No one who has not travelled through America on foot, horseback, or awheel knows anything about the variety and charm of this great country.  We traversed but a small section, and yet it seemed as if we had spent weeks and months in a strange land.  The sensations from day to day are indescribable.  It is not alone the novel sport, but the country and the people along the way seemed so strange, possibly because automobiling has its own point of view, and certainly people have their own and widely varying views of automobiling.  In the presence of the machine people everywhere become for the time-being childlike and naive, curious and enthusiastic; they lose the veneer of sophistication, and are as approachable and companionable as children.  Automobiling is therefore doubly delightful in these early days of the sport.  By and by, when the people become accustomed to the machine, they will resume their habit of indifference, and we shall see as little of them as if we were riding or driving.

With some exceptions every one we met treated the machine with a consideration it did not deserve.  Even those who were put to no little inconvenience with their horses seldom showed the resentment which might have been expected under the circumstances.  On the contrary, they seemed to recognize the right of the strange car to the joint use of the highway, and to blame their horses for not behaving better.  Verily, forbearance is an American virtue.

The machine itself stood the journey well, all things considered.  It lacked power and was too light for such a severe and prolonged test; but, when taken apart to be restored to perfect condition, it was astonishing how few parts showed wear.  The bearings had to be adjusted and one or two new ones put in.  A number of little things were done, but the mechanic spent only forty hours’ time all told in making the machine quite as good as new.  A coat of paint and varnish removed all outward signs of rough usage.

However, one must not infer that automobiling is an inexpensive way of touring, but measured by the pleasure derived, the expense is as nothing; at the same time look out for the man who says “My machine has not cost me a cent for repairs in six months.”

It is singular how reticent owners of automobiles are concerning the shortcomings and eccentricities of their machines; they seem leagued together to deceive one another and the public.  The literal truth can be found only in letters of complaint written to the manufacturers.  The man who one moment says his machine is a paragon of perfection, sits down the next and writes the factory a letter which would be debarred the mails if left unsealed.  Open confession is good for the soul, and owners of automobiles must cultivate frankness of speech, for deep in our innermost hearts we all know that a machine would have so tried the patience of Job that even Bildad the Shuhite would have been silenced.

In the year 1735 a worthy Puritan divine, pastor over a little flock in the town of Malden, made the following entries in his diary: