marks the untraveled man, as we climb down from the locomotive; "and a wholesome respect for his skill and courage." The red flames of the Lochiel iron-works gleam on the water as we roll slowly over the long bridge. The islands opposite are but vague shadows on the smooth surface of the river; and, by contrast with the roaring, tumultuous, headlong speed of the past halfhour, the quiet, gliding motion of the car seems to drift us into the night as into a dream. Morning finds us in the City of Brotherly Love. We had a jolly run last night over the road, to be retraced to-day, but it was not by telegraph. The forenoon is well advanced before our hosts have finished the business that called them hither, and the "special" is headed once more toward the Susquehanna. At the last moment the Executive enters with a representative of the Pennsylvania Railroad," the Subscriber." "And where is the Poet?" A chorus of regrets testifies the disappointment of all at this announcement, for the poet had proved a delightful companion on our midnight run from Harrisburg. "But he sends these verses in commemo ration of our ride last night. I propose that the Quiet Man be appointed reader." The appointment is made by acclamation, and the charms of Fairmount are forgotten while the reading goes on. THE RAILWAY RIDE. In their yachts on ocean gliding, Whirled o'er snows on tinkling sledges, Borne with ponderous speed, and thunderous, Restless as a dream of vengeance, For the liberty they lack. Now one screams in triumph, for the And the steed is loose once more; THE MIDNIGHT RIDE. Crossing long and thread-like bridges, To yon tunnel-drift careering, With a wild and joyous yell. What the chariot swift of Ares What the steeds the rash boy handle But of craft and strength and purpose, Oh! what wildness! oh! what gladness! Us to-day beyond the stars! "To judge from the station-houses along this part of the line," remarks the Traveled Man, breaking in upon the lively discussion of the poet and his art that followed the reading, "one would think himself anywhere but in America. I have seen nothing prettier in England or Switzerland." NEAR WEST CHESTER INTERSECTION. "The Pennsylvania Railroad prides itself on leading America in this as in every other praiseworthy enterprise." The Subscriber rounds the period with Jacksonian emphasis, contracts his face in personation of the sphinx-like majesty of a great corporation, meditates a moment, then goes on to explain the company's policy in this matter. And the policy is a good one. For twenty miles in this direction the country is but a suburb of Philadelphia. Handsome country seats and pretty cottages are on every side. The high land, beautiful scenery, and delightful climate make the region extremely attractive to those whose business permits a daily escape from the confinement of the city. The railroad company adds to the attractiveness of the region for suburban residence by providing at convenient intervals station-houses that for beauty and comfort have no rivals this side the Atlantic. "All the new stations are to have buildings after this fashion," remarks the Subscriber, as we are admiring the substantial elegance of Bryn Mawr; "and as fast as circumstances warrant it, all the old wooden stationhouses along the line will be replaced by stone ones. They are the cheapest, in the long run." "It goes against th grain of our independer Americans," resumes th Traveled Man, "to hav any one interfere wit their freedom to be kille when and where the choose; but I hope to se the day when every rai road station will have foot-bridge over the track and everybody be com pelled, English fashion, t use it." Near Radnor the lin runs through a beautifu estate. We stop to a mire, and are courteousl invited to inspect it. "What time can W spend here, conductor?" "Twenty minutes, a most." "Time enough to se the green-house and th grounds," urges the gentle man in charge, recognizin the Superintendent of th division of the road, wh had joined us at Bryn Mawr. As we hastily visit the chief attractions this charming property, the Superintender explains how Mr. Askin, the wealthy owne is gathering around him a community tha shall do honor to the place-a city in th midst of a garden. He has built a numbe of substantial brick houses, furnished ther with water from the large reservoir tha supplies the estate, with gas made on th premises,-in short, all the conveniences tha city and country can afford. These house he rents at a low rate of interest on the cos of construction, to picked families, for whos use he has built a handsome school-hous and a church. For beauty of situation th model village is unsurpassed; and if it doe not prove a model morally and socially, a well as materially, it will not be the propr etor's fault. Fifty Alderney cows furnish the principa revenue of the estate. The other stock equally choice. The barns and stables ar constructed with loving regard for the healt and comfort of their occupants; while th thrifty care and scrupulous neatness manife on every side show that, in this respect a least, the rules of the establishment are a strictly enforced as they are wisely framed. "Straightening the road, you see;" th Division Superintendent observes, as, when under way again, we wind and twist first to one side, then to the other, of a broad plain of fresh earth. "It will be a great improvement when we get rid of these sharp curves." The contrast between the old and the new in road-making could not be more forcibly illustrated. The new line, not quite finished, sweeps with noble curves, piercing hills and filling valleys, while the old track tamely hugs the hillsides, winding along like a country wagonroad. "This is one of the oldest bits of railroad in the country," the Superintendent goes on to say; "It was originally graded for the Lancaster and Philadelphia horse-railroad, an experiment that no one felt like spending over much money on. Besides, the engineer argued, a train would run better on a crooked road-there would be so much more friction!" "Fact?" "Yes, truly; and not so absurd an idea ither, when we remember how the lack of riction bothered the first experimenters with tramways. The first locomotive put on the road-one of the earliest used in the country-was advertised to run regularly "when the weather was fair." When it rained they had to fall back on horse-power. The driving-wheels slipped as they do now when the rails are wet; and nobody had the wit to sand the track." "Is Cap. Hambright still on the road?" "I believe he is, as he has been from the first. Wonderful changes in railroading since he took the first brigade of horse-cars over this road, forty years ago!" "This is one of his inventions." The Executive is signalling the engineer as we approach a station. "Simple as this cord and bell contrivance is, it was a stroke of genius that could not have been bettered." To the patriot the region we are riding through has, however, a deeper interest than arises from any railroad associations. Valley COATESVILLE BRIDGE. Forge is just beyond the low hills to the north. South and west lies the valley of the Brandywine, and on every hand are places whose names are on the saddest page of our country's history. Wayne station recalls the dashing "Mad Anthony," whose home was near the village we are passing,— Paoli,-where a monument commemorates the massacre of a detachment of his soldiers, unluckily surprised and captured. Soon we pass the intersection of the road that runs to the pretty village of Westchester; then cross the low ridge which forms the southern boundary of the beautiful Chester Valley. As we approach Downingtown. the view up the narrow valley is lovely in the extreme. Farther on the ridges are broken into rounded hills with swelling outlines, sweeping down from wooded crests to richly cultivated fields. At Coatesville we strike the West Branch of the Brandywine, and stop to look at the long bridge that crosses the valley, seventy-five feet above the grade of the Wilmington and Reading BIRTH-PLACE OF ROBERT FULTON.-(FROM OLD PRINT.) Railroad, which runs below. For half an hour the Artist has been feasting his eyes on the billowy curves, the feminine grace and loveliness of the Garden of the State, and now finds it hard to sympathize with his hosts in their admiration of the bridge's rigid lines. To a genuine railroad man there is nothing so pleasant to look upon as a new bridge, the newer and straighter the better. The artist may call it an ugly bar across a beautiful landscape, but his opinion is regarded with pitying surprise. The Coatesville bridge is an imposing, indeed a beautiful, structure-as a bridge; but the Artist cannot help thinking what a lovely scene the valley might present if the bridge were only out of the way. While the lighter footed are scrambling down the bank to view the bridge to better advantage, the Subscriber remains above, in earnest converse with the occupant of an adjoining shanty. "Discriminating old lady, that," he remarks, with his usual Hickory formula, when we return. "She took me for the Superintendent of the road!" "And the most dignified looking personage of the party. And ver-ry properly! [Here the Subscriber rolls out his customary bit of Jacksonian rhetoric.] I assured her I was only Superintendent of the Oil Regions, but she was not to be put off; so I had to compromise the matter-and myself--by promising speedy attention to her complaint." pany to pay for or rebuild an edifice th the trackmen have demolished for encroac ing on the road. A cow-shed she calls You see-" The shrill whistle of the locomotiv drowns the beginning of the story of the o woman's grievance, and its continuation forgotten in our hurried retreat to the ca As we sweep out of sight, the confidi matron stands at her door, beaming wi satisfaction that her complaint has at la gone to headquarters. Alas for the uncertainty of corporatio promises! Immense iron-mills roll up their clouds smoke from the valley as we cross th bridge. At Parkesburg we pass anoth group of foundries, with machine-shops, ca works, and so on. Christiana has more a like sort; indeed, all the thrifty towns this region give evidence of a vigorous a propriation of the mineral wealth the cou try abounds in. At the Gap we pierce the long woode ridge which separates Chester from Lanca ter County. Tall columns of smoke, risin like trees in the still air, mark the site of th celebrated nickel-mine to which we owe o smaller coins--the only mine of the kind the United States. Beyond, to the sout east, is the rich chrome region along th Octorara, branches of which we crossed Penningtonville, Christiana, and the Gap. For the next twenty miles our route li over the fertile plain watered by the Pequ and the Conestoga, with a monotony of e cellent farms, plethoric barns, substanti dwellings, and all the other tokens of rur wealth and comfort. "Tame? So it is," the Traveled Ma admits; "but so much the more delightfu You may talk of beautiful scenery, of su lime scenery; I have seen the best, and it all well enough in its way; but for solid s isfaction there's nothing can equal the sig of happy human homes." If the homes of this region are not happ the fault lies with the inmates, not the si roundings. Dinner at Lancaster, a city worthy of longer visit than we can give it. Here, the Conestoga, the boy Fulton made first paddle-wheel; here, before Fulton w born, a citizen of Lancaster, Mr. Willia Henry, made the first recorded experime in steam in steam navigation-experiments whi probably set Fulton's active mind worki Husband killed? or baby?" in that direction. To this center of int "Worse,-far worse! She wants the com- lectual life the young Vermonter, Th 66 Stevens, wandered; here he fixed his home and found his final resting-place. Here, too, Buchanan lived; his old homestead, Wheatland, or rather the noble grove of hickories which surround the house,-lying to our left as we leave the city. Till we reach South Mountain-the first of those long earth-waves that stretch from the Potomac to the Hudson-the country repeats the familiar characteristics of Lancaster Valley. Then we suddenly enter a region thickly strewn with huge boulders. "Were they dropped here by some stranded iceberg, in the drift period you geologists tell about?" "They have a traveled, water-worn appearance, surely," the Geologist replies, "but they are natives. We shall see, enough of them for the next ten miles." At the tunnel the interpreter of the rocks points out the dike of trap whence all the boulders of this region came. The higher slopes all the way to Middletown are strewn with a plentiful crop of them. At this place we strike the Susquehanna again. For the remaining ten miles of our course the road runs close to the river, but its wooded banks allow only occasional glimpses of the water. Sweeping over the level river plain near the end of our day's ride, we pass a lofty furnace-stack, which pours its sooty products into the still air. "The Lochiel Iron Mills that we saw from the bridge last night?" "We haven't come to them yet. These are the Baldwin Steel Works. The most of our rails are made here." "Have we time to see the operation?" A hasty consultation among the railroad men ensues. It is decided that our preparations for to-morrow can be made after business hours, and the order is given to return to Baldwin Station, which has been left behind. Our visit is fortunately timed, for preparations are already making for charging the huge converter. With but a passing glance at the preliminary storm of fire that roars from the mouth of the converter, we follow the superintendent past the hot piles of ingots lately drawn from the moulds; past the great receivers wherein olus is imprisoned and forced to do fiery service; past the engines which generate the power used in the Cyclopean operations going on all around, and stop to watch the gigantic steam hammers under which the glowing masses of steel are forged by blows that may be twenty tons or twenty grains as the forger wills. Just beyond the forge is the rolling-mill where the white-hot bars of steel are seized and drawn into rails with a rapidity that bewilders. But it is time for tapping the furnaces, and we hasten back, with scarcely a look at the various piles of rails awaiting shipment. This is no place for the philosophy of the Bessemer process: no place for describing all the steps by which crude iron is now so quickly converted into steel. Our attention is absorbed by the scenic effect, and that is beyond the power of words to describe. Even the pencil of a Weir would fail to do it justice. "What are those circular artists driving at over there?" queries the Subscriber, pointing to a number of men on a raised platform, each with his hand on a wheel like that of a car-brake. The Superintendent explains how their movements control the almost resistless force of the hydraulic presses, and we CONESTOGA BRIDGE. |