An exceedingly cold day was February fourth, 1875, the day which marked our journey from Boston to Albany. My inclination to step outside our car and tip my hat to the various familiar places along the route was suddenly checked by a gust of cutting, freezing, zero-stinging air. A ride of between one and two hours brought us to Worcester, a stirring town of about forty thousand inhabitants. Worcester is noted principally for its cotton factories, and as a political center in Eastern Massachusetts.

Springfield, Westfield and Pittsfield follow in succession along the route, in central and Western Massachusetts, the first of which has been made the subject of a special chapter in this book. The last I remember chiefly as the place where, in the summer of 1866, I took my first steps in a new enterprise. Pittsfield has large cotton mills, is a summer resort, and is the nearest point, by rail, to the Shaker community at Lebanon, five miles distant. At Westfield the Mount Holyoke Railroad joins the main line, and semi-annually conveys the daughters of the land to the famous Holyoke Female Seminary.

Leaving Pittsfield we soon reached the State line between New York and Massachusetts. I sometimes think that after a residence in almost every State of the Union, I ought to feel no greater attraction for my native State than any other, yet I cannot repress a sentiment of stronger affection for good, grand old New York than any other in the united sisterhood. The Empire State has indeed a charm for me, and a congenial breeze, I imagine, always awaits me at its boundary.

A ride of another hour brings to view the church spires of Albany, and with them a long line of thrilling memories come rushing, like many waters, to my mind. Here, in 1859, I entered the State Normal School; here I resolved to enter the army; and here the first edition of my first book was published, in the autumn of 1865. The work, therefore, of presenting this chapter upon the peculiar features of the Capital City of New York, may be regarded as one of the most agreeable duties I have to perform in the preparation of these pages.

The traveler now entering Albany from the east crosses the Hudson on a beautiful iron railroad bridge, which, in the steady march of improvements, has succeeded the old-time ferry boat. He is landed at the commodious stone building of the New York Central and Hudson River Railroad, which is conveniently sandwiched between the Delavan House and Stanwix Hall, two large, well known and well conducted hotels.

My first night in a city and a hotel was spent here, at the old Adams House, located at that time on Broadway just opposite the Delavan. I was awakened in the morning by the roll and rattle of vehicles, and the usual din and confusion of a city street. The contrast to my quiet home in the Valley of the St. Lawrence was so marked, I can never forget the impression I then received, and as I walked up State street toward the old Capitol, I almost fancied that such a street might be a fit road to Paradise. Albany was the gate through which I entered the world, and to my boyish vision the view it disclosed was very wide, and the grand possibilities that lay in the dim distance seemed manifold. It is the oldest city, save Jamestown, Va., in the Union, having been settled in the very babyhood of the seventeenth century, somewhere about 1612 or 1614. It was originally, until the year 1661, only a trading post on the frontier, the entire region of country to the westward being unexplored and unknown, except as the "far west." The red warriors of the Mohegans, Senecas, Mohawks and the remaining bands of the "Six Nations" held undisputed possession of the soil, and kindled their council fires and danced their "corn dances" in peace, unmolested as yet by the aggressive pale-faces.

The baptismal name of the embryo city of Albany was Scho-negh-ta-da, an Indian word meaning "over the plains." The name was afterwards transferred to the outlying suburban town now known as Schenectady. An immense tract of land bordering the Hudson for twenty-four miles, and reaching back from the river three times that distance, included Albany within its jurisdiction, and was originally owned by a rich Dutch merchant, one Killian Van Rensselaer, from Amsterdam. The land was purchased from the Indians for the merest trifle, after the usual fashion of white cupidity when dealing with Indian generosity and ignorance. Emigrants were sent over from the old country to people this wide domain, and thus the first white colony was established, which subsequently grew into sufficient importance to become the Capital city of the Empire State.

Before the purchase of Killian Van Rensselaer, a fort was built somewhere on what is now known as Broadway, and was named Fort Orange, in honor of the Prince of Orange, who was at that time patroon of New Netherlands, as New York was at first called. Old Fort Orange afterwards went by various names, among which were Rensselaerwyck, Beaverwyck and Williamstadt. In 1664 the sovereignty of the tract passed into the hands of the English, and was named Albany, in compliment to the Duke of Albany. In 1686 the young city aspired to a city charter, and its first mayor, Peter Schuyler, was then elected. In 1807 it became the Capital of the State. As an item of interest, it may be mentioned that the first vessel which ascended the river as far as Albany was the yacht Half Moon, Captain Hendrick Hudson commanding.

Albany, like ancient Rome, sits upon her many hills, and the views obtained from the city heights are beautiful in the extreme. The Helderbergs and the Catskill ranges loom blue and beautiful towards the south, Troy and the Green Mountains of Vermont can be seen from the north, while beyond the river, Bath-on-the-Hudson and the misty hill tops further away, rim the horizon's distant verge. The city has a large trade in lumber, and that portion of it which is known as the "lumber district" is devoted almost exclusively to this branch. One may walk, of a summer's day, along the smooth and winding road between the river and the canal, for two miles or more, and encounter nothing save the tasteful cottage-like offices, done in Gothic architecture, of the merchant princes in this trade, sandwiched between huge piles of lumber, rising white and high in the sun, and giving out resinous, piney odors. Not far from this vicinity stands the old Van Rensselaer homestead, guarded by a few primeval forest trees that have survived the wreck of time and still keep their ancient watch and ward. The old house, I have been told, is now deserted of all save an elderly lady, one of the last of the descendants of the long and ancient line of Van Rensselaer. Numerous points of interest dot the city in all directions, from limit to limit, and claim the attention of the stranger. Among the most prominent of these is, of course, the new Capitol building now in process of construction at the head of State street. A very pretty model of the structure is on exhibition in a small wooden building standing at the entrance to the grounds, which gives, I should judge, a clever idea of what the future monumental pile is to be like. Its height is very imposing, and the tall towers and minarets which rise from its roof will give it an appearance of still greater grandeur. It is built of granite quarried from Maine and New Hampshire, and is in the form of a parallelogram, enclosing an open court. Had I a sufficient knowledge of architecture to enable me to talk of orders, of pilasters, columns, entablatures and faÇades, I might perhaps give my readers a clearer idea of the magnificence of this new structure, which will stand without a rival, in this country at least, and may even dare to compete with some of the marvellous splendors of the old world.

The Old Capitol and the State Library stand just in front of the new building, and obscure the view from the foot of State street. The Senate and Assembly chambers in the old building have an antiquated air, with their straight-backed chairs upholstered in green and red, and the rough stairways leading to the cupola, through an unfurnished attic, are suggestive of accident. In this cupola, once upon a time, in the year 1832, a certain Mr. Weaver, tired of life and its turmoil, swung himself out of it on a rope. So the cupola has its bit of romance. In this neighborhood, on State street, above the Library, is located the Bureau of Military Statistics, which is well worth a visit from every New Yorker who takes a pride in the military glory of his native State. One is greeted at the entrance with a host of mementos of our recent civil war, which bring back a flood of patriotic memories. Here is a collection of nine hundred battle flags, all belonging to the State, most of them torn and tattered in hard service, and inscribed with the names of historic fields into which they went fresh and bright, and out of which they came smoked and begrimed, and torn with the conflict of battle. Here are old canteens which have furnished solace to true comrades on many occasions of mutual hardship. Here, too, is the Lincoln collection, with its sad reminders of the nation's loved and murdered President; and in a corner of the same room the Ellsworth collection is displayed from a glass case. His gun and the Zouave suit worn by him at the time of his death hang side by side, and there, too, is the flag which, with impetuous bravery, he tore down from the top of the Marshall House at Alexandria, Virginia. In the same case hangs the picture of his avenger, Captain Brownell, and the rifle with which he shot Jackson. In another part of the room may be seen the original letter of Governor, then Secretary, Dix, which afterwards became so famous, and which created, in a great measure, the wave of popularity that carried him into the gubernatorial chair.

The letter reads as follows:—

"Treasury Department,
January, 29th, 1861.

"Tell Lieutenant Caldwell to arrest Captain Breshwood, assume command of the cutter, and obey the order I gave through you. If Captain Breshwood, after arrest, undertakes to interfere with the command of the cutter, tell Lieutenant Caldwell to consider him as a mutineer and treat him accordingly. If any one attempts to haul down the American flag, shoot him on the spot.

"John A. Dix, Secretary of the Treasury."

The captured office chairs used by Jeff. Davis, in Richmond, the lock from John Brown's prison door at Harper's Ferry, pieces of plate from the monitors off Charleston, torpedoes from James River, the bell of the old guard-house at Fort Fisher, captured slave chains, miniature pontoon bridges, draft boxes and captured Rebel shoes, may be mentioned as a few among the many curiosities of this military bureau. Here, too, may be seen the pardon, from Lincoln, for Roswell Mclntire, taken from his dead body at the battle of Five Forks; and near by hangs the picture of Sergeant Amos Humiston, of the 154th New York Regiment, who was identified by means of the picture of his three children, found clasped in his hand as he lay dead on the field of Gettysburg. In this room, also, is the Jamestown, New York, flag, made by the ladies of that place in six hours after the attack on Sumter, and which was displayed from the office of the Jamestown Journal. Mr. Daly, the polite janitor of the building, is always happy to receive visitors, and will show them every courtesy.

The Geological Rooms, on State street, are also well worthy the time and attention of the visitor. Large collections of the various kinds of rock which underlie the soil of our country are here on exhibition, as, also, the coral formations and geological curiosities of all ages. In an upper room towers the mammoth Cohoes mastodon, whose skeleton reaches from floor to ceiling. This monster of a former age was accidentally discovered at that place by parties who were excavating for a building. In these rooms, also, there are huge jaws of whales, which enable one to better understand the disposition of the Bible whales, and how easy it must have been for them to gulp down two or three Jonahs, if one little Jonah should fail to appease the delicate appetite of such sportive fishes. I couldn't help thinking of the lost races that must have peopled the earth when this old world was young—when these fossils were undergoing formation, and these mastodons made the ground tremble beneath their tread.

Where are these peoples now, and where their unrevealed histories? Shall we never know more of them than Runic stones and mysterious mounds can unfold? These reminders of the things that once had an existence but have now vanished from the face of the earth, and well nigh from the memory of men—these things are full of suggestion, to say the least, and are quite apt to correct any undue vanity which may take possession of us, or any large idea of future fame. We may, perhaps, create a ripple in the surface of remembrance which marks the place where our human existence went out, and which, at the furthest, may last a few hundred years. But who can hope for more than that, or hoping, can reasonably expect to find the wish realized? "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy."

The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, on Eagle street, is one of the finest church structures in Albany. It is built of brown freestone, in the Gothic style of architecture, and its two towers are each two hundred-and-eighty feet in height. Its cost was six hundred thousand dollars. The interior decorations are beautiful, and the rich stained glass windows are the gifts of sister societies. On Easter mornings the Cathedral is sure to be crowded by people of all sects and creeds, brought there to witness the joyous Easter services which terminate the long fast of Lent.

About a mile and a half from the city, on Patroon's Hill, is situated the Dudley Observatory, where on clear summer nights Albanians come to gaze at the stars and the moon, through the large Observatory refractor. The structure is built in the form of a cross, eighty-six feet long and seventy feet deep.

One of the first peculiarities which attracts the attention of the non-resident of Albany is the appearance of the business portion of State street, in the forenoon, from eight o'clock until twelve. Any time between these hours the street, from the lower end of Capitol Park down to Pearl street, is transformed into a vast market-place. Meat-wagons, vegetable carts, restaurants on wheels, and all sorts of huckstering establishments, are backed up to the sidewalk, on either side, blocking the way and so filling the wide avenue that there is barely room for the street-car in its passage up and down the hill. The descendants of Killian Van Rensselaer and the aristocratic Ten Eycks and Van Woerts, of Albany, should exhibit enterprise enough, I think, to erect a city market and spare State street this spectacle.

The manufacturing interest of Albany consists largely of stove works, in which department it competes with its near neighbor, Troy. This flourishing city, of about forty-eight thousand souls, is seven miles distant from Albany, up the river, and is in manifold communication with it by railroads on both sides of the Hudson, as well as by street railway. Steam cars run between Albany and Troy half hourly, during the day and far into the night, and one always encounters a stream of people between these two places, whose current sets both ways, at all times and seasons. Troy is at the head of navigation on the Hudson and communicates by street car with Cohoes, Lansingburg and Waterford. Cohoes is a place of great natural beauty, and the Cataract Falls of the Mohawk River at that place add an element of wild grandeur to the scenery. One of the large, rocky islands in the river, known as Simmons' Island, is a popular resort for picnic excursions, and is a delightful place in summer, with its groves of forest trees, and the pleasant noise of waters around its base. The place seems haunted by an atmosphere of Indian legend, and one could well imagine the departed warriors of the lost tribes of the Mohawk treading these wild forest paths, and making eloquent "talks" before their red brothers gathered around the council fire.

The Mohawk and Hudson rivers unite at Troy, and seek a common passage to the sea. Mrs. Willard's Seminary for young ladies is located in this city, and is a standard institution of learning. Many of the streets of Troy are remarkably clean and finely shaded, and handsome residences and business blocks adorn them. The city is also a headquarters for Spiritualism in this section of the country. The Spiritualistic Society has, I am told, a flourishing, progressive Lyceum, which supersedes, with them, the orthodox Sunday school, and the exercises, consisting in part of marches and recitations, are conducted in a spirited and interesting manner.

Foundries for hollow-ware and stoves constitute the leading branch of manufacture in the city of Troy. To one not familiar with the process by which iron is shaped into the various articles of common use among us, a visit to the foundries of Troy or Albany would be full of interest and instruction. Piles of yellow sand are lying in the long buildings used as foundries, while on either side the room workmen are busily engaged fashioning the wet sand into moulds for the reception of the melted iron. Originally the sand is of a bright yellow color, but it soon becomes a dingy brown, by repeated use in cooling the liquid metal.

Each moulder has his "floor," or special amount of room allotted him for work, and here, during the forenoon, and up to three or four o'clock in the afternoon, he is very busy indeed, preparing for the "pouring" operation. Pig iron, thrown into a huge cauldron or boiler, and melted to a white heat, is then poured, from a kettle lined with clay, into the sand-moulds, and in a remarkably short space of time the greenish-white liquid which you saw flowing into a tiny, black aperture is shaken out of the sand by the workmen, having been transformed into portions of stoves. These go to the polishing room, and thence to the finishing apartment, where the detached pieces are hammered together, with deafening noise.

Troy rejoices also in a paper boat manufactory—the boats being made especially for racing and feats of skill. They find sale principally in foreign markets, and at stated seasons divide the attention of the English with the "Derby." The boats are made of layers of brown paper put together with shellac.

There is a large society of Grand Army men in Albany, one Post numbering five or six hundred members. Their rooms are tastefully decorated, and hung with patriotic pictures, which make the blood thrill anew, as in the days of '61. A miniature fort occupies the centre of the room, and emblematic cannon and crossed swords are to be seen in conspicuous places.

A trip down the Hudson, in summer, from Albany to New York, is said to afford some of the finest scenery in the world, not excepting the famous sail on the castled Rhine; and the large river boats which leave Albany wharf daily, for our American London, are, indeed, floating palaces. The capital city of the Empire State is not, therefore, without its attractions, despite the fact that it was settled by the Dutch, and that a sort of Rip Van Winkle sleep seems, at times, to have fastened itself upon the drowsy spirit of Albanian enterprise.

CHAPTER II.