On our way to New York we travelled by railway to Albany, the capital of the State of New York, passing through Syracuse, Rome, and Utica, along the shores of Lake Ontario, although from the lowering of the ground and the abundance of trees we were unable to see the lake; thence alongside the Falls River, through very charmingly diversified country with numerous valleys going up from the waterside, well-timbered, and here and there a clearing with open green fields. The houses are in most cases mean-looking plank erections, presenting a very weather-beaten appearance, some painted a very dark red colour. In the evening we reached Albany, an old Dutch town of over two hundred years, and very Dutch-looking it is with its queer red-brick houses, wooden pavements, and trees along the streets, and frequent peeps of the river here and there. Amongst the finest public buildings are those devoted to the national schools, a true gauge of the importance the citizens attach to the education of the people. On our way to New York we had an opportunity of taking a day’s sail on the River Hudson in one of the celebrated American river-boats. Going on board we found ourselves on a veritable floating palace. The steamer was a three-decker, two of the decks being covered with splendid carpets, and fitted with arm-chairs of a most comfortable pattern, and with velvet-covered ottomans and couches in all directions. Taking up one of the books from the well-stocked bookstall I saw it purported to be one of a series of standard works by American authors, and on looking down the list I observed the names of Tennyson, Barry Cornwall, and others. Our American cousins were always great at annexation, and the only wonder is they do not call their mother tongue the “American language.”
The Americans seem anxious that everyone shall admit that the Hudson is finer than any other river in the world. I have been down the Elbe, through the Saxon Switzerland, also down the Danube and the Rhine. The Hudson is far more beautiful than the Rhine. The banks are thickly wooded, and the villages and country houses prettily situated. It is true that the Hudson lacks the romantic associations of the Rhine, but even in this respect it is not altogether wanting, for does it not possess the Catskill Mountains, with their legend of Rip Van Winkle? But I like the Danube best; its banks are loftier and more rugged, and are covered with pines, and from its comparative narrowness one can see both sides at once. Then again, the ancient towns and monasteries jutting out on the spits of land are infinitely more interesting than the wooden houses along the Hudson. Again, the Elbe, especially in the Saxon Switzerland, is decidedly more beautiful than the Hudson; but for all this the latter is a river of which a nation may well be proud, and we greatly enjoyed our sail upon it.
On a subsequent visit to the Hudson we landed at West Point, the seat of the celebrated military academy founded by Washington, where there are some hundreds of students. Our hotel was situated about two miles from the academy, and overlooked the river from an eminence of about two hundred feet. The river can be seen for some miles winding between steep banks on both sides. The morning after our arrival was a Sunday, and the church bells were ringing for service. There are two opposition churches here, but I have reason to believe they are very charitable to one another; at all events their respective bell-ringers do not believe in the jarring of the sects, for I notice that first one rings out one—two—three—four; then a decent pause, and his neighbour likewise rings out one—two—three—four, and so the celestial harmonies are not disturbed.
On the opposite bank of the river is a place historic in the annals of the Revolution, for here it was that the American General Arnold was stationed while he was carrying on his treasonable correspondence with the ill-fated Major André. Arnold was sitting at breakfast with his officers and some guests when word was brought him that André was captured as a spy by the Americans. Knowing he would surely be incriminated, Arnold pretended he was wanted below on urgent business, and, going down to Beverley landing, he ordered his men to row him to the British man-of-war lying in the river. Poor André, it will be remembered, was hanged by order of Washington. His bust was placed in Westminster Abbey; three times since then has it been mutilated by miscreants. Walking through the village we observed a mean-looking tumble-down tenement, with an equally mean-looking signboard stuck upon it, bearing this inscription:—“John Scales, Justice of the Peace, Notary Public.” His “Honour” was sitting inside, in his shirt-sleeves, with a white apron on, while behind him on a shelf were a few old dry-as-dust books, of the law I suppose. The whole place looked totally at variance with our ideas of the majesty of the law; indeed it suggested that “justice” could be had for the buying, and that no one was expected to pay much regard to the decision of such a court. On returning to the hotel I spoke of this functionary to the negro waiter, suggesting that he dealt in justice, “Yes, sah; I guess a dollar will go a long way with him,” replied he.
Ascending the mountain we came across an old man at work on the roads. He was a German, having come to America in 1841. He served in the Mexican war, and one of his sons was killed in the war against the Southern rebels. The old man said it was hard work mending roads, and that the winters were very severe, “but,” said he, “it is a free country, and that makes up for all. In Germany a man dares not open his mouth, but here one can say what one likes.”
Passing by a farmyard our curiosity was aroused by seeing the stock of poultry secured by the leg to the fence. As we had often heard in our travels in the States that this was “a great country,” we presume this was an expedient adopted to prevent the fowls straying and being lost. Of course, England being so small, such precautions are not necessary.
We returned to New York in another of the celebrated river-boats.
During my stay in the States there were two great subjects which monopolised public attention. These were the Centennial Exhibition which had just been opened: and the wave of corruption among officials and others which was sweeping over the land. More space was occupied in the Press by charges of malversation and fraud on the part of the officials, from the President down to the lowest civil service clerks, and from them through all grades of society, than with the Exhibition itself or with any other subject, while the talk in the streets seemed to be about nothing else. In alluding to the unlawful gains made in this way by many prominent citizens, a New York paper made use of a sentiment of Mark Twain to the effect that whereas in times past folks used to say “poor but honest,” now-a-days when you see a rich man who has accumulated money in a proper way it is said that he is “rich but honest.”