A six o'clock call and a seven o'clock breakfast gave time enough to inspect the machine.
The water-tank was leaking through a crack in the side, but not so badly that we could not go on to Cleveland, where repairs could be made more quickly. A slight pounding which had developed was finally located in the pinion of a small gear-wheel that operated the exhaust-valve.
It is sometimes by no means easy to locate a pounding in a gasoline motor, and yet it must be found and stopped. An expert from the factory once worked four days trying to locate a very loud and annoying pounding. He, of course, looked immediately at the crank- and wrist-pins, taking up what little wear was perceptible, but the pounding remained; then eccentric strap, pump, and every bearing about the motor were gone over one by one, without success; the main shaft was lifted out, fly-wheel drawn off, a new key made; the wheel drawn on again tight, all with no effect upon the hard knock which came at each explosion. At last the guess was made that possibly the piston was a trifle small for the cylinder; a new and slightly larger piston was put in and the noise ceased. It so happened that the expert had heard of one other such case, therefore he made the experiment of trying a fractionally larger piston as a last resort; imagine the predicament of the amateur, or the mechanic who had never heard of such a trouble.
There is, of course, a dull thud at each explosion; this is the natural "kick" of the engine, and is very perceptible on large single-cylinder motors; but this dull thud is very different from the hammer-like knock resulting from lost motion between the parts, and the practised ear will detect the difference at once.
The best way to find the pounding is to throw a stream of heavy lubricating oil on the bearings, one by one, until the noise is silenced for the moment. Even the piston can be reached with a flood of oil and tested.
It is not easy to tell by feeling whether a bearing on a gasoline motor is too free. The heat developed is so great that bearings are left with considerable play.
A leak in the water-tank or coils is annoying; but if facilities for permanent repair are lacking, a pint of bran or middlings from any farmer's barn, put in the water, will close the leak nine times out of ten.
From Norwalk through Wakeman and Kipton to Oberlin the road is rather poor, with but two or three redeeming stretches near Kipton. It is mostly clay, and in dry weather is hard and dusty and rough from much traffic.
Leading into Oberlin the road is covered with great broad flag-stones, which once upon a time must have presented a smooth hard surface, but now make a succession of disagreeable bumps.
Out of Elyria we made the mistake of leaving the trolley line, and for miles had to go through sand, which greatly lessened our speed, but towards Stony River the road was perfect, and we made the best time of the day.
It required some time in Cleveland to remove and repair the water-tank, cut a link out of the chain, take up the lost motion in the steering-wheel, and tighten up things generally. It was four o'clock before we were off for Painesville.
Euclid Avenue is well paved in the city, but just outside there is a bit of old plank road that is disgracefully bad. Through Wickliff, Willoughby, and Mentor the road is a smooth, hard gravel.
Arriving at Painesville a few minutes after seven, we took in gasoline, had supper, and prepared to start for Ashtabula.
It was dark, so we could not see the tires; but just before starting I gave each a sharp blow with a wrench to see if it was hard,—a sharp blow, or even a kick, tells the story much better than feeling of the tires.
One rear tire was entirely deflated. A railroad spike four and three-quarters inches long, and otherwise well proportioned, had penetrated full length. It had been picked up along the trolley line, was probably struck by the front wheel, lifted up on end so that the rear tire struck the sharp end exactly the right angle to drive the spike in lengthwise of the tread.
It was a big ragged puncture which could not be repaired on the road; there was nothing to do but stop over night and have a tire sent out from Cleveland next day.
While waiting the next morning, we jacked up the wheel and removed the damaged tire.
It is not easy to remove quickly and put on heavy single-tube tires, and a few suggestions may not be amiss.
The best tools are half-leaves of carriage springs. At any carriage shop one can get halves of broken springs. They should be sixteen or eighteen inches long, and are ready for use without forging filing or other preparation. With three such halves one man can take off a tire in fifteen or twenty minutes; two men will work a little faster; help on the road is never wanting.
Let the wheel rest on the tire with valve down; loosen all the lugs; insert thin edge of spring-leaf between rim and tire, breaking the cement and partially freeing tire; insert spring-leaf farther at a point just about opposite valve and pry tire free from rim, holding and working it free by pushing in other irons or screw-drivers, or whatever you have handy; when lugs and tire are out of the hollow of the rim for a distance of eighteen or twenty inches, it will be easy to pass the iron underneath the tire, prying up the tire until it slips over the rim, when with the hands it can be pulled off entirely; the wheel is then raised and the valve-stem carefully drawn out.
All this can be done with the wheel jacked up, but if resting on the tire as suggested, the valve-stem is protected during the efforts to loosen tire.
To put on a single-tube tire properly, the rim should be thoroughly cleaned with gasoline, and the new tire put on with shellac or cement, or with simply the lugs to hold.
Shellac can be obtained at any drug store, is quickly brushed over both the tire and the rim, and the tire put in place—that holds very well. Cement well applied is stronger. If the rim is well covered with old cement, gasoline applied to the surface of the old cement will soften it; or with a plumber's torch the rim may be heated without injuring enamel and the cement melted, or take a cake of cement, soften it in gasoline or melt it, or even light it like a stick of sealing-wax and apply it to the rim. If hot cement is used it will be necessary to heat the rim after the tire is on to make a good job.
After the rim is prepared, insert valve-stem and the lugs near it; let the wheel down so as to rest on that part of the tire, then with the iron work the tire into the rim, beginning at each side of valve. The tire goes into place easily until the top is reached where the two irons are used to lift tire and lugs over the rim; once in rim it is often necessary to pound the tire with the flat of the iron to work the lugs into their places; by striking the tire in the direction it should go the lugs one by one will slip into their holes; put on the nuts and the work is done.
In selecting a half-leaf of a spring, choose one the width of the springs to the machine, and carry along three or four small spring clips, for it is quite likely a spring may be broken in the course of a long run, and, if so, the half-leaf can be clipped over the break, making the broken spring as serviceable and strong for the time being as if sound.
CHAPTER FIVE ON TO BUFFALO "GEE WHIZ!!"
From Painesville three roads led east,—the North Ridge, Middle Ridge, and South Ridge. We followed the middle road, which is said to be by far the best; it certainly is as good a gravel road as one could ask. Some miles out a turn is made to the South Ridge for Ashtabula.
There is said to be a good road out of Ashtabula; possibly there is, but we missed it at one of the numerous cross roads, and soon found ourselves wallowing through corn-fields, climbing hills, and threading valleys in the vain effort to find Girard,—a point quite out of our way, as we afterwards learned.
The Professor's bump of locality is a depression. As a passenger without serious occupation, it fell to his lot to inquire the way. This he would do very minutely, with great suavity and becoming gravity, and then with no sign of hesitation indicate invariably the wrong road. Once, after crossing a field where there were no fences to mark the highway, descending a hill we could not have mounted, and finding a stream that seemed impassable, the Professor quietly remarked,—
"That old man must have been mistaken regarding the road; yet he had lived on that corner forty years. Strange how little some people know about their surroundings!"
"But are you sure he said the first turn to the left?"
"He said the first turn, but whether to the left or right I cannot now say. It must have been to the right."
"But, my dear Professor, you said to the left."
"Well, we were going pretty fast when we came to the four corners, and something had to be said, and said quickly. I notice that on an automobile decision is more important than accuracy. After being hauled over the country for three days, I have made up my mind that automobiles are driven upon the hypothesis that it is better to lose the road, lose life, lose anything than lose time, therefore, when you ask me which way to turn, you will get an immediate, if not an accurate, response; besides, there is a bridge ahead, a little village across the stream, so the road leads somewhere."
Now and then the Professor would jump out to assist some female in distress with her horse; at first it was a matter of gallantry, then a duty, then a burden. Towards the last it used to delight him to see people frantically turning into lanes, fields, anywhere to get out of the way.
The horse is a factor to be considered—and placated. He is in possession and cannot be forcibly ejected,—a sort of terre-tenant; such title as he has must be respected.
After wrestling with an unusually notional beast, to the great disorder of clothing and temper, the Professor said,—
"The brain of the horse is small; it is an animal of little sense and great timidity, but it knows more than most people who attempt to drive."
In reality horses are seldom driven; they generally go as they please, with now and then a hint as to which corner to turn. Nine times out of ten it is the driven horse that makes trouble for owners of automobiles. The drunken driver never has any trouble; his horses do not stop, turn about, or shy into the ditch; the man asleep on the box is perfectly safe; his horse ambles on, minding its own business, giving a full half of the road to the approaching machine. It is the man, who, on catching sight of the automobile, nervously gathers up his reins, grabs his whip, and pulls and jerks, who makes his own troubles; he is searching for trouble, expects it, and is disappointed if he gets by without it. Nine times out of ten it is the driver who really frightens the horse. A country plug, jogging quietly along, quite unterrified, may be roused to unwonted capers by the person behind.
Some take the antics of their horses quite philosophically. One old farmer, whose wheezy nag tried to climb the fence, called out,—
"Gee whiz! I wish you fellers would come this way every day; the old hoss hasn't showed so much ginger for ten year."
Another, carrying just a little more of the wine of the country than his legs could bear, stood up unsteadily in his wagon and shouted,—
"If you (hic) come around these pa-arts again with that thres-in' ma-a-chine, I'll have the law on you,—d'ye hear?"
The personal equation is everything on the road, as elsewhere.
It is quite idle to expect skill, courage, or common sense from the great majority of drivers. They get along very well so long as nothing happens, but in emergencies they are helpless, because they have never had experience in emergencies. The man who has driven horses all his life is frequently as helpless under unusual conditions as the novice. Few drivers know when and how to use the whip to prevent a runaway or a smash-up.
With the exception of professional and a few amateur whips, no one is ever taught how to drive. Most persons who ride—even country boys—are given many useful hints, lessons, and demonstrations; but it seems to be assumed that driving is a natural acquirement.
As a matter of fact, it is much more important to be taught how to drive than how to ride. A horse in front of a vehicle can do all the mean things a horse under a saddle can do, and more; and it is far more difficult to handle an animal in shafts by means of long reins and a whip.
If people knew half as much about horses as they think they do, there would be no mishaps; if horses were half as nervous as they are supposed to be, the accidents would be innumerable.
The truth is, the horse does very well if managed with a little common sense, skill, and coolness.
As a matter of law, the automobile is a vehicle, and has precisely the same rights on the highway that a bicycle or a carriage has. The horse has no monopoly of the highway, it enjoys no especial privileges, but must share the road with all other vehicles. Furthermore, the law makes it the business of the horse to get accustomed to strange sights and behave itself This duty has been onerous the last few years; the bicycle, the traction engine, and the trolley have come along in quick succession; the automobile is about the last straw.
Until the horse is accustomed to the machine, it is the duty—by law and common sense—of the automobile driver to take great care in passing; the care being measured by the possibility and probability of at accident.
The sympathy of every chauffeur must be entirely with the driver of the horse. Automobiles are not so numerous in this country that they may be looked for at every turn, and one cannot but feel for the man or woman who, while driving, sees one coming down the road. The best of drivers feel panicky, while women and children are terror-stricken.
It is no uncommon sight to see people jump out of their carriages or drive into fields or lanes, anywhere, to get out of the way. In localities where machines have been driven recklessly, men and women, though dressed in their best, frequently jump out in the mud as soon as an automobile comes in sight, and long before the chauffeur has an opportunity to show that he will exercise caution in approaching. All this is wrong and creates an amount of ill-feeling hard to overcome.
If one is driving along a fine road at twenty or thirty miles an hour, it is, of course, a relief to see coming vehicles turn in somewhere; but it ought not to be necessary for them to do so. Often people like to turn to one side for the sake of seeing the machine go by at full speed; but if they do not wish to, the automobile should be so driven as to pass with safety.
On country roads there is but one way to pass horses without risk, and that is let the horses pass the machine.
In cities horses give very little trouble; in the country they give no end of trouble; they are a very great drawback to the pleasure of automobiling. Horses that behave well in the city are often the very worst in the country, so susceptible is the animal to environment.
On narrow country roads three out of five will behave badly, and unless the outward signs are unmistakable, it is never safe to assume one is meeting an old plug,—even the plug sometimes jumps the ditch.
The safe, the prudent, the courteous thing to do is to stop and let the driver drive or lead his horse by; if a child or woman is driving, get out and lead the horse.
By stopping the machine most horses can be gotten by without much trouble. Even though the driver motions to come on, it is seldom safe to do so; for of all horses the one that is brought to a stand-still in front of a machine is surest to shy, turn, or bolt when the machine starts up to pass. If one is going to pass a horse without stopping, it is safer to do so quickly,—the more quickly the better; but that is taking great chances.
Whenever a horse, whether driven or hitched, shows fright, a loud, sharp "Whoa!" from the chauffeur will steady the animal. The voice from the machine, if sharp and peremptory, is much more effective than any amount of talking from the carriage.
Much of the prejudice against automobiles is due to the fact that machines are driven with entire disregard for the feelings and rights of horse owners; in short, the highway is monopolized to the exclusion of the public. The prejudice thus created is manifested in many ways that are disagreeable to the chauffeur and his friends.
The trouble is not in excessive speed, and speed ordinances will not remedy the trouble. A machine may be driven as recklessly at ten or twelve miles an hour as at thirty. In a given distance more horses can be frightened by a slow machine than a fast. It is all in the manner of driving.
Speed is a matter of temperament. In England, the people and local boards cannot adopt measures stringent enough to prevent speeding; in Ireland, the people and local authorities line the highways, urging the chauffeur to let his machine out; in America, we are suspended between English prudence and repression on the one side and Irish impulsiveness and recklessness on the other.
The Englishman will not budge; the Irishman cries, "Let her go."
Speaking of the future of the automobile, the Professor said,—
"Cupid will never use the automobile, the little god is too conservative; fancy the dainty sprite with oil-can and waste instead of bow and arrow. I can see him with smut on the end of his mischievous nose and grease on the seat of the place where his trousers ought to be. What a picture he would make in overalls and jumper, leather jacket and cap; he could not use dart or arrow, at best he could only run the machine hither and thither bunting people into love—knocking them senseless, which is perhaps the same thing. No, no, Cupid will never use the automobile. Imagine Aphrodite in goggles, clothed in dust, her fair skin red from sunburn and glistening with cold cream; horrible nightmare of a mechanical age, avaunt!
"The chariots of High Olympus were never greased, they used no gasoline, the clouds we see about them are condensed zephyrs and not dust. Omniscient Jove never used a monkey-wrench, never sought the elusive spark, never blew up a four-inch tire with a half-inch pump. Even if the automobile could surmount the grades, it would never be popular on Olympian heights. Mercury might use it to visit Vulcan, but he would never go far from the shop.
"As for conditions here on earth, why should a young woman go riding with a man whose hands, arms, and attention are entirely taken up with wheels, levers, and oil-cups? He can't even press her foot without running the risk of stopping the machine by releasing some clutch; if he moves his knees a hair's-breadth in her direction it does something to the mechanism; if he looks her way they are into the ditch; if she attempts to kiss him his goggles prevent; his sighs are lost in the muffler and hers in the exhaust; nothing but dire disaster will bring an automobile courtship to a happy termination; as long as the machine goes love-making is quite out of the question.
"Dobbin, dear old secretive Dobbin, what difference does it make to you whether you feel the guiding hand or not? You know when the courtship begins, the brisk drives about town to all points of interest, to the pond, the poorhouse, and the cemetery; you know how the courtship progresses, the long drives in the country, the idling along untravelled roads and woodland ways, the moonlight nights and misty meadows; you know when your stops to nibble by the wayside will not be noticed, and you alone know when it is time to get the young couple home; you know, alas! when the courtship—blissful period of loitering for you—is ended and when the marriage is made, by the tighter rein, the sharper word, and the occasional swish of the whip. Ah, Dobbin, you and I—" The Professor was becoming indiscreet.
"What do you know about love-making, Professor?"
"My dear fellow, it is the province of learning to know everything and practise nothing."
"But Dobbin—"
"We all have had our Dobbins."
For some miles the road out of Erie was soft, dusty, narrow, and poor—by no means fit for the proposed Erie-Buffalo race. About fifteen miles out there is a sharp turn to the left and down a steep incline with a ravine and stream below on the right,—a dangerous turn at twenty miles an hour, to say nothing of forty or fifty.
There is nothing to indicate that the road drops so suddenly after making the turn, and we were bowling along at top speed; a wagon coming around the corner threw us well to the outside, so that the margin of safety was reduced to a minimum, even if the turn were an easy one.
As we swung around the corner well over to the edge of the ravine, we saw the grade we had to make. Nothing but a succession of small rain gullies in the road saved us from going down the bank. By so steering as to drop the skidding wheels on the outside into each gully, the sliding of the machine received a series of violent checks and we missed the brink of the ravine by a few inches.
A layman in the Professor's place would have jumped; but he, good man, looked upon his escape as one of the incidents of automobile travel.
"When I accepted your invitation, my dear fellow, I expected something beyond the ordinary. I have not been disappointed."
It was a wonder the driving-wheels were not dished by the violent side strains, but they were not even sprung. These wheels were of wire tangential spokes; they do not look so well as the smart, heavy, substantial wooden wheels one sees on nearly all imported machines and on some American.
The sense of proportion between parts is sadly outraged by spindle-wire wheels supporting the massive frame-work and body of an automobile; however strong they may be in reality, architecturally they are quite unfit, and no doubt the wooden wheel will come more and more into general use.
A wooden wheel with the best of hickory spokes possesses an elasticity entirely foreign to the rigid wire wheel, but good hickory wheels are rare; paint hides a multitude of sins when spread over wood; and inferior wooden wheels are not at all to be relied upon.
Soon we begin to catch glimpses of Lake Erie through the trees and between the hills, just a blue expanse of water shining in the morning sun, a sapphire set in the dull brown gold of woods and fields. Farther on we come out upon the bluffs overlooking the lake and see the smoke and grime of Buffalo far across. What a blot on a view so beautiful!
"Civilization," said the Professor, "is the subjection of nature. In the civilization of Athens nature was subdued to the ends of beauty; in the civilization of America nature is subdued to the ends of usefulness; in every civilization nature is of secondary importance, it is but a means to an end. Nature and the savage, like little children, go hand in hand, the one the complement of the other; but the savage grows and grows, while nature remains ever a child, to sink subservient at last to its early playmate. Just now we in this country are treating nature with great harshness, making of her a drudge and a slave; her pretty hands are soiled, her clean face covered with soot, her clothing tattered and torn. Some day, we as a nation will tire of playing the taskmaster and will treat the playmate of man's infancy and youth with more consideration; we will adorn and not disfigure her, love and not ignore her, place her on a throne beside us, make her queen to our kingship."
"Professor, the automobile hardly falls in with your notions."
"On the contrary, the automobile is the one absolutely fit conveyance for America. It is a noisy, dirty, mechanical contrivance, capable of great speed; it is the only vehicle in which one could approach that distant smudge on the landscape with any sense of the eternal fitness of things. A coach and four would be as far behind the times on this highway as a birch-bark canoe on yonder lake. In America an automobile is beautiful because it is in perfect harmony with the spirit of the age and country; it is twin brother to the trolley; train, trolley, and automobile may travel side by side as members of one family, late offsprings of man's ingenuity."
"But you would not call them things of beauty?"
"Yes and no; beauty is so largely relative that one cannot pronounce hideous anything that is a logical and legitimate development. Considered in the light of things the world pronounces beautiful, there are no more hideous monstrosities on the face of the earth than train, trolley, and automobile; but each generation has its own standard of beauty, though it seldom confesses it. We say and actually persuade ourselves that we admire the Parthenon; in reality we admire the mammoth factory and the thirty-story office building. Strive as we may to deceive ourselves by loud protestations, our standards are not the standards of old. We like best the things we have; we may call things ugly, but we think them beautiful, for they are part of us,—and the automobile fits into our surroundings like a pocket in a coat. We may turn up our noses at it or away from it, as the case may be, but none the less it is the perambulator of the twentieth century."
It was exactly one o'clock when we pulled up near the City Hall. Total time from Erie five hours and fifty minutes, actual running time five hours, distance by road about ninety-four miles.
CHAPTER SIX BUFFALO THE MIDWAY
Housing the machine in a convenient and well-appointed stable for automobiles, we were reminded of the fact that we had arrived in Buffalo at no ordinary time, by a charge of three dollars per night for storage, with everything else extra. But was it not the Exposition we had come to see? and are not Expositions proverbially expensive—to promoters and stockholders as well as visitors?
Then, too, the hotels of Buffalo had expected so much and were so woefully disappointed. Vast arrays of figures had been compiled showing that within a radius of four hundred miles of Buffalo lived all the people in the United States who were worth knowing. The statistics were not without their foundation in fact, but therein lay the weakness of the entire scheme so far as hotels were concerned; people lived so near they could leave home in the morning with a boiled egg and a sandwich, see the Exposition and get back at night. Travellers passing through would stop over during the day and evening, then go their way on a midnight train,—it was cheaper to ride in a Pullman than stay in Buffalo.
We might have taken rooms at Rochester, running back and forth each day in the machine,—though Rochester was by no means beyond the zone of exorbitant charges. Notions of value become very much congested within a radius of two or three hundred miles of any great Exposition.
The Exposition was well worth seeing in parts by day and as a whole by night. The electrical display at night was a triumph of engineering skill and architectural arrangement. It was the falls of Niagara turned into stars, the mist of the mighty cascade crystallized into jewels, a brilliant crown to man's triumph over the forces of nature.
It was a wonderful and never-to-be-forgotten sight to sit by the waters at night, as the shadows were folding the buildings in their soft embrace, and see the first faint twinklings of the thousands upon thousands of lights as the great current of electricity was turned slowly on; and then to see the lights grow in strength until the entire grounds were bathed in suffused radiance,—that was as wonderful a sight as the world of electricity has yet witnessed, and it was well worth crossing an ocean to see; it was the one conspicuous success, the one memorable feature of the Exposition, and compared with it all exhibits and scenes by day were tame and insipid.
From time immemorial it has been the special province of the preacher to take the children to the circus and the side show; for the children must go, and who so fit to take them as the preacher? After all, is not the sawdust ring with its strange people, its giants, fairies, hobgoblins, and clowns, a fairy land, not really real, and therefore no more wicked than fairy land? Do they not fly by night? are they not children of space? the enormous tents spring up like mushrooms, to last a day; for a few short hours there is a medley of strange sounds,—a blare of trumpets, the roar of strange beasts, the ring of strange voices, the crackling of whips; there are prancing steeds and figures in costumes curious,—then, flapping of canvas, creaking of poles, and all is silent. Of course it is not real, and every one may go. The circus has no annals, knows no gossip, presents no problems; it is without morals and therefore not immoral. It is the one joyous amusement that is not above, but quite outside the pale of criticism and discussion. Therefore, why should not the preacher go and take the children?
But the Midway. Ah! the Midway, that is quite a different matter; but still the preacher goes,—leaving the children at home.
Learning is ever curious. The Professor, after walking patiently through several of the buildings and admiring impartially sections of trees from Cuba and plates of apples from Wyoming, modestly expressed a desire for some relaxation.
"The Midway is something more than a feature, it is an element. It is the laugh that follows the tears; the joke that relieves the tension; the Greeks invariably produced a comedy with their tragedies; human nature demands relaxation; to appreciate the serious, the humorous is absolutely essential. If the Midway were not on the grounds the people would find it outside. Capacity for serious contemplation differs with different peoples and in different ages,—under Cromwell it was at a maximum, under Charles II. it was at a minimum; the Puritans suppressed the laughter of a nation; it broke out in ridicule that discriminated not between sacred and profane. The tension of our age is such that diversions must recur quickly. The next great Exposition may require two Midways, or three or four for the convenience of the people. You can't get a Midway any too near the anthropological and ethnological sections; a cinematograph might be operated as an adjunct to the Fine Arts building; a hula-hula dancer would relieve the monotony of a succession of big pumpkins and prize squashes."
At that moment the Professor became interested in the strange procession entering the streets of Cairo, and we followed. Before he got out it cost him fifty cents to learn his name, a quarter for his fortune, ten cents for his horoscope, and sundry amounts for gems, jewels, and souvenirs of the Orient.
Through his best hexameter spectacles he surveyed the dark-eyed daughter of the Nile who was telling his fortune with a strong Irish accent; all went smoothly until the prophetess happened to see the Professor's sunburnt nose, fiery red from the four days' run in wind and rain, and said warningly,—
"You are too fond of good eating and drinking; you drink too much, and unless you are more temperate you will die in twenty years." That was too much for the Professor, whose occasional glass of beer—a habit left over from his student days—would not discolor the nose of a humming-bird.
There were no end of illusions, mysteries, and deceptions. The greatest mystery of all was the eager desire of the people to be deceived, and their bitter and outspoken disappointment when they were not. As the Professor remarked,—
"There never has been but one real American, and that was Phineas T. Barnum. He was the genuine product of his country and his times,—native ore without foreign dross. He knew the American people as no man before or since has known them; he knew what the American people wanted, and gave it to them in large unadulterated doses,—humbug."
Tuesday morning was spent in giving the machine a thorough inspection, some lost motion in the eccentric was taken up, every nut and screw tightened, and the cylinder and intake mechanism washed out with gasoline.
It is a good plan to clean out the cylinder with gasoline once each week or ten days; it is not necessary, but the piston moves with much greater freedom and the compression is better.
However good the cylinder oil used, after six or eight days' hard and continuous running there is more or less residuum; in the very nature of things there must be from the consumption of about a pint of oil to every hundred miles.
Many use kerosene to clean cylinders, but gasoline has its advantages; kerosene is excellent for all other bearings, especially where there may be rust, as on the chain; but kerosene is in itself a low grade oil, and the object in cleaning the cylinder is to cut out all the oil and leave it bright and dry ready for a supply of fresh oil.
After putting in the gasoline, the cylinder and every bearing which the gasoline has touched should be thoroughly lubricated before starting.
Lubrication is of vital importance, and the oil used makes all the difference in the world.
Many makers of machines have adopted the bad practice of putting up oil in cans under their own brands, and charging, of course, two prices per gallon. The price is of comparatively little consequence, though an item; for it does not matter so much whether one pays fifty cents or a dollar a gallon, so long as the best oil is obtained; the pernicious feature of the practice lies in wrapping the oil in mystery, like a patent medicine,—"Smith's Cylinder Oil" and "Jones's Patent Pain-Killer" being in one and the same category. Then they warn—patent medicine methods again —purchasers of machines that their particular brand of oil must be used to insure best results.
The one sure result is that the average user who knows nothing about lubricating oils is kept in a state of frantic anxiety lest his can of oil runs low at a time and place where he cannot get more of the patent brand.
Every manufacturer should embody in the directions for caring for the machine information concerning all the standard oils that can be found in most cities, and recommend the use of as many different brands as possible.
Machine oil can be found in almost any country village, or at any mill, factory, or power-house along the road; it is the cylinder oil that requires fore-thought and attention.
Beware of steam-cylinder oil and all heavy and gummy oils. Rub a little of any oil that is offered between the fingers until it disappears,—the better the oil the longer you can rub it. If it leaves a gummy or sticky feeling, do not use; but if it rubs away thin and oily, it is probably good. Of course the oiliest of oils are animal fats, good lard, and genuine sperm; but they work down very thin and run away, and genuine sperm oil is almost an unknown quantity. Lard can be obtained at every farmhouse, and may be used, if necessary, on bearings.
In an emergency, olive oil and probably cotton-seed oil may be used in the cylinder. Olive oil is a fine lubricant, and is used largely in the Italian and Spanish navies.
Many special brands are probably good oils and safe to use, but there is no need of staking one's trip upon any particular brand.
All good steam-cylinder oils contain animal oil to make them adhere to the side of the cylinder; a pure mineral oil would be washed away by the steam and water.
To illustrate the action of oils and water, take a clean bottle, put in a little pure mineral oil, add some water, and shake hard; the oil will rise to the top of the water in little globules without adhering at all to the sides of the bottle; in short, the bottle is not lubricated. Instead of a pure mineral oil put in any steam-cylinder oil which is a compound of mineral and animal; and as the bottle is shaken the oil adheres to the glass, covering the entire inner surface with a film that the water will not rinse off.
As there is supposed—erroneously—to be no moisture in the cylinder of a gas-engine, the use of any animal oil is said to be unnecessary; as there is moisture in the cylinder of a steam-engine, some animal oil is absolutely essential in the cylinder oil.
For the lubrication of chains and all parts exposed to the weather, compounds of oil or grease which contain a liberal amount of animal fat are better. Rain and the splash of mud and water will wash off mineral oil as fast as it can be applied; in fact, under adverse weather conditions it does not lubricate at all; the addition of animal fat makes the compound stick.
Graphite and mica are both good chain lubricants, but if mixed with a pure mineral base, such as vaseline, they will wash off in mud and water. Before putting on a chain, it is a good thing to dip it in melted tallow and then grease it thoroughly from time to time with a graphite compound of vaseline and animal fat.
One does not expect perfection in a machine, but there is not an automobile made, according to the reports of users, which does not develop many crudities and imperfections in construction which could be avoided by care and conscientious work in the factory, —crudities and imperfections which customers and users have complained of time and time again, but without avail.
At best the automobile is a complicated and difficult machine in the hands of the amateur, and so far it has been made almost impossible by its poor construction. With good construction there will be troubles enough in operation, but at the present time ninety per cent. of the stops and difficulties are due to defective construction.
As the machine comes it looks so well, it inspires unbounded confidence, but the first time it is seen in undress, with the carriage part off, the machinery laid bare, the heart sinks, and one's confidence oozes out.
Parts are twisted, bent, and hammered to get them into place, bearings are filed to make them fit, bolts and screws are weak and loose, nuts gone for the want of cotter-pins; it is as if apprentice blacksmiths had spent their idle moments in constructing a machine.
The carriage work is hopelessly bad. The building of carriages is a long-established industry, employing hundreds of thousands of hands and millions of capital, and yet in the entire United States there are scarcely a dozen builders of really fine, substantial, and durable vehicles. Yet every cross-road maker of automobiles thinks that if he can only get his motor to go, the carpenter next door can do his woodwork. The result is cheap stock springs, clips, irons, bodies, cushions, tops, etc., are bought and put over the motor. The use of aluminum bodies and more metal work generally is helping things somewhat; not that aluminum and metal work are necessarily better than wood, but it prevents the unnatural union of the light wood bodies, designed for cheap horse-vehicles, with a motor. The best French makers do not build their bodies, but leave that part to skilled carriage builders.
CHAPTER SEVEN BUFFALO TO CANANDAIGUA BEWARE OF THE COUNTRY MECHANIC
The five hundred and sixty-odd miles to Buffalo had been covered with no trouble that delayed us for more than an hour, but our troubles were about to begin.
The Professor had still a few days to waste frivolously, so he said he would ride a little farther, possibly as far as Albany. However, it was not our intention to hurry, but rather take it easily, stopping by the way, as the mood—or our friends—seized us.
It rained all the afternoon of Tuesday, about all night, and was raining steadily when we turned off Main Street into Genesee with Batavia thirty-eight miles straight away. We fully expected to reach there in time for luncheon; in fact, word had been sent ahead that we would "come in," like a circus, about twelve, and friends were on the lookout,—it was four o'clock when we reached town.
The road is good, gravel nearly every rod, but the steady rain had softened the surface to the depth of about two inches, and the water, sand, and gravel were splashed in showers and sheets by the wheels into and through every exposed part of the mechanism. Soon the explosions became irregular, and we found the cams operating the sparker literally plastered over with mud, so that the parts that should slide and work with great smoothness and rapidity would not operate at all. This happened about every four or five miles. This mechanism on this particular machine was so constructed and situated as to catch and hold mud, and the fine grit worked in, causing irregularities in the action. This trouble we could count upon as long as the road was wet; after noon, when the sun came out and the road began to dry, we had less trouble.
When about half-way to Batavia the spark began to show blue; the reserve set of dry batteries was put in use, but it gave no better results. Apparently there was either a short circuit, or the batteries were used up; the bad showing of the reserve set puzzled us; every connection was examined and tightened. The wiring of the carriage was so exposed to the weather that it was found completely saturated in places with oil and covered with mud. The rubber insulation had been badly disintegrated wherever oil had dropped on it. The wires were cleaned as thoroughly as possible and separated wherever the insulation seemed poor. The loss of current was probably at the sparking coil; the mud had so covered the end where the binding parts project as to practically join them by a wet connection. Cleaning this off and protecting the binding parts with insulating tape we managed to get on, the spark being by no means strong, and the reserve battery for some reason weak.
If we had had a small buzzer, such as is sold for a song at every electrical store, to say nothing of a pocket voltmeter, we would have discovered in a moment that the reserve battery contained one dead cell, the resistance of which made the other cells useless. At Batavia we tested them out with an ordinary electric bell, discovering at once the dead cell.
After both batteries are so exhausted that the spark is weak, the current from both sets can be turned on at the same time in two ways; by linking the cells in multiples,—that is, side by side, or in series,—tandem.
The current from cells in multiples is increased in volume but not in force, and gives a fat spark; the current from cells in series is doubled in force and gives a long blue hot spark. Both sparks, if the cells are fresh, will burn the points, though giving much better explosions.
As the batteries weaken, first connect them in multiples, then, as they weaken still more, in series.
Always carry a roll of insulating tape, or on a pinch bicycle tire-tape will do very well. Wrap carefully every joint, and the binding-posts of the cells for the tape will hold as against vibration when the little binding-screws will not. In short, use the tape freely to insulate, protect, and support the wires and all connections.
If the machine is wired with light and poorly insulated wire, it is but a question of time when the wiring must be done over again.
When we pulled up in Batavia at an electrician's for repairs, the Professor was a sight—and also tired. The good man had floundered about in the mud until he was picturesquely covered. At the outset he was disposed to take all difficulties philosophically.
"I should regret exceedingly," he remarked at our first involuntary stop, "to return from this altogether extraordinary trip without seeing the automobile under adverse conditions. Our experiences in the sand were no fault of the machine; the responsibility rested with us for placing it in a predicament from which it could not extricate itself, and if, in the heat of the moment and the sand, I said anything derogatory to the faithful machine, I express my regrets. Now, it seems, I shall have the pleasure of observing some of the eccentricities of the horseless carriage. What seems to be the matter?" and the Professor peered vaguely underneath.
"Something wrong with the spark."
"Bless me! Can you fix it?"
"I think so. Now, if you will be good enough to turn that crank."
"With pleasure. What an extraordinary piece of mechanism.—"
"A little faster."
"The momentum—"
"A little faster."
"Very heavy fly-wheel—"
"Just a little faster."
"Friction—mechanics—overcome—"
"Now as hard as you can, Professor."
"Exercise, muscle, but hard work. The spark,—is it there? Whew!" and the Professor stopped, exhausted.
It was the repetition of those experiences that sobered the Professor and led him to speak of his work at home, which he feared he was neglecting. At the last stop he stood in a pool of water and turned the crank without saying anything that would bear repetition.
While touring, look out for glass, nails, and the country mechanic,—of the three, the mechanic can do the largest amount of damage in a given time. His well-meant efforts may wreck you; his mistakes are sure to. The average mechanic along the route is a veritable bull in a china shop,—once inside your machine, and you are done for. He knows it all, and more too. He once lived next to a man who owned a naphtha launch; hence his expert knowledge; or he knew some one who was blown up by gasoline, therefore he is qualified. Look out for him; his look of intelligence is deception itself. His readiness with hammer and file means destruction; if he once gets at the machine, give it to him as a reward and a revenge for his misdirected energy, and save time by walking.
Even the men from the factory make sad mistakes; they may locate troubles, but in repairing they will forget, and leave off more things than the floor will hold.
At Batavia we put in new batteries, repacked the pump, covered the coil with patent leather, so that neither oil nor water could affect it, and put on a new chain. Without saying a word, the bright and too willing mechanic who was assisting, mainly by looking on, took the new chain into his shop and cut off a link. A wanton act done because he "thought the chain a little too long," and not discovered until the machine had been cramped together, every strut and reach shortened to get the chain in place; meanwhile the factory was being vigorously blamed for sending out chains too short. During it all the mechanic was discreetly silent, but the new link on the vise in the shop betrayed him after the harm was done.
The run from Batavia to Canandaigua was made over roads that are well-nigh perfect most of the way, but the machine was not working well, the chain being too short. Going up stiff grades it was very apparent something was wrong, for while the motor worked freely the carriage dragged.
On the level and down grade everything went smoothly, but at every up grade the friction and waste of power were apparent. Inspection time and again showed everything clear, and it was not until late in the afternoon the cause of the trouble was discovered. A tell-tale mark on the surface of the fly-wheel showed friction against something, and we found that while the wheel ran freely if we were out of the machine, with the load in, and especially on up grades with the chain drawing the framework closer to the running gear, the rim of the wheel just grazed a bolt-head in a small brace underneath, thereby producing the peculiar grating noise we had heard and materially checking the motor. The shortening of the struts and reaches to admit the short chain had done all this. As the chain had stretched a little, we were able to lengthen slightly the struts so as to give a little more clearance; it was also possible to shift the brace about a quarter of an inch, and the machine once more ran freely under all conditions.
Within twenty miles of Canandaigua the country is quite rolling and many of the hills steep. Twice we were obliged to get out and let the machine mount the grades, which it did; but it was apparent that for the hills and mountains of New York the gearing was too high.
On hard roads in a level country high gearing is all well enough, and a high average speed can be maintained, but where the roads are soft or the country rolling, a high gear may mean a very material disadvantage in the long run.
It is of little use to be able to run thirty or forty miles on the level if at every grade or soft spot it is necessary to throw in the hill-climbing gear, thereby reducing the speed to from four to six miles per hour; the resulting average is low. A carriage that will take the hills and levels of New York at the uniform speed of fifteen miles an hour will finish far ahead of one that is compelled to use low gears at every grade, even though the latter easily makes thirty or forty miles on the level.
The machine we were using had but two sets of gears,—a slow and a fast. All intermediate speeds were obtained by throttling the engine. The engine was easily governed, and on the level any speed from the lowest to the maximum could be obtained without juggling with the clutches; but on bad roads and in hilly localities intermediate gears are required if one is to get the best results out of a motor. As the gasoline motor develops its highest efficiency when it is running at full speed, there should be enough intermediate gears so the maximum speed may be maintained under varying conditions. As the road gets heavy or the grades steep, the drop is made from one gear down to another; but at all times and under all conditions—if there are enough intermediate gears—the machine is being driven with the motor running fast.
With only two gears where roads or grades are such that the high gear cannot be used, there is nothing to do but drop to the low, —from thirty miles an hour to five or six,—and the engine runs as if it had no load at all. American roads especially demand intermediate gears if best results are to be attained, the conditions change so from mile to mile.
Foreign machines are equipped with from three to five speed-changing gears in addition to the spark control, and many also have throttles for governing the speed of the engine.
Going at full speed down a long hill about two miles out of Canandaigua, we discovered that neither power nor brakes had any control over the machine. The large set-screws holding the two halves of the rear-axle in the differential gears had worked loose and the right half was steadily working out. As both brakes operated through the differential, both were useless, and the machine was beyond control. An obstacle or a bad turn at the bottom meant disaster; happily the hill terminated in a level stretch of softer road, which checked the speed and the machine came slowly to a stop.
The sensation of rushing down hill with power and brakes absolutely detached is peculiar and exhilarating. It is quite like coasting or tobogganing; the excitement is in proportion to the risk; the chance of safety lies in a clear road; for the time being the machine is a huge projectile, a flying mass, a ton of metal rushing through space; there is no sensation of fear, not a tremor of the nerves, but one becomes for the moment exceedingly alert, with instantaneous comprehension of the character of the road; every rut, stone, and curve are seen and appreciated; the possibility of collision is understood, and every danger is present in the mind, and with it all the thrill of excitement which ever accompanies risk.
During the entire descent the Professor was in blissful ignorance of the loss of control. To him the hill was like many another that we had taken at top speed; but when he saw the rear wheel far out from the carriage with only about twelve inches of axle holding in the sleeve, and understood the loss of control through both chain and brakes, his imagination began to work, and he thought of everything that could have happened and many things that could not, but he remarked philosophically,—
"Fear is entirely a creature of the imagination. We are not afraid of what will happen, but of what may. We are all cowards until confronted with danger; most men are heroes in emergencies."
Detaching a lamp from the front of the carriage, repairs were made. A block of wood and a fence rail made a good jack; the gear case was opened up, the axle driven home, and the set-screws turned down tight; but it was only too apparent that the screws would work loose again.
The next morning we pulled out both halves of the axle and found the key-ways worn so there was a very perceptible play. As the keys were supposed to hold the gears tight and the set-screws were only for the purpose of keeping the axle from working out, it was idle to expect the screws to hold fast so long as the keys were loose in the ways; the slight play of the gears upon the axles would soon loosen screws, in fact, both were found loose, although tightened up only the evening before.
As it had become apparent that the machine was geared too high for the hills of New York, it seemed better to send it into the shop for such changes as were necessary, rather than spend the time necessary to make them in the one small machine shop at Canandaigua.
Furthermore the Professor's vacation was drawing to a close; he had given himself not to exceed ten days, eight had elapsed.
"I feel that I have exhausted the possibilities and eccentricities of automobiling; there is nothing more to learn; if there is anything more, I do not care to know it. I am inclined to accept the experience of last night as a warning; as the fellow who was blown up with dynamite said when he came down, 'to repeat the experiment would be no novelty.'"
And so the machine was loaded on the cars, side-tracked on the way, and it was many a day before another start could be made from Buffalo.
It cannot be too often repeated that it is a mistake to ever lose sight of one's machine during a tour; it is a mistake to leave it in a machine shop for repairs; it is a mistake to even return it to the place of its creation; for you may be quite sure that things will be left undone that should be done, and things done that should not be done.
It requires days and weeks to become acquainted with all the peculiarities and weaknesses of an automobile, to know its strong points and rely upon them, to appreciate its failings and be tender towards them. After you have become acquainted, do not risk the friendship by letting the capricious thing out of your sight. It is so fickle that it forms wanton attachments for every one it meets,—for urchins, idlers, loafers, mechanics, permits them all sorts of familiarities, so that when, like a truant, it comes wandering back, it is no longer the same, but a new creature, which you must learn again to know.
It is monotonously lonesome running an automobile across country alone; the record-breaker may enjoy it, but the civilized man does not; man is a gregarious animal, especially in his sports; one must have an audience, if an audience of only one.
The return of the Professor made it necessary to find some one else. There was but one who could go, but she had most emphatically refused; did not care for the dust and dirt, did not care for the curious crowds, did not care to go fast, did not care to go at all. To overcome these apparently insurmountable objections, a semi-binding pledge was made to not run more than ten or twelve miles per hour, and not more than thirty or forty miles per day,—promises so obviously impossible of fulfillment on the part of any chauffeur that they were not binding in law. We started out well within bounds, making but little over forty miles the first day; we wound up with a glorious run of one hundred and forty miles the last day, covering the Old Sarnia gravel out of London, Ontario, at top speed for nearly seventy miles.
For five weeks to a day we wandered over the eastern country at our own sweet will, not a care, not a responsibility,—days without seeing newspapers, finding mail and telegrams at infrequent intervals, but much of the time lost to the world of friends and acquaintances.
Touring on an automobile differs from coaching, posting, railroading, from every known means of locomotion, in that you are really lost to the world. In coaching or posting, one knows with reasonable certainty the places that can be made; the itinerary is laid out in advance, and if departed from, friends can be notified by wire, so that letters and telegrams may be forwarded.
With an automobile all is different. The vagaries of the machine upset every itinerary. You do not know where you will stop, because you cannot tell when you may stop. If one has in mind a certain place, the machine may never reach it, or, arriving, the road and the day may be so fine you are irresistibly impelled to keep on. The very thought that letters are to be at a certain place at a certain date is a bore, it limits your progress, fetters your will, and curbs your inclinations. One hears of places of interest off the chosen route; the temptation to see them is strong exactly in proportion to the assurances given that you will go elsewhere.
The automobile is lawless; it chafes under restraint; will follow neither advice nor directions. Tell it to go this way, it is sure to go that; to turn the second corner to the right, it will take the first to the left; to go to one city, it prefers another; to avoid a certain road, it selects that above all others.
It is a grievous error to tell friends you are coming; it puts them to no end of inconvenience; for days they expect you and you do not come; their feeling of relief that you did not come is destroyed by your appearance.
The day we were expected at a friend's summer home at the sea-side we spent with the Shakers in the valley of Lebanon, waiting for a new steering-head. Telegrams of inquiry, concern, and consolation reached us in our retreat, but those who expected us were none the less inconvenienced.
Then, too, what business have the dusty, grimy, veiled, goggled, and leathered party from the machine among the muslin gowns, smart wraps, and immaculate coverings of the conventional house party; if we but approach, they scatter in self-protection.
From these reflections it is only too plain that the automobile —like that other inartistic instrument of torture, the grand piano —is not adapted to the drawing-room. It is not quite at home in the stable; it demands a house of its own. If the friend who invites you to visit him has a machine, then accept, for he is a brother crank; but if he has none, do not fill his generous soul with dismay by running up his drive-way, sprinkling its spotless white with oil, leaving an ineradicable stain under the porte-cochere, and frightening his favorite horses into fits as you run into the stable.
But it is delightful to go through cities and out-of-the-way places, just leaving cards in a most casual manner upon people one knows. We passed through many places twice, some places three times, in careering about. Each time we called on friends; sometimes they were in, sometimes out; it was all so casual,—a cup of tea, a little chat, sometimes without shutting down the motor,—the briefest of calls, all the more charming because brief,—really, it was strange.
We see a town ahead; calling to a man by the roadside,—
"What place is that?"
"L—" is the long drawn shout as we go flying by.
"Why, the S___s live there. I have not seen her since we were at school. I would like to stop."
"Well, just for a moment."
In a trice the machine is at the door; Mrs. S___ is out—will return in a moment; so sorry, cannot wait, leave cards; call again some other day; and we turn ten or fifteen or twenty miles to one side to see another old school-friend for five or ten minutes —just long enough for the chauffeur to oil-up while the school-mates chat.
The automobile annihilates time; it dispenses with watch and clock; it vaguely notes the coming up and the going down of the sun; but it goes right on by sunlight, by moonlight, by lamplight, by no light at all, until it is brought to a stand-still or capriciously stops of its own accord.
CHAPTER EIGHT THE MORGAN MYSTERY THE OLD STONE BLACKSMITH SHOP AT STAFFORD
It was Wednesday, August 22, that we left Buffalo. In some stray notes made by my companion, I find this enthusiastic description of the start.
"Toof! toof! on it comes like a gigantic bird, its red breast throbbing, its black wings quivering; it swerves to the right, to the left, and with a quick sweep circles about and stands panting at the curb impatient to be off.
"I hastily mount and make ready for the long flight. The chauffeur grasps the iron reins, something is pulled, and something is pressed,—'Chic—chic—whirr—whirr—r—r,' we are off. Through the rich foliage of noble trees we catch last glimpses of beautiful homes gay with flags, with masses of flowers and broad, green lawns.
"In a moment we are in the crowded streets where cars, omnibuses, cabs, carriages, trucks, and wagons of every description are hurrying pell-mell in every direction. The automobile glides like a thing of life in and out, snorting with vexation if blocked for an instant.
"Soon we are out of the hurly-burly; the homes melt away into the country; the road lengthens; we pass the old toll-gate and are fairly on our way; farewell city of jewelled towers and gay festivities.
"The day is bright, the air is sweet, and myriads of yellow butterflies flutter about us, so thickly covering the ground in places as to look like beds of yellow flowers.
"Corn-fields and pastures stretch along the roadsides; big red barns and cosey white houses seem to go skurrying by, calling, 'I spy,' then vanishing in a sort of cinematographic fashion as the automobile rushes on."
As we sped onward I pointed out the places—only too well remembered—where the Professor had worked so hard exactly two weeks before to the day.
After luncheon, while riding about some of the less frequented streets of Batavia, we came quite unexpectedly to an old cemetery. In the corner close to the tracks of the New York Central, so placed as to be in plain view of all persons passing on trains, is a tall, gray, weather-beaten monument, with the life-size figure of a man on the top of the square shaft. It is the monument to the memory of William Morgan who was kidnapped near that spot in the month of September, 1826, and whose fate is one of the mysteries of the last century.
To read the inscriptions I climbed the rickety fence; the grass was high, the weeds thick; the entire place showed signs of neglect and decay.
The south side of the shaft, facing the railroad, was inscribed as follows:
Sacred To The Memory Of
WILLIAM MORGAN,
A NATIVE OF VIRGINIA,
A CAPT. IN THE WAR OF 1812,
A RESPECTABLE CITIZEN OF
BATAVIA, AND A MARTYR
TO THE FREEDOM OF WRITING,
PRINTING, AND SPEAKING THE
TRUTH. HE WAS ABDUCTED
FROM NEAR THIS SPOT IN THE
YEAR 1826 BY FREEMASONS,
AND MURDERED FOR REVEALING
THE SECRETS OF THE ORDER.
The disappearance of Morgan is still a mystery,—a myth to most people nowadays; a very stirring reality in central and western New York seventy-five years ago; even now in the localities concerned the old embers of bitter feeling show signs of life if fanned by so much as a breath.
Six miles beyond Batavia, on the road to Le Roy, is the little village of Stafford; some twenty or thirty houses bordering the highway; a church, a schoolhouse, the old stage tavern, and several buildings that are to-day very much as they were nearly one hundred years ago. This is the one place which remains very much as it was seventy-five years ago when Morgan was kidnapped and taken through to Canandaigua. As one approaches the little village, on the left hand side of the highway set far back in an open field is an old stone church long since abandoned and disused, but so substantially built that it has defied time and weather. It is a monument to the liberality of the people of that locality in those early days, for it was erected for the accommodation of worshippers regardless of sect; it was at the disposal of any denomination that might wish to hold services therein. Apparently the foundation of the weather-beaten structure was too liberal, for it has been many years since it has been used for any purpose whatsoever.
As one approaches the bridge crossing the little stream which cuts the village in two, there is at the left on the bank of the stream a large three-story stone dwelling. Eighty years ago the first story of this dwelling was occupied as a store; the third story was the Masonic lodge-room, and no doubt the events leading up to the disappearance of Morgan were warmly discussed within the four walls of this old building. Across from the three-story stone building is a brick house set well back from the highway, surrounded by shrubbery, and approached by a gravel walk bordered by old-fashioned boxwood hedges. This house was built in 1812, and is still well preserved. For many years it was a quite famous private school for young ladies, kept by a Mr. Radcliffe.
Across the little bridge on the right is a low stone building now used as a blacksmith shop, but which eighty years ago was a dwelling. A little farther on the opposite side of the street is the old stage tavern, still kept as a tavern, and to-day in substantially the same condition inside and out as it was seventy-five years ago. It is now only a roadside inn, but before railroads were, through stages from Buffalo, Albany, and New York stopped here. A charming old lady living just opposite, said,—
"I have sat on this porch many a day and watched the stages and private coaches come rattling up with horn and whip and carrying the most famous people in the country,—all stopped there just across the road at that old red tavern; those were gay days; I shall never see the like again; but perhaps you may, for now coaches like yours stop at the old tavern almost every day."
The ballroom of the tavern remains exactly as it was,—a fireplace at one end filled with ashes of burnt-out revelries, a little railing at one side where the fiddlers sat, the old benches along the side,—all remind one of the gayeties of long ago.
In connection with the Morgan mystery the village of Stafford is interesting, because the old tavern and the three-story stone building are probably the only buildings still standing which were identified with the events leading up to the disappearance of Morgan. The other towns, like Batavia and Canandaigua, have grown and changed, so that the old buildings have long since made way for modern. One of the last to go was the old jail at Canandaigua where Morgan was confined and from which he was taken. When that old jail was torn down some years ago, people carried away pieces of his cell as souvenirs of a mystery still fascinating because still a mystery.
As we came out of the old tavern there were a number of men gathered about the machine, looking at it. I asked them some questions about the village, and happened to say,—
"I once knew a man who, seventy-five years ago, lived in that little stone building by the bridge."
"That was in Morgan's time," said an old man, and every one in the crowd turned instantly from the automobile to look at me.
"Yes, he lived here as a young man."
"They stopped at this very tavern with Morgan on their way through," said some one in the crowd.
"And that stone building just the other side of the bridge is where the Masons met in those days," said another.
"That's where they took Miller," interrupted the old man.
"Who was Miller?" I asked.
"He was the printer in Batavia who was getting out Morgan's book; they brought him here to Stafford, and took him up into the lodge-room in that building and tried to frighten him, but he wasn't to be frightened, so they took him on to Le Roy and let him go."
"Did they ever find out what became of Morgan?" I asked.
There was silence for a moment, and then the old man, looking first at the others, said,—
"No-o-o, not for sartain, but the people in this locality hed their opinion, and hev it yet."
"You bet they have," came from some one in the crowd.
Thursday we started for Rochester by way of Stafford and Le Roy instead of Newkirk, Byron, and Bergen, which is the more direct route and also a good road.