To the Station--Stars and Stripes--Crowd at Station--Train impeded
by Snow--Classic ground--“Manhattan”--“Yonkers”--Fellow-travellers
and their ways--“Beauties of the Hudson”--West Point: their
education, &c.--Large Towns on the banks of the Hudson--Arrive at
East Albany--Delavan House--Beds at a premium--Aspect of Albany
not impressive--Sights--The Legislature.
As we drove over the execrable snow-heaps to the station, the
streets seemed to me unusually dreary. The vast Union flags which
flapped in the cold air, now dulled and dim, showed but their great
bars of blood, and the stars had faded out into darkness.
Apropos of the stripes and stars, I may say I never could meet
any one in the States able to account for the insignia, though it
has been suggested that they are an amplification of the heraldic
bearing of George Washington. Strange indeed if the family blazon
of an English squire should have become the flaunting flag of the
Great Republic, which with all its faults has done so much for the
world, and may yet, purged of its vanity, arrogance, and aggressive
tendency, do so much more for mankind! Not excepting our own, it
is the most widely-spread flag on the seas; for whilst it floats
by the side of the British ensign in every haunt of our commerce,
it has almost undisputed possession of vast tracts of sea in the
Pacific and South Atlantic.
At last we got to the end of our very unpleasant journey, and
approached the York and Albany Terminus, over an alpine concrete
of snow-heaps, snow-holes, and street-rails. At the station my
coach-driver affectionately seized my hand, and bade me good-bye
with a cordiality which might have arisen from the sensitiveness
of touch in his palm as much as from personal affection. The
terminus was crowded with citizens (eating apples, lemon-drops,
and gingerbread-nuts, and reading newspapers) and a few men in
soldier’s uniform, going north--only one or two of what one
calls in Europe gentlemen or ladies, but all well-dressed and
well-behaved, if they would only spare the hissing stoves and the
feelings of prejudiced foreigners.
The train, with more punctuality than we usually observe in such
matters, started to the minute, but only went ten yards or so, and
then halted for nearly half an hour--no one knew why, and no one
seemed to care, except a gentleman who was going, he said, to get
his friend, “the Honourable Something Raymond, to do something
for him at Albany,” and was rather in a hurry. When the engine
renewed the active exercise of its powers, the pace was slow and
the motion was jerking and uneven, owing to snow on the rails, and
the obstacles increased as the train left the shelter of the low
long-stretching suburb which clings to it, and is dragged, as it
were, out of the city with it along the bank of the Hudson. But
even 181st and 182nd streets abandoned their attempts to keep up
with the rail; and all that could be seen of civilisation were
sundry chimneys and walls and uncouth dark masses of wood or brick
rising above the snow. The lights in the wooden stations shone out
frostily through the dimmed windows as we struggled on.
We were passing through at night what is to Americans classic
ground, in spite of odd names: for here is “Manhattan” (associated
in my mind for ever with a man who, unfortunately for himself
and me, had a wooden leg, as he planted the iron ferule of that
insensible member on the only weak point of my weaker foot)--and
next is “Yonkers,” where a lady once lived with whom Washington was
once in love, and several “fights” took place all around, in which
the Americans were more often beaten than victorious;--“Dobb’s
Ferry” “Tarrytown” (poor André! let those who wish to know all that
can be known of the “spy” read Mr. Sargent’s life of him, published
in Philadelphia), which is “nigh on to Sleepy Hollow,” where Mr.
Diedrich Knickerbocker had such a remarkable interview with the
ancient Hollander;--“Sing Sing,” where many gentlemen, not so well
known to fame, have interviews of a less agreeable character with
modern American authorities. We are passing, too, by Sunnyside,
where Washington Irving lived. I would rather have seen him than
all the remarkable politicians in the States--old Faneuil, or
Bunker’s Hill, or all the wonders of the great nation; though I am
told he was unbearably prosy and sleepy of late days.
Cold and colder it becomes as we creep on, and slower creaks the
train with its motley freight. The men round the stoves “fire up”
till the iron glows and gives out the heated air to those who
can stand it, and an unsavoury odour, as of baked second-hand
clothing, and a hissing noise to those beyond the torrid circle.
The slamming of the door never ceases. Sometimes it is a conductor,
sometimes it is not. But no matter who makes the disturbance,
he has a right to do so. No one can sleep on account of that
abominable noise, even if he could court slumber in a seat which is
provided with a rim to hurt his back if he reclines, and a ridge to
smite his face if he leans forward. Apples and water and somebody’s
lemon-drops are in demand; and vendors of vegetable ivory furtively
deposit specimens of ingenious manufacture but inscrutable purpose
in the lap of the unoffending stranger, who in his sleepy state
often falls a victim to these artifices, and finds himself called
on to pay several dollars for quaint products of the carver, which
he has unduly detained in his unconsciousness.
The train arrives at Poughkeepsie, seventy-five miles from New
York, an hour and a half late. We hear that, instead of reaching
Albany at 10.30 or 11 P.M., we shall not be in till 1 or 1.30 A.M.,
and will “lose communications;” therefore we eat in desperation
at refreshment-rooms large oysters boiled in milk out of small
basins. In the night once more. We have passed West Point long
since, and an enthusiastic child of nature, who has been pointing
out to me the “beauties of the Hudson,” which is flowing down under
its mail of ice close to our left, has gone to sleep among the
fire-worshippers at the stove.
Now, the fact is, that scenery under snow is, I may safely affirm,
very like beauty under a mask, or a fine figure in a waterproof
blanket. The hills were mere snow-mounds, and the lines of all
objects were fluffy and indistinct; and I was glad my eulogistic
friend slept at last. West Point I longed to see; for though its
success in turning out great generals has as yet not been very
remarkable, I had met too many excellent specimens of its handiwork
in making good officers and pleasant gentlemen not to feel a desire
to have purview of the institution. Had I not heard a live general
sing “Benny Haven, ho!”--had I not seen Mordecai sitting at the
gate of Pelissier in vain, and McClellan and Delafield engaged in
a geological inquiry on the remains of the siege of Sebastopol?
Above all, does not West Point promise to become something like
a military academy, in a country such as America is likely to be
after the war?
It is a mistake rather common in England, and in Europe, to suppose
that a majority, or even a minority, of the American generals
are civilians. With very few exceptions indeed, they have either
been some time at West Point, or have graduated there. In a
country which has no established lines to mark the difference of
classes, which nevertheless exists there as elsewhere, there is a
positive social elevation acquired by any man who has graduated
at West Point; and if he has taken a high degree, he is regarded
in his State as a man of mark, whose services must be secured for
the military organisation and public service in the militia or
volunteers.
There is no country in the world where so many civilians have
received their education in military academies without any view
to a military career. There are of course many “generals” and
“colonels” of States troops who have had no professional training,
but not nearly so many as might be imagined.
But the great defect under which American officers laboured
until this unhappy war broke out, was the purely empirical and
theoretical state of their knowledge. They had no practical
experience. The best of them had only such knowledge as they could
have gleaned in the Mexican war. A man whose head was full of
Jomini was sent off to command a detachment in a frontier fort, and
to watch marauding Indians, for long years of his life, and never
saw a regiment in the field. As to working the three arms together
creditably in the field, I doubt if there is an officer in the
whole army who could do it anything like so well as the Duke of
Cambridge, or as an Aldershot or Curragh brigadier.
It would be hard for any Englishman to be indifferent to the
advantages of military training in a country where every village
around could have told tale’s of the helpless, hopeless blundering
which characterised the operations of the British generals
hereabouts in the War of Independence. Deflecting thus, too, I felt
less inclined to wonder at the mistakes made by the Federals, and
by the Confederates. Had the British generals proved more lucky and
skilful, should we now have been passing the towns which cluster on
the banks of the Hudson, or would “monarchy” have impeded the march
of life, commerce, and civilisation out here?
Towns of 5,000, 10,000, 20,000, and even of 30,000 inhabitants
rise on the margin of the fine river, which in summer presents,
I am assured, a scene of charming variety and animation, and in
autumn is fringed by the most beautiful of all beautiful American
landscapes, surcharged with the glorious colours of that lovely
season. Through the darkness by the bright starlight we could see
the steamboats locked fast in the ice, like knights in proof,
awaiting the signal to set them free for the charge. But, ah me!
how weary it was!--how horrible the stoves! At last and at last the
train stopped, and finally deposited us at three o’clock in the
morning on the left bank of the Hudson, at East Albany.
The city proper lies on the opposite shore of the river; and I
got, as I was directed, into a long low box called the omnibus,
which was soon crowded with passengers. In a few minutes we were
off. Then I was made aware that the ’bus was a sleigh, and that
it was on runners and---- Just at that moment the machine made a
headlong plunge, like a ship going down by the bows at sea, and
in an instant more had pierced the depths of darkness, and with a
crashing scrunching bump touched the bottom. “We’re on the river
now, I guess,” quoth one. And so it was. We had shot down the bank,
which must be higher than one would like to leap, even on snow, and
were now rolling, squeaking, and jerking over the frozen river,
amid the groans and shrieks and grumbling protests of the ice,
which seemed in some places to give way as if it were going to let
us down bodily, and in others to rise up in strong ridges to baffle
the horses’ efforts. Then, after a most disagreeable drive, which
seemed half-an-hour long--and about thrice as long as it really
was, I suppose--a prodigious effort of horse muscle and whipping,
and of manual labour, accomplished the ascent of the other bank,
and the vehicle passed through the deserted streets of Albany--the
capital of the great State of New York--to the Delavan House, which
was open to receive but not to entertain us. A rush of citizens was
made to “the office” of the hotel. More citizens followed out of
fast-arriving vehicles from the train--for there was no means of
getting on till the forenoon--and all went perforce to the Delavan
House.
The hotel office consisted of a counter with a raised desk,
enclosing a man with a gold chain, a diamond stuck in the front
of a dress shirt--not as pin to a scarf or as a stud, but as a
diamond _per se_, after the fashion of those people and of railway
conductors in the land--his hat cocked over one eye, a toothpick
even at that hour in his mouth, a black dress suit of clothes, a
dyed moustache and beard _à la_ Rowdy Americain, and an air of
sovereign contempt for his customers. The crowd pressed around
and hurled volleys of questions--“Can we have beds, sir?” &c. But
the man of Delavan House replied not. To all their entreaties he
returned not a word. But he did take out a great book and spread it
on the counter, and putting a pen in the ink he handed it to the
citizen nearest, who signed himself and his State, and asked meekly
“if he could have a bed at once, as he was so” &c. To him the man
of Delavan House deigned no reply. The pen was handed to another,
who signed, and so on--the arbiter of our destinies watching
each inscription with the air of an attorney’s clerk who takes
signatures to an attestation.
There were at least fifty people to sign before me, and I heard
from a waiter there were only ten beds--which on the most ample
allowance would only accommodate some thirty people--vacant. Were
the Britishers to be beaten? Never! Leaving our luggage, we dashed
out into the snow. And lo! a house nigh at hand, with lights and
open doors. A black waiter sallied out at the tramp of feet in the
hall. He told us, “De rooms all tuk, sar.” He was told to be less
indiscreet in his assertions, and all the time of colloquy the
invading Celts and Saxons pushed onwards and upwards to the first
landing. Here were doors standing open. We entered one. Three small
rooms--beds empty! no luggage! This will do. “Massa, dis room’s all
----” “You be quiet!” And the luggage was dragged over by our own
right hands, eventually aided by the Ethiop.
I had the satisfaction, as I was gliding away with my hat-box,
to hear the man of Delavan House reading the book of fate, and
selecting his victims at his grim pleasure. In fact, the house on
which we had stumbled was a sort of succursal to the hotel; and the
proprietor, afraid of offending so mighty a potentate, was shocked
at the idea of letting in any one without his leave. What became of
the victims I know not, but I do know that the beds--though we went
to them supperless--of the humble hostelry were very grateful.
I went to bed about 4 A.M., with the fixed intention of getting
up early and visiting the capitol, when I could have seen with
these eyes the glories of the Hon. ---- Raymond as Speaker in
the State Hall, and have heard something more of the interesting
proceedings against a New York alderman, who accused senators and
representatives of being accessible as Danaë to the golden shower,
and even to greenbacks.
No man can see the real merits of a city in snow. I shall repeat
the remark no more; therefore if I say I don’t like a place, let
the snow bear the blame: but Albany did not impress me when I did
get up, and the sight of the State Capitol at the top of a steep
street was so utterly depressing, that I abandoned my resolve, and
sought less classic ground. What have not these Greeks to answer
for in this new land?
There was a comforting contrast to the hideous domes and mock
porticoes, and generally to the ugliness of the public buildings,
in the solid unpretentious look of the old Dutch-built houses of
private citizens. Though there is an aspect of decadence about
Albany, it seems more, far more respectable and gentlemanly than
its smug, smirking, meretricious but overwhelming rival, New York.
I was informed by an American that it was called after the second
name in the title of James the Second, before he ascended the
throne. “Bad as the Stuarts were to you, they were a great deal
better for the colonies,” said he, “than your Hanover House, and
perhaps if you hadn’t changed them you might not have lost us.” It
was curious to hear an American saying a good word for the luckless
house, though I am by no means of the opinion that England could
ever have ruled colonies which were saturated with the principles
of self-government.
It was too cold at such a season as this for philosophical research
in a sleigh, and too slippery for sauntering; and we were whirled
out of the State capital without seeing much of it, except church
steeples, and some decent streets, and the ice-bound river studded
with hard-set steamers.
There are, however, in summer time, as I hear, and can well
imagine, many fine sights to be seen. There is the Fall of Cohoes,
where the Mohawk River, a stream of greater body than the Thames
at Richmond, leaps full seventy feet down into a gulf, whence it
collects itself to pursue its course to the Hudson. There are
Shaker settlements, and many communities of “isms” and astounding
congregations of “ists;” and there are clean Dutch streets, and
Dutch tenures and customs to this day. With the tenures, however,
the rule of the majority has made rough work; and the lords _in
capite_, or padroons, have suffered pauperisation by the simple
process of nonpayment of their rents.
The Legislature is now in solemn conclave. They are investigating
charges implied in the speech of a New York alderman, who declared
he could get any measure passed he liked, by paying the members--of
course extra-officially, because the payment, _per se_, could
only be an agreeable addition to their income. The Speaker is Mr
Raymond, of the _New York Times_, who, in spite of or perhaps in
consequence of the opposition of the _Caledonian Cleon_, his rival,
was elected to that high office. It was in course of conversation
with an American gentleman respecting the election, that I learned
there was no more certain way of succeeding in any contest in the
State, than to obtain the abuse of the organ under that person’s
control. Be it senator, mayor, or common-councilman, the candidate
he favours is lost, for all respectable people instinctively vote
against him.