An Englishman's First Impressions of American Marine Travel - 1878

Editor's note: The following text was originally published on September 21, 1878 in "Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper. Thanks to volunteer researcher George A. Thompson for finding, cataloging and transcribing this article. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written.

I was awfully glad when a friend proposed a trip to Saratoga.  I had been awfully jolly in New York, but New York had gone out of town, leaving nothing but its streets and its tram-cars behind it.  In London we have such a perpetual flow of visitors — over one hundred thousand daily — that a fellow doesn't so much miss the "big crowd" as here, consequently when Saratoga was decided upon I felt extremely pleased indeed.  I had heard much of the palatial river steamers, and expected much.  I was down at Pier 41 at an early hour, and found the whole place occupied by one boat.  Such a boat! white as the driven snow, and larger than many an English village.  The people kept going into her until I imagined some game was up, and that they were stepping out at the other side.  No such thing; there was room for all ay, and more.  It was something immense to see the men getting into line for the ticket-office, with as much precision as if they were on parade.  No hurry, no crush, the regular "first come, first served" business, not as with us, when the biggest man comes to the front, and muscular Christianity tops over everything.  And the luggage! mountains of it, from enormous nickel-bound boxes, fit to carry Cleopatra's Needle, to dainty hand-bags, such as Queen Victoria's take with them when rushing at sixty miles an hour "Upon Her Majesty's Service.'

Steamboat "Drew". Donald C. Ringwald Collection, Hudson River Maritime Museum.

Near the gangway stood a handsome, gentlemanlike man, whose semi-naval uniform looked as though cut by Smallpage, of Regent Street.  This, I was informed, was Captain Roe, one of the most courteous and best-respected captains of the sea-like rivers of America.  I was instructed by my friend to take a state-room — at home I would have asked for a berth — and, paving paid my money, became intrusted with the key of a charming little bedroom, better fitted up than that of my club, and boasting an electric bell.  ...

Steamboat "Drew". Donald C. Ringwald Collection, Hudson River Maritime Museum.

A gong sounded for dinner, and, following a strong lead, as we do at whist, I found myself in a large, brilliantly-lighted apartment, set with several tables.  The menu was extensive enough to meet the requirements of the most exacting appetite, while the viands bore witness to skillful cookery.  After dinner I went for a stroll, yea, a veritable stroll — always striking against the bride and bridegroom — in a saloon picked out in white and gold, the chandeliers burning gas, and the motion being so imperceptible that the glass drops did not even waggle — on a carpet fit for Buckingham Palace, and in a grove of sumptuous furniture; then for'ard, where many gentlemen in straw hats were engaged in discussing the chances of General Grant for something or other, I know not what; then aft, where many ladies sat in picturesque traveling attitudes, gazing at the soft outlines of the shore on either hand, some alone and some doing the next best thing to flirting.
           
​What a sleep I had!  No more motion than if I was at the club.  No noise, no confounded fume of train-oil and its rancid confrères.  I slept like a humming-bird, and next morning found myself at Albany.  This place is on a hill, surmounted by a white marble building, and Capitol, which, when competed, will be an awfully imposing affair.  I took the train for Saratoga —  a drawing-room car — and such a boudoirette on wheels! —  I felt as if I was in a club-window all the time.

The Grand Union Hotel in 1870 in Saratoga Springs. https://www.pinterest.com/pin/542824561307732608/

Saratoga is awfully jolly.  It is the best thing I have seen, with its main street as wide as the Boulevard Malesherbe or Haussman, and lined for a mile and a half with magnificent elms, which shade hotels as big as some European towns.  It is always thronged with carriages just like Rotten Row in the season, and lots of people on horseback.  The piazzas of the hotels are crowded with stunningly pretty girls, dressed, all over the place.  Overhead is an Italian sky, blue as sapphire, and a golden tropical light falls around, picking out the shadows in dazzling contrast.  "I guess," as the Americans say, I'll drive my stakes pretty deep here.

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