CHAPTER II.
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.
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 undisputedpossession 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 massesof 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 “nighon to SleepyHollow,” 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 torridcircle. 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 11P.M., we shall not be in till 1 or 1.30A.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; forthough 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 thepurely 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 theice, 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. Morecitizens 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 diamondper 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 beardà laRowdy 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 indiscreetin 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 4A.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, andsought 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. Thereare 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 lordsin 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 theNew York Times, who, in spite of or perhaps in consequence of the opposition of theCaledonian 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.