A Lost Art

THERE is a certain type of person who loves to mourn over the dear dead arts — like folk-dancing.

Now I too love to mourn for departed arts, but to win my admiration they must have been real arts. Horsemanship was such an art; so, for that matter, was blacksmithing. Anyone with two legs and reasonable health could folk-dance, but no ordinary physique or training was sufficient to enable a man to shoe a horse. The universality of bicycling in the nineties proves that it was n’t much of an art, and deserves no tears. But the successor of bicycling was most decidedly an art. I mean, of course, motoring, or rather driving a motor car. Although automobiles are still in use, driving as an art began to disappear after 1912, and in the last three years has gone completely except in a few out-of-the-way places where the elder motor cars still survive.

The reason for the decay of the art is the same as that which drove out so many others — mechanical progress. What the harvester did to reaping, the self-starter and synchro-mesh transmission have done to motoring. There is no longer any distinction in being able to drive a car well; even women and children can qualify. One large manufacturer showed his most recent product with a baby at the wheel. Future generations are evidently expected to drive before they can walk.

It is not that main strength and awkwardness were the chief qualifications of the driver of, say, 1911; it is rather that physical fitness and, above all, skill were required. Take the matter of cranking. No weakling could crank an old Pierce-Arrow six. But many strong men were poor crankers. It was not a trick that could be done by any brawny fellow hailed in from the street. That man was not without honor who could ‘commence’ his car in any weather.

Like all true arts, this one had many tricks. The clever motorist usually contrived to leave his car at the brow of an incline, so that gravitation would do his work for him. In cold weather, judicious priming was necessary. On the top of each engine was a set of polished brass cups with valves. Just the right amount of gasoline poured into each one gave a quick start; too little caused futile pops; too much drowned the ignition or produced a huge bang and much black smoke.

A broken arm was the penalty for poor technique. Contrary to popular notions, such accidents were preventable. A firm grip was the secret. Then a back fire was no more dangerous than the kick of a shotgun. As in everything else, the Model T required a special technique. Since there were no priming cups, the spark plugs had to be removed if priming was necessary. The drag of the transmission bands made it an extremely difficult feat to spin the motor in cold weather — much larger cars were easier to crank. The final resort was to jack up a rear wheel, block the other, throw the car in gear, and spin the motor. Occasionally the vibration of the racing engine caused the car to leap off the jack and plunge at the owner. Those who survived this ordeal were the ones who had presence of mind enough to pull the choke wire and kill the motor.

Gear shifting was another art. Progressive transmissions made it necessary to go through the gears in order. A policeman once told a friend of mine to back up. As his car was in one of the forward speeds, he had to move a foot or two before he could shift to reverse. The officer, who attributed this manœuvre to human rather than mechanical perversity, was pacified only after a long exposition on motor-car design.

All this was long before the days of concrete roads and balloon tires. It took a keen eye and a quick hand to avoid innumerable potholes and sharp stones. The penalty was a broken spring or a blow-out, or both. The modern driver, drowsing along listening to a radio, insulated from road shocks, and enclosed in a glass case, is a rather poor specimen compared with the driver of yore, roaring along, peering through thick clouds of dust, and delicately aiming his ‘machine’ so as to miss simultaneously a gulley, a large rock, and a flustered hen. Yes, even the chickens have changed: the few that remain are the descendants of a line of artful dodgers, and they can escape all but the most awkward driver.

If, in spite of all his care, the old-time motorist did break a spring or blow out a tire, there was seldom a near-by garage. Such help as existed was often likely to make matters worse. The driver had to depend on himself. There were too many methods of spring patching to explain here — in fact, each break presented an individual problem.

Tire changing before the advent of demountable rims included tube patching, casing repairs, and much hand pumping. Five or six changes during a twenty-mile ride were not unusual. For tires were expensive, and most people kept shoes and tubes in service after even two or three blow-outs.

Such troubles were not without compensations. A ring of admiring small boys were sure to appear and comment on the marvelous vehicle. Lads in those days had learned to recognize and admire the skillful tire changer. And I have met some very charming people under such circumstances — men who would stop to offer aid and advice, and remain to talk.

For motorists then had the guild spirit. A car was not like a suit of clothes, a mere necessity. It was a mark of achievement, and the driver of an antique was admired as a veteran. Loyalties were warm. The owner of a 1909 Buick could spend hours debating with the possessor of a 1911 Cadillac, discussing overhead valves, full floating rear axles, and the like. Drivers of the same make of car waved greetings to each other as they passed. Such men would have scorned the discreet, sophisticated name plates of to-day; their cars bore their names in five-inch brass letters across the radiator. Men wore trade-marks on watch fobs as proudly as the mediæval knight displayed his quarterings on his shield.

To-day, when any car will climb almost any hill in high, it is hard to realize the thrill of achievement felt twenty years ago when, with top down and cut-out roaring, one of these giants of old conquered a mountain in high. The feat was only possible to the man who could adjust valves, magneto, and carburetor, and who knew just the exact moment to ‘tramp on her,’ just when to ease up to prevent killing the engine, and how to handle his spark. In 1911 there was not the automatic spark advance, nor would carburetors respond to unfeeling stampings upon the accelerator. Handling cars then and now might be compared to playing a pipe organ as contrasted with switching on a radio.

Automobiles were cared for as is a fine violin. Brass was polished like a colonial door knocker, even to the fittings on the motor. If the car was to stand a month, the tires were jacked off the floor, and in some cases were removed and stored under proper conditions of moisture and temperature. Several schools of thought existed on the question of how to wash and polish the finish to preserve it. Men might argue for hours over the merits of different brands of oil or the cut of a piston ring.

All this sounds very difficult. It was — like any other art. But, like any art, it carried the joy of achievement, and it admitted one into an esoteric group. Like the new-made knight was he who could first pilot a motor car. Over his cigar he could boast of battles won, and would be listened to with respect by his peers. At parties, motorists withdrew into a circle apart, to talk nothing else but cars. This group had its own aristocracy — one of achievement. The man who had driven to Maine, or surmounted the Pennsylvania mountains, or rolled up fifty or a hundred thousand miles on his old ‘boat,’ was sure of the respect and honor due him.

Yes, in its day, motoring too was an art: it fulfilled the immemorial longings of the soul of man for skill, for respect, and for achievement.

ERNEST EARNEST