HUDSON RIVER.
Here we are met again, all booted and spurred, and ready for another journey. Come, let us make the most of our time on this mundane sphere, for verily we are but two of the automata of the great moving panorama which is so rapidly hastening o’er its surface—two of the unnumbered millions who, lifted from our cradles, are hurrying with like equal haste towards the great dark curtain of the future, where, drawing its gloomy folds aside, we shall pass behind and disappear for ever. Therefore let us hasten; for though some of us complacently imagine that we are bound on our own special road and chosen journey, yet, surely we are but travelling the path which has been marked out for us by an all-seeing Providence; and though, like soldiers, we may be marching, as we suppose, to good billets and snug quarters, yet perhaps, before the day’s route be closed, we shall be plunged into the centre of the battle-field, with sad curtailment of our history. Tempus fugit! Therefore let us hasten, for, in a few short years, some modern Hamlet o’er our tomb-stones thus shall moralize: “Here be two fellows tucked up right cosily in their lastquarters, ‘at their heads a grass-green turf, and at their heels a stone.’ Humph! for all their stillness, I warrant me, they’ve strutted their mimic stage, and flaunted with the best; they’ve had their ups and downs, their whims and fancies, their schemes and projects, their loves and hates,—have been elated with vast imaginings, and depressed to the very ocean’s depths; and now their little day and generation passed, they’re settled to their rest. The school-boy astride on one’s memento, with muddy heels kicks out his epitaph, while the other’s name is barely visible among the thistle’s aspiring tops,—yet both alike have rendered, with the whole human family, the same brief epitome of history. ‘They laughed—they groaned—they wept—and here they are,’ for such are but the features of bright, confiding youth, stern manhood’s trials, and imbecile old age.” And this same sage Hamlet’s right; therefore, without more ado, let us get us on our travels.
So, here we are in the Jerseys. Nowwestwardshall lie our course. Here come the cars. Quick—jump in—here is a good seat, close by the old gentleman in the India-rubber cape. Ding, ding—ding, ding. There goes the bell. Shwist, shwist. We are off. Clank—jirk—click—click—clickety—click—click. Here we go. We fly over the bridges, and through the tunnels; the rail fences spin by us in ribands; the mile-stones play leap-frog; the abutments dash by us. Screech! the cattle jumplike mad out of our way. Already at Jersey City? We paddle across. Ay, here we are, just in time, on board the “Swallow.” What a pandemonium of racket, and noise, and confusion! Steam yelling, bells ringing, boys and negroes bawling, porters and hackmen hurrying.—“Get out of my way, you dirty little baboon, with your papers.”—“Thank you, madam, no oranges.”—“All aboard.”—Tinkle, tinkle.—The walking-beam rises, the heavy wheels splash.—We shoot out into the stream.—We make a graceful curve, and, simultaneously with five other steamers, stretch like race-horses up the majestic Hudson.
How beautifully the Narrows and the Ocean open to our view, and the noble bay, studded with its islands, and fortresses, and men-of-war, “tall, high admirals,” with frowning batteries and chequered sides. In what graceful amity float the nations’ emblems—the Tricolour, the Red Cross, the Black Eagle, the Stars and Stripes. But we take the lead. Fire up—fire up, engineer,—her namesake cuts the air not more swiftly than our fleet boat her element. Still as a mirror lies the tranquil water. The dark pallisades above us, with fringed and picturesque outline, are reflected on its polished surface; and the lordly sloops, see how lazily they roll and pitch on the long undulating swell made by our progress, their scarlet pennons quivering on its surface as it regains its smoothness.
How rich and verdant extend thy shores, delightfulriver! Oh! kindly spirit—Crayon, Diedrick, Irving, whate’er we call thee,—with what delightful Indian summer of rustic story, of dreamy legend, hast thou invested them? Lo! as we slide along, what moving panorama presents itself? Phlegmatic Mynheers, in sleepy Elysium, evolve huge smoke-wreaths of the fragrant weed as they watch thy placid stream. Blooming Katrinas, budding like roses out of their boddices, coquette with adoring Ichabods,—sturdy, broad-breeched beaux, sound “boot and saddle.” Roaring Broms dash along on old Gun-powders. Headless horsemen thunder onwards through Haunted hollows—heads on saddle-bow. Dancing, laughing negroes—irate, rubicund trumpeters—huge Dutch merry-makings—groaning feasts, and loafing, hen-pecked Rips, pass in review before us. And now, as we open the Tappan Zee, see! see Old Hendrick,—see the old fellow in his scarlet cloak, his gallant hanger, cocked-hat, and many-buttoned breeches—see how the huge clouds of smoke, encircling his nose, float upwards, as, seated on his lofty poop, he sluggishly lays his course. See the old Dutchman—no—stop! stop!—’tis but a creature of thy fantasy, floating in the setting sunlight. Oh! historian of Columbus, with thy fellow-spirit, him of the “North Star,” and the “Evening Wind,” gently, yet sorrowfully you float above the miasma clouds of gain, that in their poisonous wreaths envelope your countrymen. In the evening twilightthy beacon, Stony Point, throws far its streaming rays o’er the darkening scenery, different, I ween, when mid midnight mist and stillness, mid cannon-blaze and roar, “Mad Anthony’s” attacking columns simultaneously struck the flag-staff in thy centre. The sparks stream rocket-like from our chimneys, as we enter your dark embrace, ye Highlands! Hark! the roll of the drum, as we round the bend—thy beautiful plateau, West Point, with its gallant spirits, is above us. Success to thee, school of the brave! Engineers for her hours of peace, soldiers in war to lead her armies, dost thou furnish to thy country—brave, enduring men. When fell thy sons other than in the battle’s front? when in the fiercest danger were they found recreant? Aye, well may Echo answer “When?”
The thunder of thy bowling balls, Old Hudson, we hear as we pass the gorges of the Catskill. Hyde Park, thou glancest by us—the villas of the Rensselaers and Livingstons flit ’mid their green trees,—thy cottages, oh Kinderhook—the Overslaugh—rush by us, and now we are at Albany. Albany, Rochester, Utica, by smoaking steam-car, we are delivered from you. Auburn, we breathe among thy shady walks—and now, for a moment, Buffalo, we rest with thee. All hail to thee, thou city of the Bison Bull! Great caravansera and resting-place of coming nations! Byzantium of the future—hail! As on a quay shall meet hereafter, through the Lawrence and the Oregon, thehardy seamen of the Atlantic and Pacific, the Otaheitean and the fair-haired Swede; while the bronzed trapper, the savage Blackfoot, the greasy Esquimaux, and half-civilized voyageur, shall mingle with astonishment and admiration on thy busy marts. Hail! hail! to thee, thou city of the desert lord, all hail!