I do not suppose for a moment that these deceitful agencies are exercised only in the North, but am persuaded, from what I know, that the Southern people are at least as anxious for news, and as liable to be led away by suppressions of truth or distorted narratives, as those of the Free States. If we had had a telegraphic system and a newspaper press during the Wars of the Roses, or the struggle of 1645, it is probable our partisans, on both sides, would have been as open to imposture; but I do not think they would have continued long in the faith that the ever-detected impostor was still worthy of credence.
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.
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.