quite out of place amidst things so fragrant and impalpable as the marvellous preparations of vegetables from that wonderful Shaker kitchen.
Everything was good, but the various concoctions of sweet corn were better; and such sweet corn! it is still a savory recollection.
Then the variety of preserves, jellies, and syrups; fifteen cents extra were never bestowed to better advantage. We cast our coppers upon the water and they returned Spanish galleons laden with good things to eat.
After dining, we were walked through the various buildings, up stairs and down, through kitchens, pantries, and cellars,—a wise exercise after so bountiful a repast. In the cellar we drank something from a bottle labelled "Pure grape juice," one of those non-alcoholic beverages with which the teetotaler whips the devil around the stump; another glass would have made Shakers of us all, for the juice of the grape in this instance was about twenty-five per cent. proof. If the good sisters supply their worthy brothers in faith with this stimulating cordial, it is not unlikely that life in the village is less monotonous than is commonly supposed. It certainly was calculated to add emphasis to the eccentricities of even a "Shaking Quaker."
Although the oldest and the wealthiest of all the socialistic communities, there are only about six thousand Shakers in the United States, less than one-fourth of what there were in former times.
At Mt. Lebanon, the first founded of the several societies in this country, there are seven families, or separate communities, each with its own home and buildings. The present membership is about one hundred and twenty, nearly all women,—scarcely enough men to provide the requisite deacons for each family.
Large and well-managed schools are provided to attract children from the outside world, and so recruit the diminishing ranks of the faithful; but while many girls remain, the boys steal away to the heathen world, where marriage is an institution.
Celibacy is the cardinal principle and the curse of Shakerism; it is slowly but surely bringing the sect to an end. It takes a lot of fanaticism to remain single, and fanaticism is in the sere and yellow leaf. In Massachusetts, where so many women are compelled to remain single, there ought to be many Shakers; there are a few, and Mt. Lebanon is just over the line.
Celibacy does not appeal strongly to men. A man is quite willing to live alone if it is not compulsory, but celibates cannot stand restraint; the bachelor is bound to have his own way—until he is married. Tell a man he may not marry, and he will; that he must marry, and he won't.
The sect which tries to get along with either too little or too much marriage is bound to peter out. There were John Noyes and Brigham Young. John founded the Oneida Community upon the proposition that everything should be in common, including husbands, wives, and children; from the broadest possible communism his community has regenerated into the closet of stock companies "limited," with a capital stock of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, a surplus of one hundred and fifty thousand, and only two hundred and nineteen stockholders.
In the palmy days of Mormonism the men could have as many wives as they could afford,—a scheme not without its practical advantages in the monotonous life of pioneer settlements, since it gave the women something to quarrel about and the men something to think about, thereby keeping both out of mischief,—but with the advent of civilization with its diverse interests, the men of Salt Lake, urged also by the law, are getting tired of more than one wife at a time, and the community will soon be absorbed and lost in the commonplace. The ancient theory of wives in multiples is giving place to the modern practice of wives in series.
The story is told that a dear Shaker brother once fell from grace and disappeared in the maelstrom of the carnal world; in a few years he came back as penitent as he was penniless, with strange accounts of how men had fleeced him of all he possessed save the clothes—none too desirable—on his back. Men were so scarce that the credulous sisters and charitable deacons voted to accept his tales as true and receive him once more into the fold.
It was in 1770, while in prison in England, that Ann Lee claimed to have had a great revelation concerning original sin, wherein it was revealed that a celibate life is a condition precedent to spiritual regeneration. Her revelation may have been biased by the fact that she herself was married, but not comfortably.
In 1773, on her release from prison, another revelation told her to go to America. Her husband did not sympathize with the celibacy proposition, left "Mother Ann," as she was then known, and went off with another woman who was unhampered by revelations. This was the beginning of desertions which have continued ever since, until the men are reduced to a corporal's guard.
The principles of the Shakers, barring celibacy, are sound and practical, and, so far as known, they live up to them quite faithfully. Like the original Oneida community, they believe in free criticism of one another in open meetings. They admit no one to the society unless he or she promises to make a full confession before others of every evil that can be recalled,—women confess to women, men to men; these requirements make it difficult to recruit their ranks. They are opposed to war and violence, do not vote, and do not permit corporal punishment. They pay their full share of public taxes and assessments and give largely in charity. Their buildings are well built and well kept, their farms and lands worked to the best advantage; in short, they are industrious and thrifty.
Communism is one of those dreams that come so often to the best of mankind and, lingering on through the waking hours, influence conduct. The sharp distinctions and inequalities of life seem so harsh and unjust; the wide intervals which separate those who have from those who have not seem so unfair, that in all ages and in all countries men have tried to devise schemes for social equality,—equality of power, opportunity, and achievement. Communism of some sort is one solution urged,—communism in property, communism in effort, communism in results, everything in common.
In 1840 Emerson wrote to Carlyle, "We are all a little wild here with numberless projects of social reform. Not a reading man but has a draft of a new community in his waistcoat pocket. I am gently mad myself, and am resolved to live cleanly. George Ripley is talking up a colony of agriculturists and scholars, with whom he threatens to take the field and book. One man renounces the use of animal food; another of coin; and another of domestic hired service; and another of the State; and on the whole we have a commendable share of reason and of hope."
Ripley did found his Brook Farm, and a lot of good people went and lived there—not Emerson; he was just a trifle too sane to be won over completely, but even he used to go into his own garden and dig in a socialistic way until his little boy warned him not to dig his foot.
That is the trouble with communism, those who dig are apt to dig their feet. It is easier to call a spade a spade than to use one. Men may be born free and equal, but if they are, they do not show it. From his first breath man is oppressed by the conditions of his existence, and life is a struggle with environment. Freedom and liberty are terms of relative not absolute value. The absolutism of the commune is oppression refined, each man must dig even if he digs his own foot. The plea of the anarchist for liberty is more consistent than the plea of the communist,—the one does demand a wild, lawless freedom for individual initiative; the other demands the very refinement of interference with liberty of mind and body.
The evolutionist looks on with philosophic indifference, knowing that what is to be will be, that the stream of tendency is not to be checked or swerved by vaporings, but moves irresistibly onward, though every thought, every utterance, every experiment, however wild, however visionary, has its effect.
We of the practical world sojourning in the Shaker village may commiserate the disciples of theory, but they are happy in their own way,—possibly happier in their seclusion and routine than we are in our hurly-burly and endless strife for social, commercial, and political advantages. Life is as settled and certain for them as it is unsettled and uncertain for us. No problems confront them; the everlasting query, "What shall we do to-morrow?" is never asked; plans for the coming summer do not disturb them; the seashore is far off; Paris and Monte Carlo are but places, vague and indistinct, the fairy tales of travellers; their city is the four walls of their home; their world the one long, silent, street of the village; their end the little graveyard beyond; it is all planned out, foreseen, and arranged.
Such a life is not without its charms, and it is small wonder that in all ages men of intellect have sought in some form of communistic association relief from the pressure of strenuous individualism. We may smile with condescension upon the busy sisters in their caps and gingham gowns, but, who knows, theirs may be the better lot.
Life with us is a good deal of an automobile race,—a lot of dust, dirt, and noise; explosions, accidents, and delays; something wrong most of the time; now a burst of headlong speed, then a jolt and sudden stop; or a creeping pace with disordered mechanism; no time to think of much except the machine; less time to see anything except the road immediately ahead; strife to pass others; reckless indifference to life and limb; one long, mad contest for success and notoriety, ending for the most part in some sort of disaster,—possibly a sea of flame.
If we possessed any sense of grim, sardonic humor, we would appreciate how ridiculous is the life we lead, how utterly absurd is our waste of time, our dissipation of the few days and hours vouchsafed us. We are just so many cicadas drumming out the hours and disappearing. We have abundance of wit, and a good deal of humor of a superficial kind, but the penetrating vision of a Socrates, a Voltaire, a Carlyle is denied the most of us, and we take ourselves and our accustomed pursuits most seriously.
On our way back from the village we stopped at the birthplace of Samuel Tilden,—an old-fashioned white frame house, situated in the very fork of the roads, and surrounded by tall trees. Not far away is the cemetery, where a stone sarcophagus contains the remains of a man who was very able if not very great.
Probably not fifty people in the United States, aside from those living in the neighborhood, know where Tilden was born. We did not until we came abruptly upon the house and were told; probably not a dozen could tell exactly where he is buried. Such is fame. And yet this man, in the belief of most of his countrymen, was chosen president, though never seated; he was governor of New York and a vital force in the politics and public life of his times,—now forgotten.
What a disappointment it must have been to come so near and yet miss the presidency. Before 1880 came around, his own party had so far forgotten him that he was scarcely mentioned for renomination,—though Tilden decrepit was incomparably stronger than Hancock "the superb." It was hard work enthusing over "Hancock and Hooray" after "Tilden and Reform;" the latter cry had substance, the former was just fustian.
The Democratic party is as iconoclastic as the Republican is reverential. The former loves to pick flaws in its idols and dash them to pieces; the latter, with stolid conservatism, clings loyally to its mediocrities. The latter could have elected Bryan, the former could not; the Democratic stomach is freaky and very squeamish; it swallows many things but digests few; the ostrich-like Republican organ has never been known to reject anything.