McCormick Newton 8.0 [05.

2015]
To download the complete and correct content, please visit:

https://manualpost.com/download/mccormick-newton-8-0-05-2015

McCormick Newton 8.0 [05.2015]Size: 3,5GbLanguages: German, English,

Spanish, French, ItalianRegion: All regionsType: McCormick Newton electronic
spare parts identification catalogWin: VISTA, Win7 x32, Win7 x64, Windows 8
x32/x64, WinXPQuantity of CD: 1 DVDYear: 05/2015McCormick Newton electronic
spare parts identification catalogMcCormick Newton parts catalog covers the
following models:2730 (2010-2012) - rc014500 restyling (2011-2012) - rs014600
(2012- ) - rs026400 - 6600 isr-ism-vrm (2011- ) - rs436600 arm (2011-2013) -
rs429-7 series (2014- ) - rs37Bmax (2007- ) - rt62C seriesC-l europa tier 2
(2007-2008) - rs50C-l europa tier 3 (2008-2015) - rs51C-l mondial tier 2 (2007- ) -
rt30C-max rps tier 2 (2004-2012) - rs21C-max rps tier 3 (2008- ) - rs24C-max tier 2
(2003- ) - rs20C-max tier 3 (2008- ) - rs22CaricatoriCx series (2001-2007) -
cx01-cx02Cx synchro tier 3 (2008-2009) - rpc1Cx synchro tier 3 restyling
(2009-2011) - rpc3Cx xtrashift tier 3 (2008-2009) - rpc2Cx xtrashift tier 3 restyling
(2009-2011) - rpc4Cx-l series (2004-2007) - rp21Cx-l tier 3 (2007-2013) -
rp22Dmax (2013- ) - rt70F cab tier 1 (2000-2003) - rp50F e-line restyling (2010- ) -
rp56F top restyling (2010- ) - rp55F/xl techno tier 2 (2003-2008) - rp52F/xl techno
tier 3 (2008-2009) - rp54F/xl tier 2 (2003-2008) - rp51F/xl tier 3 (2008-2009) -
rp53G-max (2008- ) - rp72G-max iveco tier 3 (2007-2012) - rp74G-max tier 3 new
cab (2012- ) - rp75Gm series tier 1 (1998-2003) - rs10Gm series tier 2 (2003-2008)
- rs11Gm tier 3 (2009- ) - rs12Groundscare accessoriesGroundscare
attachmentsGx series tier 1 (2002-2004) - rp80Gx series tier 3 (2004-2007) -
rp81LoadersMb series tier 1 (limited market) (2002-2005) - rt60Mb series tier 2
(limited market) (2005- ) - rt61Mc common rail tier 3 (2007-2008) - mc01Mc power4
tier 3 (2008-2009) - rpb1Mc power4 tier 3 restyling (2009-2013) - rpb2Mc power6
tier 3 (2007-2010) - rpa1Mc series (2002-2007) - mc01Mtx series (2002-2007) -
mtx3Mtx tier3 restyling (2009- ) - rpd1T series compact (2001-2009) - ct00T series
restyling (2011- ) - cp03T series tier 1 (2000-2003) - cp00T series tier 2
(2003-2007) - cp01T series tier 3 (2007-2010) - cp02T-max (2009- ) -
rs23TelescopicoTtx tier 3 (2007- ) - xtx4V series cab tier 1 (2000-2003) - rp01V
series cab tier 2 (2003-2005) - rp02V series cab tier 2 new generation (2005-2007)
- rp03V series cab tier 3 new generation (2007-2009) - rp04V series non-cab tier 1
(2000-2003) - rt01V/f-n series restyling (2010- ) - rp05X10 series ( 2011- ) - rpk1X4
series (2014- ) - rs52X4 small range series (2015- ) - rs53X5 series t4i (2014- ) -
rs28X50 series tier 4 (2013- ) - rs25X50m series tier 4 (2013- ) - rs26X6 t4i lwb
(2014- ) - rp76X6.4 tier 4 (2014- ) - rp66X60 series (2011-2014) - rp67X7.4 tier 4i
(2013- ) - rpd2X7.6 tier 4i (2013- ) - rpe2X70 series tier 4 (2012-2013) - rpe1Xtx
seriesXtx tier 3 (2007-2013) - xtx3Ztx series (2003-2007)
Download all on: manualpost.com.
 [Unrelated content]
Another random document on
Internet:
 CHAPTER I
STEPPING WESTWARD

"What, you are stepping westward?"—"Yea."

—'Twould be a wildish destiny,
If we, who thus together roam
In a strange Land, and far from home,
Were in this place the guests of Chance:
Yet who would stop or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a sky to lead him on?

—Wordsworth.
For some time I have desired to travel over the United States—to
ramble and observe and seek adventure here, at home, not as a
tourist with a short vacation and a round-trip ticket, but as a kind of
privateer with a roving commission. The more I have contemplated
the possibility the more it has engaged me. For we Americans,
though we are the most restless race in the world, with the possible
exception of the Bedouins, almost never permit ourselves to travel,
either at home or abroad, as the "guests of Chance." We always go
from one place to another with a definite purpose. We never amble.
On the boat, going to Europe, we talk of leisurely trips away from
the "beaten track," but we never take them. After we land we rush
about obsessed by "sights," seeing with the eyes of guides and
thinking the "canned" thoughts of guidebooks.
In order to accomplish such a trip as I had thought of I was even
willing to write about it afterward. Therefore I went to see a
publisher and suggested that he send me out upon my travels.
I argued that Englishmen, from Dickens to Arnold Bennett, had
"done" America; likewise Frenchmen and Germans. And we have
traveled over there and written about them. But Americans who
travel at home to write (or, as in my case, write to travel) almost
always go in search of some specific thing: to find corruption and
expose it, to visit certain places and describe them in detail, or to
catch, exclusively, the comic side. For my part, I did not wish to go
in search of anything specific. I merely wished to take things as they
might come. And—speaking of taking things—I wished, above all
else, to take a good companion, and I had him all picked out: a man
whose drawings I admire almost as much as I admire his disposition;
the one being who might endure my presence for some months,
sharing with me his joys and sorrows and collars and cigars, and yet
remain on speaking terms with me.
The publisher agreed to all. Then I told my New York friends that I
was going.

I was moving about my room, my hands full

of hairbrushes and toothbrushes and
clothesbrushes and shaving brushes; my
 head full of railroad trains, and hills, and
plains, and valleys
They were incredulous. That is the New York attitude of mind. Your
"typical New Yorker" really thinks that any man who leaves
Manhattan Island for any destination other than Europe or Palm
Beach must be either a fool who leaves voluntarily or a criminal
taken off by force. For the picturesque criminal he may be sorry, but
for the fool he has scant pity.

At a farewell party which they gave us on the night before we left,

one of my friends spoke, in an emotional moment, of accompanying
us as far as Buffalo. He spoke of it as one might speak of going up
to Baffin Land to see a friend off for the Pole.
I welcomed the proposal and assured him of safe conduct to that
point in the "interior." I even showed him Buffalo upon the map. But
the sight of that wide-flung chart of the United States seemed only
to alarm him. After regarding it with a solemn and uneasy eye he
shook his head and talked long and seriously of his responsibilities
as a family man—of his duty to his wife and his limousine and his
elevator boys.
It was midnight when good-bys were said and my companion and I
returned to our respective homes to pack. There were many things
to be put into trunks and bags. A clock struck three as my weary
head struck the pillow. I closed my eyes. Then when, as it seemed
to me, I was barely dozing off there came a knocking at my
bedroom door.
"What is it?"
"Six o'clock," replied the voice of our trusty Hannah.
As I arose I knew the feelings of a man condemned to death who
hears the warden's voice in the chilly dawn: "Come! It is the fatal
hour!"
When, fifteen minutes later, doubting Hannah (who knows my habits
in these early morning matters) knocked again, I was moving about
my room, my hands full of hairbrushes and toothbrushes and clothes
brushes and shaving brushes; my head full of railroad trains, and
hills, and plains and valleys, and snow-capped mountain peaks, and
smoking cities and smoking-cars, and people I had never seen.
The breakfast table, shining with electric light, had a night-time
aspect which made eggs and coffee seem bizarre. I do not like to
breakfast by electric light, and I had done so seldom until then; but
since that time I have done it often—sometimes to catch the early
morning train, sometimes to catch the early morning man.
Beside my plate I found a telegram. I ripped the envelope and read
this final punctuation-markless message from a literary friend:

you are going to discover the united states dont be afraid to say
so

That is an awful thing to tell a man in the very early morning before
breakfast. In my mind I answered with the cry: "But I am afraid to
say so!"
And now, months later, I am still afraid to say so, because, despite a
certain truth the statement may contain, it seems to me to sound
ridiculous, and ponderous, and solemn with an asinine solemnity.
It spoiled my last meal at home—that well-meant telegram.
I had not swallowed my second cup of coffee when, from her
switchboard, a dozen floors below, the operator telephoned to say
my taxi had arrived; whereupon I left the table, said good-by to
those I should miss most of all, took up my suit case and departed.
Beside the curb there stood an unhappy-looking taxicab, shivering as
with malaria, but the driver showed a face of brazen cheerfulness
which, considering the hour and the circumstances, seemed almost
indecent. I could not bear his smile. Hastily I blotted him from view
beneath a pile of baggage.
With a jerk we started. Few other vehicles disputed our right to the
whole width of Seventy-second Street as we skimmed eastward.
Farewell, O Central Park! Farewell, O Plaza! And you, Fifth Avenue,
empty, gray, deserted now; so soon to flash with fascinating traffic.
Farewell! Farewell!
Presently, in that cavern in which vehicles stop beneath the
overhanging cliffs of the Grand Central Station, we drew up. A dusky
redcap took my baggage. I alighted and, passing through glass
doors, gazed down on the vast concourse. Far up in the lofty spaces
of the room there seemed to hang a haze, through which—from that
amazing and audacious ceiling, painted like the heavens—there
twinkled, feebly, morning stars of gold. Through three arched
windows, towering to the height of six-story buildings, the eastern
light streamed softly in, combining with the spaciousness around
me, and the blue above, to fill me with a curious sense of paradox: a
feeling that I was indoors yet out of doors.
The glass dials of the four-faced clock, crowning the information
bureau at the center of the concourse, glowed with electric light,
yellow and sickly by contrast with the day which poured in through
those windows. Such stupendous windows! Gargantuan spider webs
whose threads were massive bars of steel. And suddenly I saw the
spider! He emerged from one side, passed nimbly through the
center of the web, disappeared, emerged again, crossed the second
web and the third in the same way, and was gone—a two-legged
spider, walking importantly and carrying papers in his hand. Then
another spider came, and still another, each black against the light,
each on a different level. For those windows are, in reality, more
than windows. They are double walls of glass, supporting floors of
glass—layer upon layer of crystal corridor, suspended in the air as by
genii out of the Arabian Nights. And through these corridors pass
clerks who never dream that they are princes in the modern kind of
fairy tale.
As yet the torrent of commuters had not begun to pour through the
vast place. The floor lay bare and tawny like the bed of some dry
river waiting for the melting of the mountain snows. Across the river
bed there came a herd of cattle—Italian immigrants, dark-eyed,
dumb, patient, uncomprehending. Two weeks ago they had left
Naples, with plumed Vesuvius looming to the left; yesterday they
had come to Ellis Island; last night they had slept on station
benches; to-day they were departing; to-morrow or the next day
they would reach their destination in the West. Suddenly there came
to me from nowhere, but with a poignance that seemed to make it
new, the platitudinous thought that life is at once the commonest
and strangest of experiences. What scenes these black, pathetic
people had passed through—were passing through! Why did they
not look up in wonderment? Why were their bovine eyes gazing
blankly ahead of them at nothing? What had dazed them so—the
bigness of the world? Yet, after all, why should they understand?
What American can understand Italian railway stations? They have
always seemed to me to express a sort of mild insanity. But the
Grand Central terminal I fancy I do understand. It seems to me to
be much more than a successful station. In its stupefying size, its
brilliant utilitarianism, and, most of all, in its mildly vulgar grandeur,
it seems to me to express, exactly, the city to which it is a gate. That
is something every terminal should do unless, as in the case of the
Pennsylvania terminal in New York, it expresses something finer. The
Grand Central Station is New York, but that classic marvel over there
on Seventh Avenue is more: it is something for New York to live up
to.
When I had bought my ticket and moved along to count my change
there came up to the ticket window a big man in a big ulster who
asked in a big voice for a ticket to Grand Rapids. As he stood there I
was conscious of a most un-New-York-like wish to say to him: "After
a while I'm going to Grand Rapids, too!" And I think that, had I said
it, he would have told me that Grand Rapids was "some town" and
asked me to come in and see him, when I got there,—"at the plant,"
I think he would have said.
As I crossed the marble floor to take the train I caught sight of my
traveling companion leaning rigidly against the wall beside the gate.
He did not see me. Reaching his side, I greeted him.
He showed no signs of life. I felt as though I had addressed a
waxwork figure.
"Good morning," I repeated, calling him by name.
"I've just finished packing," he said. "I never got to bed at all."
At that moment a most attractive person put in an appearance. She
was followed by a redcap carrying a lovely little Russia leather bag.
A few years before I should have called a bag like that a dressing
case, but watching that young woman as she tripped along with
steps restricted by the slimness of her narrow satin skirt, it occurred
to me that modes in baggage may have changed like those in
woman's dress and that her little leather case might be a modern
kind of wardrobe trunk.
My companion took no notice of this agitating presence.
"Look!" I whispered. "She is going, too."
Stiffly he turned his head.
"The pretty girl," he remarked, with sad philosophy, "is always in the
other car. That's life."
"No," I demurred. "It's only early morning stuff."
And I was right, for presently, in the parlor car, we found our seats
across the aisle from hers.
Before the train moved out a boy came through with books and
magazines, proclaiming loudly the "last call for reading matter."
I think the radiant being believed him, for she bought a magazine—a
magazine of pretty girls and piffle: just the sort we knew she'd buy.
As for my companion and me, we made no purchases, not crediting
the statement that it was really the "last call." But I am impelled to
add that having, later, visited certain book stores of Buffalo,
Cleveland, and Detroit, I now see truth in what the boy said.
For a time my companion and I sat and tried to make believe we
didn't know that some one was across the aisle. And she sat there
and played with pages and made believe she didn't know we made
believe. When that had gone on for a time and our train was slipping
silently along beside the Hudson, we felt we couldn't stand it any
longer, so we made believe we wanted to go out and smoke. And as
we left our seats she made believe she didn't know that we were
going.
Four men were seated in the smoking room. Two were discussing
the merits of flannel versus linen mesh for winter underwear. The
gentleman who favored linen mesh was a fat, prosperous-looking
person, whose gold-rimmed spectacles reflected flying lights from
out of doors.
"If you'll wear linen," he declared with deep conviction—"and it
wants to be a union suit, too—you'll never go back to shirt and
drawers again. I'll guarantee that!" The other promised to try it.
Presently I noticed that the first speaker had somehow gotten all the
way from linen union suits to Portland, Me., on a hot Sunday
afternoon. He said it was the hottest day last year, and gave the
date and temperatures at certain hours. He mentioned his wife's
weight, details of how she suffered from the heat, the amount of
flesh she lost, the name of the steamer on which they finally
escaped from Portland to New York, the time of leaving and arrival,
and many other little things.
I left him on the dock in New York. A friend (name and occupation
given) had met him with a touring car (make and horsepower
specified). What happened after that I do not know, save that it was
nothing of importance. Important things don't happen to a man like
that.

A dusky redcap took my baggage

Two other men of somewhat Oriental aspect were seated on the
leather sofa talking the unintelligible jargon of the factory. But,
presently, emerged an anecdote.
"I was going through our sorting room a while back," said the one
nearest the window, "and I happened to take notice of one of the
girls. I hadn't seen her before. She was a new hand—a mighty pretty
girl, with a nice, round figure and a fine head of hair. She kept
herself neater than most of them girls do. I says to myself: 'Why, if
you was to take that girl and dress her up and give her a little
education you wouldn't be ashamed to take her anywheres.' Well, I
went over to her table and I says: 'Look at here, little girl; you got a
fine head of hair and you'd ought to take care of it. Why don't you
wear a cap in here in all this dust?' It tickled her to death to be
noticed like that. And, sure enough, she did get a cap. I says to her:
'That's the dope, little girl. Take care of your looks. You'll only be
young and pretty like this once, you know.' So one thing led to
another, and one day, a while later, she come up to the office to see
about her time slip or something, and I jollied her a little. I seen she
was a pretty smart kid at that, so—" At that point he lowered his
voice to a whisper, and leaned over so that his thick, smiling lips
were close to his companion's ear. The motion of the train caused
their hat brims to interfere. Disturbed by this, the raconteur removed
his derby. His head was absolutely bald.

Well, I am not sure that I should have liked to hear the rest. I
shifted my attention back to the apostle of the linen union suit, who
had talked on, unremittingly. His conversation had, at least, the
merit of entire frankness. He was a man with nothing to conceal.
"Yes, sir!" I heard him declare, "every time you get on to a railroad
train you take your life in your hands. That's a positive fact. I was
reading it up just the other day. We had almost sixteen thousand
accidents to trains in this country last year. A hundred and thirty-nine
passengers killed and between nine and ten thousand injured. That's
not counting employees, either—just passengers like us." He
emphasized his statements by waving a fat forefinger beneath the
listener's nose, and I noticed that the latter seemed to wish to draw
his head back out of range, as though in momentary fear of a
collision.
For my part, I did not care for these statistics. They were not
pleasant to the ears of one on the first leg of a long railroad journey.
I rose, aimed the end of my cigar at the convenient nickel-plated
receptacle provided for that purpose by the thoughtful Pullman
Company, missed it, and retired from the smoking room. Or, rather, I
emerged and went to luncheon.
Our charming neighbor of the parlor car was already in the diner.
She finished luncheon before we did, and, passing by our table as
she left, held her chin well up and kept her eyes ahead with a
precision almost military—almost, but not quite. Try as she would,
she was unable to control a slight but infinitely gratifying flicker of
the eyelids, in which nature triumphed over training and femininity
defeated feministic theory.
A little later, on our way back to the smoking room, we saw her
seated, as before, behind the sheltering ramparts of her magazine.
This time it pleased our fancy to take the austere military cue from
her. So we filed by in step, as stiff as any guardsmen on parade
before a princess seated on a green plush throne. Resolutely she
kept her eyes upon the page. We might have thought she had not
noticed us at all but for a single sign. She uncrossed her knees as
we passed by.
In the smoking room we entered conversation with a young man
who was sitting by the window. He proved to be a civil engineer
from Buffalo. He had lived in Buffalo eight years, he said, without
having visited Niagara Falls. ("I've been meaning to go, but I've kept
putting it off.") But in New York he had taken time to go to Bedloe
Island and ascend the Statue of Liberty. ("It's awfully hot in there.")
Though my companion and myself had lived in New York for many
years, neither of us had been to Bedloe Island. But both of us had
visited the Falls. The absurd humanness of this was amusing to us
all; to my companion and me it was encouraging as well, for it
seemed to give us ground for hope that, in our visits to strange
places, we might see things which the people living in those places
fail to see.
When, after finishing our smoke, we went back to our seats, the
being across the way began to make believe to read again. But now
and then, when some one passed, she would look up and make
believe she wished to see who it might be. And always, after doing
so, she let her eyes trail casually in our direction ere they sought the
page again. And always we were thankful.
As the train slowed down for Rochester we saw her rise and get into
her slinky little coat. The porter came and took her Russia leather
bag. Meanwhile we hoped she would be generous enough to look
once more before she left the car. Only once more!
But she would not. I think she had a feeling that frivolity should
cease at Rochester; for Rochester, we somehow sensed, was home
to her. At all events she simply turned and undulated from the car.
That was too much! Enough of make-believe! With one accord we
swung our chairs to face the window. As she appeared upon the
platform our noses almost touched the windowpane and our eyes
sent forth forlorn appeals. She knew that we were there, yet she
walked by without so much as glancing at us.
We saw a lean old man trot up to her, throw one arm about her
shoulders, and kiss her warmly on the cheek. Her father—there was
no mistaking that. They stood there for a moment on the platform
talking eagerly; and as they talked they turned a little bit, so that we
saw her smiling up at him.
Then, to our infinite delight, we noticed that her eyes were slipping,
slipping. First they slipped down to her
 What scenes these black, pathetic people
had passed through—were passing through!
Why did they not look up in wonderment?
father's necktie. Then sidewise to his shoulder, where they fluttered
for an instant, while she tried to get them under control. But they
weren't the kind of eyes which are amenable. They got away from
her and, with a sudden leap, flashed up at us across her father's
shoulder! The minx! She even flung a smile! It was just a little smile
—not one of her best—merely the fragment of a smile, not good
enough for father, but too good to throw away.
Well—it was not thrown away. For it told us that she knew our lives
had been made brighter by her presence—and that she didn't mind
a bit.

Pushing on toward Buffalo as night was falling, my companion and I

discussed the fellow travelers who had most engaged our notice: the
young engineer from Buffalo, keen and alive, with a quick eye for
the funny side of things; the hairless amorist; the genial bore, whose
wife (we told ourselves) got very tired of him sometimes, but loved
him just because he was so good; the pretty girl, who couldn't make
her eyes behave because she was a pretty girl. We guessed what
kind of house each one resided in, the kind of furniture they had,
the kind of pictures on the walls, the kind of books they read—or
didn't read. And I believed that we guessed right. Did we not even
know what sort of underwear encased the ample figure of the man
with the amazing memory of unessential things? And, while touching
on this somewhat delicate subject, were we not aware that if the
alluring being who left the train, and us, at Rochester possessed the
once-so-necessary garment called a petticoat, that petticoat was
hanging in her closet?
All this I mention because the thought occurred to me then (and it
has kept recurring since) that places, no less than persons, have
characters and traits and habits of their own. Just as there are
colorless people there are colorless communities. There are
communities which are strong, self-confident, aggressive; others lazy
and inert. There are cities which are cultivated; others which crave
"culture" but take "culturine" (like some one drinking from the wrong
bottle); and still others almost unaware, as yet, that esthetic things
exist. Some cities seem to fairly smile at you; others are glum and
worried like men who are ill, or oppressed with business troubles.
And there are dowdy cities and fashionable cities—the latter
resembling one another as fashionable women do. Some cities seem
to have an active sense of duty, others not. And almost all cities, like
almost all people, appear to be capable alike of baseness and
nobility. Some cities are rich and proud like self-made millionaires;
others, by comparison, are poor. But let me digress here to say that,
though I have heard mention of "hard times" at certain points along
my way, I don't believe our modern generation knows what hard
times really are. To most Americans the term appears to signify that
life is hard indeed on him who has no motor car or who goes
without champagne at dinner.

My contacts with many places and persons I shall mention in the

following chapters have, of necessity, been brief. I have hardly more
than glimpsed them as I glimpsed those fellow travelers on the train.
Therefore I shall merely try to give you some impressions, from a
sort of mental sketchbook, of the things which I have seen and done
and heard. There is one point in particular about that sketchbook: in
it I have reserved the right to set down only what I pleased. It has
been hard to do that sometimes. People have pulled me this way
and that, telling me what to see and what not to see, what to write
and what to leave out. I have been urged, for instance, to write
about the varied industries of Cleveland, the parks of Milwaukee,
and the enormous red apples of Louisiana, Mo. I may come to the
apples later on, for I ate a number of them and enjoyed them; but
the varied industries of Cleveland and the Milwaukee parks I did not
eat.
I claim the further right to ignore, when I desire to, the most
important things, or to dwell with loving pen upon the unimportant.
Indeed, I reserve all rights—even to the right to be perverse.
Thus I shall mention things which people told me not to mention:
the droll Detroit Art Museum; the comic chimney rising from the
center of a Grand Rapids park; horrendous scenes in the Chicago
stockyards; the Free Bridge, standing useless over the river at St.
Louis for want of an approach; the "wettest block"—a block full of
saloons, which marks the dead line between "wet" Kansas City, Mo.,
and "dry" Kansas City, Kas. (I never heard about that block until a
stranger wrote and told me not to mention it.)
As for statistics, though I have been loaded with them to the point
of purchasing another trunk, I intend to use them as sparingly as
possible. And every time I use them I shall groan.
 CHAPTER II
BIFURCATED BUFFALO

Alighting from the train at Buffalo, I was reminded of my earlier

reflection that railway stations should express their cities. In Buffalo
the thought is painful. If that city were in fact, expressed by its
present railway stations, people would not get off there voluntarily;
they would have to be put off. And yet, from what I have been told,
the curious and particularly ugly relic which is the New York Central
Station there, to-day, does tell a certain story of the city. Buffalo has
long been torn by factional quarrels—among them a protracted fight
as to the location of a modern station for the New York Central
Lines. The East Side wants it; the West Side wants it. Neither has it.
The old station still stands—at least it was standing when I left
Buffalo, for I was very careful not to bump it with my suit case.
This difference of opinion between the East Side and the West with
regard to the placing of a station is, I am informed, quite typical of
Buffalo. Socially, commercially, religiously, politically, the two sides
disagree. The dividing line between them, geographically, is not, as
might be supposed, Division Street. (That, by the way, is a
peculiarity of highways called "Division Street" in most cities—they
seldom divide anything more important than one row of buildings
from another.) The real street of division is called Main.
Main Street! How many American towns and cities have used that
name, and what a stupid name it is! It is as characterless as a
number, and it lacks the number's one excuse for being. If names
like Tenth Street or Eleventh Avenue fail to kindle the imagination
they do not fail, at all events, to help the stranger find his way—
although it should be added that strangers do, somehow, manage to
find their way about in London, Paris, and even Boston, where the
modern American system of numbering streets and avenues is not in
vogue. But I am not agitating against the numbering of streets.
Indeed, I fear I rather believe in it, as I believe in certain other dull
but useful things like work and government reports. What I am
crying out about is the stupid naming of such streets as carry
names. Why do we have so many Main Streets? Do you think we
lack imagination? Then look at the names of Western towns and
Kansas girls and Pullman cars! The thing is an enigma.
Main Street is not only a bad name for a thoroughfare; the quality
which it implies is unfortunate. And that quality may be seen in Main
Street, Buffalo. On an exaggerated scale that street is like the Main
Street of a little town, for the business district, the retail shopping
district, all the city's activities string along on
 We made believe we wanted to go out and
smoke. And as we left our seats she made
believe she didn't know that we were going
either side. It is bad for a city to grow in that elongated way just as
it is bad for a human being. To either it imparts a kind of gawky
awkwardness.
The development of Main Street, Buffalo, has been natural. That is
just the trouble; it has been too natural. Originally it was the
Iroquois trail; later the route followed by the stages coming from the
East. So it has grown up from log-cabin days. It is a fine, broad
street; all that it lacks is "features." It runs along its wide,
monotonous way until it stops in the squalid surroundings of the
river; and if the river did not happen to be there to stop it, it would
go on and on developing, indefinitely, and uninterestingly, in that
direction as well as in the other.
The thing which Buffalo lacks physically is a recognizable center; a
point at which a stranger would stop, as he stops in Piccadilly Circus
or the Place de l'Opéra, and say to himself with absolute assurance:
"Now I am at the very heart of the city." Every city ought to have a
center, and every center ought to signify in its spaciousness, its
arrangement and its architecture, a city's dignity. Buffalo is,
unfortunately, far from being alone in her need of such a thing.
Where Buffalo is most at fault is that she does not even seem to be
thinking of municipal distinction. And very many other cities are.
Cleveland is already attaining it in a manner which will be
magnificent; Chicago has long planned and is slowly executing;
Denver has work upon a splendid municipal center well under way;
so has San Francisco; St. Louis, Milwaukee, and Grand Rapids have
plans for excellent municipal improvements. Even St. Paul is waking
up and widening an important business street.

Every one knows that what is called "a wave of reform" has swept
across the country, but not every one seems to know that there is
also surging over the United States a "wave" of improved public
taste. I shall write more of this later. Suffice it now to say that it
manifests itself in countless forms: in municipal improvements of the
kind of which the Cleveland center is, perhaps, the best example in
the country; in architecture of all classes; in household furniture and
decoration; in the tendency of art museums to realize that modern
American paintings are the finest modern paintings obtainable in the
world to-day; in the tendency of private art collectors not to buy
quite so much rubbish as they have bought in the past; in the