I had of late been reading much magazine sociology of the kind that is labeled “The Menace of Immigration,” etc. I was saying to Franklin that I had been fast coming to believe that America, east, west, north, and south, was being overrun by foreigners who were completely changing the American character, the American facial appearance, the American everything. Do you recall the Hans Christian Andersen story of the child who saw the king naked? I was inclined to be that child. I could not see, from the first hundred miles or so we had traveled, that there was any truth in the assertions of these magazine sociologists. Franklin and I agreed that we could see no change in American character here, or anywhere, though it might be well to look sharply into this matter as we went along. In the cities there were thousands of foreigners, but they were not unamericanizing the cities, and I was not prepared to believe that they are doing any worse by the small towns. Certainly there was no evidence of it here at the Water Gap. All was almost “offensively American,” as an Englishman would say. The “caps,” “docs,” and “howdys” were as common here as in—Indiana, for instance—so Franklin seemed to think—and he lives in Indiana a goodly part of the year. In the Water Gap and Stroudsburg, and various towns hereabout where, because of the various summer hotels and cottages, one might expect a sprinkling of the foreign element, at least in the capacity of servitors, in the streets and stores, yet they were not even noticeably dotted with them. If all that was American is being wiped out the tide had not yet reached northern New Jersey or eastern Pennsylvania. I began to take heart.
CHAPTER VII
THE PENNSYLVANIANS
And then there was this matter of Pennsylvania and its rumored poor roads to consider, and the smallness and non-celebrity of its population, considering the vastness of its territory—all of which consumed at least an hour of words, once we were started. This matter interested us greatly, for now that we had come to think of it we could not recall anyone in American political history or art or science who had come from Pennsylvania. William Penn (a foreigner) occurred to me, Benjamin Franklin and a certain Civil War governor of the name of Cameron, and there I stuck. Certain financial geniuses, as Franklin was quick to point out, had made money there; a Carnegie, Scotchman; Frick, an American; Widener, an American; Dolan, an Irishman; Elkins, and others; although, as we both agreed, America could not be vastly proud of these. The taint of greed or graft seemed to hang heavy in their wake.
“But where are the poets, writers, painters?” asked Franklin.
I paused. Not a name occurred to me.
“What Pennsylvanian ever did anything?” I asked. “Here is a state one hundred and sixty miles wide, and more than three hundred miles long from east to west, and with five or six fair-sized cities in it, and not a name!” We tried to explain it on the ground that mountainous countries are never prolific of celebrities, but neither of us seemed to know very much about mountainous countries, and so we finally dropped the subject.
But what about Pennsylvania, anyhow? Why hasn’t it produced anything in particular? How many millions of men must live and die before a real figure arises? Or do we need figures? Are just men better?
The run from the Water Gap to Factoryville was accomplished under varying conditions. The day promised to be fine, a milky, hazy atmosphere which was still warm and bright like an opal. We were all in the best of spirits, Speed whistling gaily to himself as we raced along. Our way led first through a string of small towns set in great hills or mountains—Stroudsburg, Bartonsville, Tannersville, Swiftwater. We were trying to make up our minds as we rode whether we would cut Wilkes-Barré, since, according to our map, it appeared to be considerably south of a due west course, or whether, because of its repute as a coal center, we would go there. Something, a sense of mountains and picturesque valleys, lured me on. I was for going to Wilkes-Barré if it took us as much as fifty miles out of our course.
But meanwhile our enjoyment in seeing Pennsylvania was such that we did not need to worry very much over its lack of human distinction. Everything appeared to be beautiful to such casual travelers. As we climbed and climbed out of the Water Gap, we felt a distinct change between the life of New Jersey and that of this hilly, almost mountainous land. Great slopes rose on either hand. We came upon long stretches of woodland and barren, rocky fields. The country houses from here to Wilkes-Barré, which we finally reached, were by no means so prosperous. Stroudsburg seemed a stringy, mountain-top town, composed principally of summer hotels, facing the principal street, hotels and boarding houses. Bartonsville and Tannersville, both much smaller, were much the same. The air was much lighter here, almost feathery compared to that of the lowlands farther east. But the barns and houses and stock were so poor. At Swiftwater, another small town or crossroads, we came to a wood so dense, so deep, so black and even purple in its shades that we exclaimed in surprise. The sun was still shining in its opalescent way, but in here was a wonder of rare darks and solitudes which seemed like the depths of some untenanted cathedral at nightfall. And there was a river or stream somewhere nearby, for stopping the car we could hear it tumbling over rough stones. We dismounted, quite spontaneously, and without any “shall we’s,” and wandered into this bit of forest which was such a splendid natural wonder. Under these heavy cedars and tangled vines all was still, save for the river, and at the foot of trees, in a mulch of rich earth, were growing whole colonies of Indian pipes, those rare fragile, waxylooking orchids. Neither Franklin nor Speed had ever seen any and I aired my knowledge with great gusto. Speed was quite taken aback by the fact that they really looked like pipes with a small fire in their bowls. We sat down—it was too wonderful to leave instantly. I felt that I must come back here some time and camp.
It was about here that our second blowout occurred. Back in Stroudsburg, passing through the principal street, I had spied a horseshoe lying in the road—a new shoe—and jumped out to get it as a sign of good luck. For this I was rewarded by an indulgent glance from Franklin and considerable show of sympathetic interest from Speed. The latter obviously shared my belief in horseshoes as omens of good fortune. He promptly hung it over the speedometer, but alas, within the next three-quarters of an hour this first breakdown occurred. Speed was just saying that now he was sure he would get through safely, and I was smiling comfortably to think that my life was thus charmingly guarded, when “whee!”—have you heard a whistle blowout? It sounds like a spent bullet instead of a revolver shot. Out we climbed to contemplate a large jagged rent in the rim of the tire and the loss of fifteen minutes. This rather dampened my ardor for my omen. Luck signs and omens are rather difficult things at best, for one can really never connect the result with the fact. I have the most disturbing difficulties with my luck signs. A cross-eyed man or boy should mean immediate good luck, but alas, I have seen scores and scores of cross-eyed boys at one time and another and yet my life seemed to go on no better than usual. Cross-eyed women should spell immediate disaster, but to my intense satisfaction I am able to report that this does not seem to be invariably true. Then Franklin and I sat back in the cushions and began to discuss blowouts in general and the mystic power of mind to control such matters—the esoteric or metaphysical knowledge that there is no such thing as evil and that blowouts really cannot occur.