Chapter 7

The frost that was on the rails was felt inside the cars. It was not an occasion when an engineer would have steam to spare for heating cars; and the group that were huddled in the glare of the gaslight were muffled in blankets and heavy overcoats. Outside, the dawn was coming up from the east to meet us--as lovely a dawn as ever broke in rose-color and flame. As the daylight grew, we were able to see how complete the arrangements were for the safety of the run. At every crossing, whether of railway, highway, or farm road, a man was posted--1,300 men in all, it is said, along the 510 miles of line. Apart from these solitary figures, no one was yet astir to see the wonderful sight of the brilliantly lighted train--for the shades were lifted now--rushing through the dawn.

At Kendallville, 42 miles from Elkhart, the speed, in spite of an adverse grade, was 67 miles an hour. Here--the highest point on the line above the sea--the Grand Rapids and Indiana Railroad crosses the Lake Shore track at right angles, and a train was standing waiting for us to pass--the engine shrieking its good wishes to us as we flew by. At Waterloo, twelve miles further on, a clump of early pedestrians stood in the street to gaze, and two women--wives, doubtless, of railway hands who had learned what was in progress--were out on the porch of a cottage to see us pass. And it must have been a sight worth seeing, for we were running at 70 miles an hour now, with 60 miles of tangent ahead of us. At Butler, seven miles beyond, we passed a Wabash train on a parallel track, which made great show of travelling fast. Perhaps it was doing so--moving, perchance, at 40 miles an hour. But we were running at 72, and the Wabash train slid backwards from us at the rate of half a mile a minute; and still our pace quickened to 75 miles an hour, and 78, and 79, and at last to 80. But that speed could not be held for long.

The sun was above the horizon now, and the long straight column of smoke that we left behind us glowed rosy-red; and all the autumn foliage of the woods was ablaze with color and light. But as the sunlight struck the rails the frost began to melt; and a wet rail is fatal to the highest speeds. The 80-mile-an-hour mark, touched only for a few seconds, was not to be reached again on this division. During the next 47 miles, to Toledo, 64, 65, and 66 miles were reached at times; and when for the second time the train came to a standstill it was one minute after seven, and the 133.4 miles from Elkhart had been made in 124.5 minutes--or at 64.24 miles an hour. This was better than the run to Elkhart--and good enough in itself to beat the English figures. But it was not what had been expected of the "air line division," with its 69 miles of tangent and favorable grades; and, taking the two divisions together, 220 miles of the 510 were gone, and we were as yet, thanks to the frost, below the record which we had to beat.

The time spent in changing engines at Toledo was 2 minutes and 28 seconds, and at 7.04.07 the train was sliding out of the yards again. Coming out of Toledo the railway runs over a drawbridge; and boats on the river below have right of way. But not on such an occasion as this; for there, waiting patiently, lay a tug tied up to a pier of the bridge, with her tow swinging on the stream behind her.

If the record was to be beaten for the first half of the run, the speed for the next thirty miles would have to be nearly 70 miles an hour. Each individual mile was anxiously timed, and at 12 miles from Toledo the speed was already 66 miles an hour. Nor did it stop there, but 10 miles further on a stretch of 3-1/2 miles showed a rate of 73.80 miles an hour, and the next 5-1/2 miles were covered at the rate of 71.40.

It would not take much of such running to put us safely ahead of the record at the half-way point; but even as hope grew, there was a sudden jar and grinding of the wheels which told of brakes suddenly applied. What was the matter? It takes some little time to bring a train to a standstill when it is running at over 70 miles an hour; and there was still good headway on when we slid past a man who yet held a red flag in his hand. Evidently he had signalled the engineer to stop. But why? Windows were thrown up, and before the train had stopped, heads were thrust out. The engineer climbed down from his cab. From the rear platform the passengers poured out, until only the time-keepers were left on the train, sitting watch in hand to catch the exact record of the stop and the start. And already, before his voice could be heard, the man with the flag was brandishing his arms in the signal to "go ahead;" and no one cared to stop to question him.

The stop was short--only a few seconds over two minutes, but the good headway of 70 miles an hour was lost; and as the wheels moved again, it was a sullen and dispirited party on the train. Just as the hope of winning our uphill fight had begun to grow strong, precious minutes had been lost; and for what reason none could guess. The common belief on the train was that the man, in excess of enthusiasm at the speed which the train was making, had lost his head, and waved his red flag in token of encouragement. It subsequently transpired that he was justified, an injury to a rail having been discovered which might have made the passage at great speed dangerous; but, until that fact was known, the poor trackman at Port Clinton was sufficiently abused.

On the 70 miles that remained of this division there was no possibility that such a speed could be made as would put the total for the first half of the run above the record. Once it was necessary to slow down to take water from the track, and once again for safety in rounding the curve at Berea. Between these points there were occasional bursts of speed when 68 and 70 miles an hour were reached; and after Berea was passed, there remained only 13 miles to Cleveland. But in those 13 miles was done the fastest running that had been made that day; for 7 miles to Rockport were covered at the rate of 83.4 miles an hour, and at Rockport itself the train must have been running nearly a mile and a half in a minute.

It was a gallant effort; and, but for "the man at Port Clinton," there is no doubt that by that time the success of the run would have been reasonably assured. As it was, Cleveland was reached at ten minutes to nine (8.50.13), the 107 miles from Toledo having been covered in 109 minutes--from which two minutes and five seconds were to be deducted for the time in which the train was at rest at Port Clinton. In all, so far, 328-1/2 miles had been run at a speed of 62.16 miles an hour.

"It may be done yet," people told each other, but there was little confidence in the voices which said it.

The stop at Cleveland was a good omen, for the change of engines was made in a minute and forty-five seconds, and it was soon evident that Jacob Garner, the new engineer, understood that he had a desperate case in hand. Before ten miles were covered the train was travelling more than a mile in a minute. Twenty-eight miles from the start, in spite of an adverse grade, six miles were covered at the rate of 74.40 miles an hour; and from there on mile after mile flew past, and station after station, and still the speed showed 70 miles and upwards. Through Ashtabula, haunted with the memory of railway disaster, we burst, and on to Conneaut and Springfield; and, even against hope, hope grew again. Twelve miles from Springfield is the little town of Swanville, and here the high-water mark of 83.4 miles at the end of the last division was beaten; for the 6.2 miles from there to Dock Junction were made in 4.4 minutes--or at the speed of 84.54 miles an hour.

As has been said, it was hoping only against hope. But to despair was impossible in the face of such running; and when Erie, 8-1/2 miles beyond Dock Junction, was reached, the 95-1/2 miles from Cleveland had been done in 85-1/2 minutes, at an average speed of 67.01 miles an hour. The average speed for the whole distance from Chicago was now 63.18 miles an hour, which was crawling close up to the record. But 424 miles had been covered, and only 86 miles remained. If the record was to be beaten, the speed for those 86 miles would have to average over 70 miles an hour.

Was it possible to do such a thing? It never had been done, of course, in all the world; but the essence and the object of the whole day's run were that it should defy all precedent. There were few people, however, of those on board who in their hearts dared harbor any hope; especially as the engine which was to be tried at this crucial moment was a doubtful quantity.

All the engines used upon this run were built by the Brooks Locomotive Works, of Dunkirk, N.Y., after designs by Mr. George W. Stevens, of the Lake Shore road. The first four engines, which had hauled the train as far as Erie, were of what is known as the American type--eight-wheelers, comparatively light, but built for fast speeds. These locomotives weighed only 52 tons, with 17 by 24-inch cylinders and 72-inch driving-wheels. They had been doing admirable work in service, having been built to haul the famous "Exposition Flyer" in 1893; and that they were capable of very high speeds, for short distances at least, even with a fairly heavy train, had been shown in the earlier stages of this run, when all had reached a speed of 70 miles an hour, and two had touched and held a speed of well over 80.

The last engine was of a different type, and a type which among experts has not been considered best adapted to extremely high speeds. Somewhat heavier than its predecessors (weighing 56-1/2 tons in working order), this engine was a ten-wheeler, with three pairs of coupled drivers and a four-wheeled swivelling truck. It had the same small cylinders (17 by 24 inches), and driving-wheels of only 68 inches diameter. It was a bold experiment to put such an engine to do such work; and nothing could well be devised for fast speeds more unlike the magnificent engine "No. 999," which was built in the New York Central Railroad shops at West Albany, and is the glory of the New York Central road, or than the London and Northwestern compound engine with its 88-inch driving-wheels, or the Caledonian locomotive (which did the best running in the English races) with its 78-inch drivers and cylinders 18 by 26 inches.

It was now after ten o'clock in the morning; and at Erie crowds had assembled at the station to see the train go out, for news of what was being done had by this time gone abroad. The platforms, too, at every station from Erie to Buffalo were thronged with people as we went roaring by. In Dunkirk (through which we burst at 75 miles an hour) crowds stood on the sidewalks and at every corner. To describe the run for those 86 miles in detail would be impossible, or to put into words the tension of the suppressed excitement among those on board the train as miles flew by and we knew that we were travelling as men had never travelled before.

For those who had misgivings as to the possibilities of the type of engine there was a surprise as soon as she picked up the train. She must have reached a speed of a mile a minute within five miles from the first movement of the wheels. The first eight miles were finished in 8 minutes, 49 seconds. From there on there was never an instant of slackening pace. From 60 miles an hour the velocity rose to 70; from 70 to 80; from 80, past the previous high-water marks, to 85 and 90, and at last to over 92.

Trains have been timed for individual miles at speeds of over 90 miles before. There is even said to be on record an instance of a single mile run at 112 miles an hour. But never before has an engine done what the ten-wheeler did that day, when it reached 80 miles an hour and held the speed for half an hour; reached 85 miles an hour and held that for nearly ten minutes; reached 90 miles and held that for three or four consecutive miles. A speed of 75 miles an hour (a mile and a quarter a minute) was maintained for the whole hour, and the 75 miles were actually covered in the 60 minutes. The entire 86 miles were done in 70 minutes 46 seconds,--an average speed of 72.91 miles an hour. In the English run, a speed of 68.40 miles was maintained for an even hour, 69 miles being done in 60.5 minutes; and 141 miles were run at an average speed of 67.20 miles an hour.

To word it otherwise, the American train covered 7 miles more in its fastest hour than did the English train. The speed which the English engines held for 141 miles the American engines held for over 200--181 miles being made at 69.67 miles an hour.

The most remarkable figures in the American run are given in the following table:

A distance of 510.1 miles made at 65.07 miles an hour. " " " 289.3 " " " 66.68 " " " " " " 181.5 " " " 69.67 " " " " " " 85 " " " 72.92 " " " " " " 71 " " " 75.06 " " " " " " 59 " " " 76.08 " " " " " " 52 " " " 78.00 " " " " " " 42 " " " 79.04 " " " " " " 33 " " " 80.07 " " " " " " 8 " " " 85.44 " " "

A single mile was also timed (unofficially) at the speed of 92.3 miles an hour.

Here is the schedule of the last division:

Dis- Time of tance. leaving.

Erie (leave).............................-- 10-19-48 Harbor Creek............................. 8 miles 10-28-37 Moorhead................................. 3 " 10-31-06 North East............................... 4 " 10-34-22 State Line............................... 5 " 10-38-15 Ripley................................... 3 " 10-40-22 Westfield................................ 8 " 10-45-56 Brocton.................................. 8 " 10-52-06 Van Buren................................ 5 " 10-55-39 Dunkirk.................................. 4 " 10-58-54 Silver Creek............................. 9 " 11-06-05 Fairhaven................................ 5 " 11-10-33 Angola .................................. 5 " 11-14-14 Lake View................................ 7 " 11-20-11 Athol Springs............................ 4 " 11-24-39 Buffalo Creek............................ 8 " 11-30-34

Total distance Erie to Buffalo Creek................................86 " Total time for the 86 miles.... 1-10-46

Average speed over division..............72.91 miles per hour

So remarkable are these figures, considering the type of engine used, that an English technical journal has, since the run was made, scientifically demonstrated to its own satisfaction that it was an impossibility. Well, it is the impossible which sometimes happens.

Through all the running at these wonderful speeds the train moved with singular smoothness. Moments there were of some anxiety, when the cars swung round a curve or dashed through the streets of a town. At such times there were those among the passengers who would perhaps gladly have sacrificed a few seconds of the record. Except for those occasions, however, there was nothing to tell of the extraordinary speed--nothing unless one stood on the rear platform of the last car and saw the swirling cloud of dust and leaves and bits of paper, even of sticks and stones, that were sucked up into the vacuum behind, and almost shut out the view of the rapidly receding track. It may be (it certainly will be) that the average of 65.07 miles an hour for a distance of 510 miles will be beaten before long. It is almost certain that the same engines on the same road could beat it in another trial--taking a slightly lighter train, running by daylight and over a dry rail. It will be long, however, before such another run is made as that over the last 86 miles by the ten-wheeler, with William Tunkey in charge. Railway men alone, perhaps, understand the qualities which are necessary in an engineer to enable him to make such a run; and the name of Tunkey is one (however unheroic it may sound) which railway men will remember for many years to come. An analysis of the figures given above will show that it was not until within 20 miles of the end of the run that there was any confidence that the record was broken; and not until the run was actually finished and the watches stopped for the last time, at 34 seconds after half-past eleven, that confidence was changed to certainty.

In addition to the mere speed, everything combined to make the run supremely dramatic--the disappointment over the first divisions--the growing hopes dashed by the unexpected flag--the increase of hope again on the run to Erie--the misgivings as to the type of engine--all culminating in the last tremendous burst of speed and the triumphant rush into Buffalo station.

And having left Chicago at half-past three in the morning, at half past-ten that night I sat and watched Mr. John Drew on the stage of a New York theatre.

A CENTURY OF PAINTING.

NOTES DESCRIPTIVE AND CRITICAL.--A PROVINCIAL SCHOOL OF ART IN ENGLAND.--THE PRECURSOR OF MODERN ART, CONSTABLE.--THE SOLITARY GENIUS OF TURNER.--THE ENGLISH SCHOOL OF PORTRAITURE.--ROMNEY, OPIE, HOPPNER, AND LAWRENCE.

BY WILL H. LOW.

At the period when in France David and his followers had resuscitated a dead and gone art, and by dint of governmental patronage had infused into it a semblance of life, across the Channel, in a provincial town of England, a little group of painters were quietly doing work which, if it did not in itself change the face of modern art, was at least indicative of the change soon to be accomplished by the advent of Constable.

The leader of this group, which has been of late years in the hands of zealous amateurs and dealers elevated to the rank of "school," was John Crome, born at Norwich, December 22, 1768. The son of a publican, he was first an errand boy to a local physician and afterwards apprenticed to a sign painter. Without instruction, hampered by an early marriage, he forsook his occupation, and sought to paint landscapes; meanwhile finding in the houses of the neighboring gentry pupils in drawing. The lessons gave him a living; and in the houses where he taught were many Dutch pictures which he carefully studied, so that he is in a sense a follower of the Holland school. But his greatest and best teacher was the quiet Norfolk country; and the environs of Norwich, from which he seldom strayed, found in him an earnest student.

In 1805, in conjunction with his son (the younger Crome) and Cotman, Stark, and Vincent, Crome founded at Norwich an artists' club, where the members exhibited their pictures and had a large studio in common. Some of the members of the Norwich "school," a title to which none of them in their own time pretended, left their native town, and went to London; but its founder remained true to the city of his birth, where he died April 22, 1821. Late in life he visited Paris, where the Louvre still held the treasures of Europe, garnered after every campaign by Napoleon; and his enthusiasm for the great Dutch painters found fresh nourishment.

It is by this link in the great chain of art that Crome gained his first consideration in the world's esteem; but more important to us of to-day is the fact that he was the first of his century to return to nature. No evil that the frivolous eighteenth century had wrought, or that the classicism of the early years of the nineteenth had perpetuated in art, was so great as the substitution of a conventional type of picture instead of that directly inspired by nature; and this artificial standard, which diverted figure painting from its legitimate field, bore even more heavily on the art of landscape painting.

Crome, by his isolation at Norwich, escaped this tendency. The Norwich painters, however, were, to a certain degree, an accident. In the London of their time, the almost total cessation of intercourse with continental Europe, due to the war with France, had not prevented the academical standard from penetrating and taking root. The independence of Hogarth in the preceding century had been without result; and Sir Joshua Reynolds, in principle if not always in practice, had preached the doctrine of submission to accepted formulas. Benjamin West, who had succeeded him as president of the Royal Academy, was little but an academic formula himself; and landscape (whose greatest representative had been, until his death in 1782, Richard Wilson, a painter of merit, who had united to a charming sense of color an adherence to the strictest classical influence) was wallowing in the mire of conventionality.

To the London of 1800, however, were to be given two landscape painters who may fairly claim the honor of placing their art on a higher pinnacle than it had ever before reached. One of them, John Constable, remains to-day the direct source from which all representation of the free open air is derived, be the painter Saxon, Gallic, or Teuton. The other, Joseph Mallord William Turner, may be said to reach greater heights than his contemporary; but, unlike him, his art is so based on qualities peculiar to himself that he stands alone, though having many imitators who have never achieved more than a superficial resemblance to his work.

Constable, founding his work on nature with close observance of natural laws, was able to exert an influence by which all painters have since profited. When he came to London, at the age of twenty-three, to study in the school of the Royal Academy, he attracted the attention of Sir George Beaumont, an amateur painter who, by his taste and social position, was all-powerful in the artistic circles of the metropolis. It was he who asked the young painter the famous question, "Where do you place your brown tree?" this freak of vegetation being one of the essential component parts of the properly constructed academical landscape of the period. For a year or two the youth placed brown trees, submissively enough, in landscapes painfully precise in detail and deficient in atmosphere. Then he did that which to a common, sensible mind would seem the most obvious thing for a landscape painter to do, but which had been done so rarely that the simple act was the boldest of innovations. He took his colors out of doors, and painted from nature.