June 15th, 1840.
My dear E.—We shall of course remain in Albany during the Sabbath for the pleasure of worshipping that kind Friend, who has showered upon us the blessings we are now enjoying. In the morning we walked to the church of a Baptist clergyman, Mr. W——h, who has been long celebrated as a very interesting preacher. This church is a handsome marble structure, surmounted by a dome, and adorned by a colonade of pillars in front. The lecture room is below, and we ascended to the chapel, a neat apartment with a good pulpit and commodious seats. Mr. W. sprang from an obscure station, being a mechanic, and therefore could only obtain a common education. What he is, he has made himself, or rather was made by the Holy Spirit; for we all know how religion refines and elevates the intellect of man, as well as his affections. After his conversion he rapidly improved, and now one is astonished at the beauty and purity of his language. He is not an animated preacher, nor does his forte lie in arousing a sinner; but he shows forth the truth and beauty of religion, and expounds the Gospel doctrines with a power and grace, and clearness, which fascinate the hearer. This church is always crowded by the elite of Albanian society of all sects, and by the strangers who are in the city.
In the afternoon we attended service in an old Dutch church, one of the oldest in the city. It is built of brick, and boasts two spires which give it a singular appearance. The interior is richly fitted up, with gilded chandeliers and many comforts and elegant conveniences. Here we found ourselves surrounded by the old Dutch families, whose fathers emigrated from Holland and settled themselves here; among them were the family of the Patroon. I looked around with pleasure upon the sober benevolent faces of the congregation, for I have always felt a very kindly sentiment toward our Dutch brethren. The peaceful, even tenor of their lives; their contented spirit, their industry and integrity entitle them to our most ‘golden opinions.’ The Rev. Mr. Y——, who officiates here, is an able, solid, preacher, well versed in the fundamental truths of christianity.
I am happy to say, the people of this city, are a very moral and religious people. This applies also to the ‘first society’—which is a singularity in city history. Beneath their influence theatres, dissipation, and extravagance cannot thrive. Already I seem to breathe freer, although so little distant from New York; whose atmosphere, rank with foreign luxuries, is like a hot house over-crowded by fragrant exotics; stifling us with perfume.
We admire this city, which however we have only been able to see in our odds and ends of time. Its situation is very fine, it contains many handsome buildings, and it is generally kept very neat. A broad street through the centre leads up to a pretty square, surrounded by several imposing buildings—the Capitol occupies a fine position here; it is of dark stone, with a neat marble portico supported by four ionic columns. The City Hall on the opposite side of the square, is a noble edifice, built of white marble from the quarries of Sing Sing, surmounted by a gilded dome. The view from this dome is beautiful; embracing the city at your feet—green hilly country, dotted with country seats and towns, among which is the city of Troy—the noble Hudson, winding among this country and a back ground of mountains. The new State Hall is a pretty building—the Exchange, is a huge mass of granite, giving one a great idea of the extent of business which requires so large a structure for its merchants.
What a different place is this to the town which stood upon this two hundred years since. Then the only public building was a quaint old Dutch church, with painted glass windows; adorned with the coat of arms of those ancient worthies, who, clad in trunk hose and steeple crowned hats, sat demurely below. There are but few of the ancient Dutch houses left, and these are daily falling before the yankee spirit of improvement—which improvement by the bye sometimes merely amounts to alteration. At this city is the southern termination of the great Erie Canal.
LETTER III.
June 17th, 1840.
My dear E.—We arose at an early hour, and after looking into some of the public buildings we returned to breakfast, This dispatched, we drove to the rail road depot, an ugly building at the head of State Street where we alighted and stood in a large barn-like apartment, among men and trunks and boys—the latter screaming, Albany Argus’—‘Evening Journal!’—and among all sorts of confusion, until we were seated in the cars. Soon however, two fine horses, to whom I render my thanks, dragged us out of the barn into open day—up through the square, over the hill, to the Locomotive Depot, giving us on the way many sweet little back views of Albany and its pretty country and river, and the round tops of the Catskills in the blue distance beyond. The snort of a steampipe, and perfume of grease and smoke, announced the vicinity of our locomotive; and, as if to show off its paces, the engineer whirled the hideous thing back and forth before our—at least my—nil admirari eyes. Our horses were unhitched—the engine attached, and away we rushed, leaving our fine steeds gazing after us with tears in their eyes, to see themselves outdone by a great tea-kettle.
There are many pretty villas along the road; breathing places for the heated citizens below, which I would describe to you; but dashing along at sixteen miles an hour speed I can only catch a glimpse of white pillar and portico when the next minute we are three miles away. You must expect no description of the country when I am on a rail road, for the scenery is all blurred, like a bad lithograph. I only saw groups of pine trees rushing past and several bright dots which I suppose meant wild flowers when we came in sight of Schenectady, an antique dutch town. Before entering it I was struck by the vision of two immense tarred ropes walking deliberately beside our car, and discovered we were upon an inclined plain, descending which, cars of stone were brought up at the other end of our ropes. Our steam horse was once more exchanged for one of flesh and we set off upon a jog trot. Near the city we passed a canal basin in which lay several canal boats, for the Erie Canal passes through here. We entered the city, crossed the end of a long street filled with bright looking shops, where people and horses were frisking about in the morning air,—when another large depot received us in its barn-like expanse. The Ballston and Saratoga train entered at the other end, and you may imagine the charming confusion as the people of both trains jumped in and out the carriages, marched and counter marched until they had settled down into their several seats.