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NEWBURG stands upon a pretty acclivity, rising with a sharp ascent
from the west bank of the Hudson; and in point of trade and consequence,
it is one of the first towns on the river. In point of scenery Newburg
is as felicitously placed, perhaps, as any other spot in the world,
having in its immediate neighborhood every element of natural
loveliness,—and just below, the sublime and promising Pass of the
Highlands. From the summit of the acclivity, the view over Matteawan and
Fishkill is full of beauty,—the deep flow of the Hudson lying between,
and the pretty villages just named sparkling with their white buildings
and cheerful steeples beyond.
Newburg has a considerable trade with the back country, and steamboats
are running constantly between its pier and New York. If there were
wanting an index of the wondrous advance of enterprise and invention in
our country, we need not seek further than this simple fact,—a small
intermediate town, on one river, supporting such an amount of expensive
navigation. About seventy years ago Fulton made his first experiment in
steam on the Hudson, amid the unbelief and derision of the whole
country. Let any one stand for one hour on the pier at Newburg, and see
those superb and swift palaces of motion shoot past, one after the
other, like gay and chasing meteors, and then read poor Fulton’s account
of his first experiment,—and never again throw discouragement on the
kindling fire of genius.
“When I was building my first steam-boat,” said he to Judge Story, “the
project was viewed by the public at New York either with indifference or
contempt, as a visionary scheme. My friends, indeed, were civil, but
they were shy. They listened with patience to my explanations, but with
a settled cast of incredulity on their countenances. I felt the full
force of the lamentation of the poet,—
“‘Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land?—
All shun, none aid you, and few understand.’
“As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the building-yard while my
boat was in progress, I have often loitered, unknown, near the idle
groups of strangers gathering in little circles, and heard various
inquiries as to the object of this new vehicle. The language was
uniformly that of scorn, sneer, or ridicule. The loud laugh rose at my
expense, the dry jest, the wise calculation of losses and expenditure,
the dull but endless repetition of ‘_the Fulton folly_.’ Never did a
single encouraging remark, a bright hope, or a warm wish, cross my path.
“At length the day arrived when the experiment was to be made. To me it
was a most trying and interesting occasion. I wanted many friends to go
on board to witness the first successful trip. Many of them did me the
favor to attend, as a matter of personal respect; but it was manifest
they did it with reluctance, fearing to be partners of my mortification
and not of my triumph. I was well aware that in my case there were many
reasons to doubt of my own success. The machinery was new and ill-made,
and many parts of it were constructed by mechanics unacquainted with
such work; and unexpected difficulties might reasonably be presumed to
present themselves from other causes. The moment arrived in which the
word was to be given for the vessel to move. My friends were in groups
on the deck. There was anxiety mixed with fear among them; they were
silent, sad, and weary; I read in their looks nothing but disaster, and
almost repented of my efforts. The signal was given, and the boat moved
on a short distance, and then stopped and became immovable. To the
silence of the preceding moment now succeeded murmurs of discontent and
agitation, and whispers and shrugs. I could hear distinctly repeated, ‘I
told you so! It is a foolish scheme; I wish we were well out of it.’ I
elevated myself on a platform, and stated that I knew not what was the
matter; but if they would be quiet, and indulge me for half an hour, I
would either go on or abandon the voyage. I went below, and discovered
that a slight maladjustment was the cause. It was obviated. The boat
went on. We left New York; we passed through the Highlands; we reached
Albany! Yet even then imagination superseded the force of fact. _It was
doubted if it could be done again, or if it could be made, in any case,
of any great value!_”
What an affecting picture of the struggles of a great mind, and what a
vivid lesson of encouragement to genius, is contained in this simple
narrative!
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