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Editor's note: The following text is from two Australian newspapers printed in the 1890s. Thank you to Contributing Scholar 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. "Crazy Uncle Gail's" Idea and What Came of lt. - Northern Star (Lismore, New South Wales, Australia), June 10, 1893. About forty years ago Gail Borden, a civil engineer of New England ancestry, conceived the idea that milk could be boiled down in a vacuum till from the liquid condition it became substantially solid, and in that state, preserved by means of another Yankee invention -- the sealed tin can -- it could be kept for any length of time. Mr. Borden had lived much in the south, particularly in Texas, and he had seen the great need of such an article as his invention would produce if his idea was practicable. He began experimenting on this and other ideas that teemed in his overflowing brain. Eighteen years he experimented with the milk condensing. He made a success of the condensation, but he could not make it a financial success. He spent all the money he got on his new ideas, for there were so many of them. People who knew him, especially the neighbors, made merry over the milk condensing notion. They would have believed a.man conld take wings and fly to heaven bodily as easily as he could condense milk and ship it all over the world. The man who would think of such a thing was nothing less than off his head. So they called him "crazy Uncle Gail," these kind neighbors. But Uncle Gail had a son, John G. No man except perhaps Edison is at once inventor and financier. Gail Borden had to wait till his son John was grown before the milk condensing became a financial success. Gail was an inventor, and Providence kindly sent him a son who was a financier, the only trouble being that Uncle Gail had to wait eighteen years till the son was old enough to take hold of the financial end of the business. Then it became one of the greatest successes on record. The elder Borden waited patiently and hopefully. At last, when it began to look as if the enterprise would be a go, Uncle Gail said one day, "If I thought the condensery would ever consume as much as 5,000 quarts of milk a day, I should be satisfied and happy." Well, there are now six great Borden milk condensing plants in various parts of the country. Two of them are in Illinois. Not long since 1 visited one of the New York factories. It was not one of the largest, yet it alone consumes 33,000 quarts of milk a day, manufacturing daily 10,000 pounds of the finished product. What the whole six factories consume may be calculated from this. The condensed milk goes all over the earth. Peary took it to the north pole with him. Explorers flavor their coffee with it under the equator in Africa. Best of all, "Crazy Uncle Gail" lived to see the enterprise he had set his heart on assume almost its present colossal proportions: then he rested from his labors with the sweet consciousness that he had helped mankind. Visitors are allowed in every part of the Borden condenseries. The tall and good looking superintendent of the one I visited in Wallkill valley, Mr. Smith, himself conducted me through the departments of the factory and gave me every facility for obtaining information. The milk, with granulated sugar stirred into it, is boiled down in vacuum in great shining copper tanks. I am proud that the invention belongs to America. The first thought of one visiting the condensery is that no one need ever be afraid to use condensed milk. The factory is absolutely the cleanest place I ever saw. The floor of the machine shop where the cans are made is scrubbed every Saturday; ditto the engine room. Gail Bordon, of blessed memory, had a sort of craze for cleanliness, a beneficent craze which his son held after him. The firm make their own tin cans at the factory, and you will be surprised to know that girl machinists do the work. They are cleaner and more deft with their fingers than boys would be, and making the little cans requires neatness and precision. They make excellent wages, I was told. At various conspicuous places this sign in big letters meets your eye: "No Smoking. Spitting on Floor Is Prohibited. Read the Other Side." When you turn it over the other side says exactly the same thing. lt requires nearly five pounds of milk in the natural state to make one pound of the condensed product. The condensery has its own set of milk farmers, who deliver the year round. They must obey strictly certain rules laid down by the firm. One of these is that no ensilage shall be used. They say they cannot use ensilage milk for making the condensed product. They declare further that feeding cows on ensilage through the season is much the same as feeding people on sauerkraut all the year. The superintendent of the factory said he had put his hand into some of what was called prime ensilage. He found it hot and fermenting. If his statement will add any new fury to the ensilage war 1 shall be glad. I have no cows and no opinion, and am not in the fight. The farmers furnish their own cans. The exquisite cleanliness that pervades the factory must extend also to the farms that supply milk to it. The farmers are expected to keep the outside of the cans clean, but the inside is cleansed at the factory itself. That is a task the condensers require to be performed under their own eyes. The milk is strained a second time after it comes to the factory, and is likewise passed through an aerating machine. Every can of milk that comes in is inspected separately. The inspector from the condensery visits constantly the cow stables on the farms to see that they are kept free from filth and odors. The farmers average about twenty-five cows apiece. No stagnant water, no dead animals must be allowed on the place. The barnyards must be kept clean. Written by Eliza Archard Conner, June 10, 1893 From the Queanbeyan Observer (New South Wales, Australia) December 1, 1896. Not less than 100,000 gallons of milk daily are consumed in New York city, Brooklyn and the smaller cities that all together come under the head of what we call greater New York. From Newburg, sixty miles up the Hudson, a milk boat carries 10,000 gallons daily to the city. Much of New York's milk supply comes from Orange, Sullivan, Ulster and Dutchess counties. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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Editor's note: The following text is an except from "Terrible Explosion"., reprinted in the Queensland Australia newspaper "Maryborough Chronicle, Wide Bay and Burnett Advertiser." Thank you to Contributing Scholar 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. TERRIBLE EXPLOSION. (From the Special Correspondent of the "New York Tribune.") Newburgh, June 3, 1868. Dwellers along the Hudson River for a distance of 30 miles north and south of this city were startled at six o'clock this morning by the shaking of their houses, the rattling of windows, and two distinct, heavy, rumbling reports. Many supposed that two shocks of an earthquake had taken place, and rushed from their houses in excitement. The cause of the excitement was the explosion of 10,000 pounds of powder, and the blowing up of two powder mills, owned by Messrs. Smith and Rand, about four miles west of this city, on the South Plank Road, leading to Walden, Orange County. A visit to the spot revealed the following facts: The graining mill, where the first explosion occurred, was a sort of double building, 20 by 16 feet, built of stone, with wooden sides and one story high. It stood about one hundred feet from the main road, separated from the latter by a clump of trees. In it at the time of the explosion was five tons of powder, the most of it being in the grain. The glazing mill was situated across a dam, about one hundred feet from the graining mill, and was about fifteen feet in diameter, octagonal in form, and was in no way connected with the graining mill. In it at the time of the explosion was about a ton of powder. At exactly six o'clock this morning the graining mill blew up, the fire shooting with great violence across the dam to the glazing mill, and in five seconds thereafter that was also blown to fragments. The scene is described as being fearfully grand. The foundation of the graining mill was scooped out as though with a shovel. Huge sticks of timber were thrown through the air for a quarter of a mile, small trees were uprooted, and hurled a long distance; while larger and older trees were entirely stripped of leaves and branches; and their trunks blackened and charred. At the foot of trees numbers of dead birds were found, having been instantly killed by the powerful shock. A large iron shaft four inches in diameter, led from the graining mill to another building on the south side of the road. It was seventy-five feet long. The end nearest to the building which exploded was bent almost double; while a portion of the shaft fifteen feet long was broken off and hurled over 400 yards from the scene. For more than a quarter of mile the ground is strewn with the debris. Huge timbers, blackened and splintered with powder, heavy and long limbs of trees, and in many instances whole trees, ragged and torn, block the paths and roads leading to spot. A storage building on the south side of the road, distant all of 150 yards from the graining mill, was badly shattered. It contained three tons of powder in kegs. The large door at the main entrance was blown off, the sides of the building crushed in, and the roof greatly damaged. Fortunately, the powder in the building did not ignite. Of course, as soon as the danger consequent upon the terrific explosion had passed away, there was a rush to ascertain if anyone was killed. At the time of the occurrence there, there was only one man in the graining-mill and none in the others. His name was Adam Schosser [?], a German. He was employed as Messrs. Smith and Rand's service for several years, and was considered perfectly trust-worthy. He had often asserted that he knew his business too well to be blown up. He was undoubtedly blown high in air, some suppose 1000 feet. His head and shoulders were found at a distance of 500-yards from the spot where the explosion occurred, mangled and torn beyond recognition. An arm was found, lodged in the crutch of a tree, while for a distance of a quarter of a mile pieces of flesh and parts of his limbs were found strewn along the ground and hanging to limbs of trees. All the parts found were collected and placed in a barrel. Coroner Thomas Bingham of Newburgh, who arrived soon after the occurrence, empannelled a jury, and an inquest was held over about two-thirds of the body, the jury returning a verdict in accordance with the facts. The shock in this city was terrific. Houses were shaken to their foundation and in many places windows were shattered. Standing in one of the streets and looking toward the spot where the explosion occurred a huge column of smoke and dust was seen to shoot upward fully 1000 feet into the heavens, presenting a scene grand beyond description. A vast ring of smoke whirled far up and gradually widening in area, was a sight never witnessed before in this vicinity. The concussion started persons who were thus slumbering, in many cases arose trembling and anxious to know the cause. For a distance of ten miles back, on the opposite side of the river, the explosion was distinctly heard, while West Point, Peekskill, Sing Sing and Poughkeepsie the report was also noticed. Three years ago a similar explosion took place at the same spot; when one man was killed. Had the explosion of this morning occurred one hour later, the loss of life would have been fearful, as at 7 a.m. the twenty men employed at the works commence labor, when, in all probability, every one of them would have been blown to pieces.-"Maryborough Chronicle, Wide Bay and Burnett Advertiser" (Queensland, Australia.), September 22, 1868 If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's Note: This post is prepared from newspaper articles from The New York Times, Sunday, January 28, 1973, By Woody N. Klose; Hudson Register Star, February 17, 1976 and Soundings December 1972 by Elizabeth Manuele. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. For information about current ice boating on the Hudson River go to White Wings and Black Ice here. The New York Times, Sunday, January 28, 1973, By Woody N. Klose It is because of Franklin Delano Roosevelt's abiding love for the river and its winter ice that a slice of Hudson Valley history could be reconstructed last year in an 80‐foot‐long basement in a house high on a bill overlooking Newburgh. There, in the house of contractor, Robert R. Lawrence, a band of devoted valley men reconstructed the legendary gaff‐rigged ice yacht "Jack Frost". Had it not been for Roosevelt, the "Jack Frost" would long ago have become just another part of the rich valley earth. Commodore Archibald Rogers of Hyde Park owned the original Jack Frost, an iceboat of staggering dimensions. Built in 1883, the original "Jack Frost" carried 760 square feet of sail and measured 49½ feet from bow to stern along the backbone. In 1938 when the boathouse in which the "Jack Frost" was stored was destroyed by a hurricane, Roosevelt, concerned about the future of iceboating, gave the huge boat to Richard Aldrich of Barrytown. Aldrich had done much to keep alive the spirit of iceboating and, in the process, had amassed a sizable collection of antique ice yachts of Hudson River design, with the steering runner in the stern. Unfortunately, the original backbone, cockpit and runnerplank of the "Jack Frost" had been left in the open, near the remains of the boathouse, where they disintegrated and disappeared. But the hollow spars and much of the hardware were saved, and using dimensions on file in the archives of the Roosevelt Library, the "Jack Frost" was born again. Under the supervision of Ray Ruge, a foremost ice yacht expert, and Lawrence, the "Jack. Frost" was reconstructed, incorporating the pieces of the original boat. However, the craftsmen did not reconstruct the original "Jack Frost", designed and built in 1883 but refashioned the one of 1900, a slightly different model. As was the custom then, during all the modifications she never lost her name. While the owner might have a new backbone constructed or alter the size of sails or runners, he would not change the name of his prize boat. So the name, "Jack Frost", was transferred from boat to boat over two decades and down through half a century as the ice‐yacht was created, modified, almost destroyed and eventually reconstructed. Cockpit Box - Commodore Robert Lawrence of the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club tries out the partially restored cockpit box of the "Jack Frost". The box is made of Honduras mahogany, oak, whitewood and trimmed with brass. A crew will man this cockpit when the famous 19th century iceboat, the “Jack Frost” is completed. Photo by Robert Richards from the Ray Ruge archives. Hudson River Maritime Museum. It was a problem, locating and buying timbers large enough to reconstruct her. The Hudson River Ice Yacht Club procured 10 pieces of Sitka spruce from the West Coast. Sitka spruce grows only in Alaska and British Columbia and is especially prized for its uniform character and long, straight grain. The club paid $1,000 for this valuable wood. The racing history of the "Jack Frost" is as unusual as the craft itself. Sailing for the Poughkeepsie Ice Yacht Club in 1883, her maiden year, she won the Ice Yacht Challenge Pennant of America, beating sailors and boats from North Shrewsbury, N.J. She won again in 1887, under the colors of the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club. In 1893, she took on the Orange Lake Ice Yacht Club for the pennant, and the result was the same. There were two races for the pennant in 1902 and "Jack Frost" sailed home with the trophy both times. Since then, the race for the challenge pennant and even the "Jack Frost" have almost become forgotten. They began to be “things that can wait till next year.” By World War I, ice yachting on the Hudson had all but vanished. Thanks to the leadership of Ruge, Lawrence, Aldrich's son, Ricky, and many others, iceboating on the Hudson River is coming back strong. Hudson Register Star, January 17, 1976 Historic Ice Yacht Glides Down Hudson River Again “Jack Frost”, four-time winner of the ice yacht Challenge Pennant … was taken off the ice for many years. It was launched on Orange Lake in 1973 after the Hudson River Ice Sailing Club spent three years restoring it. In was put back on the Hudson (River) in January 1976 off Croton. In February it was trucked to Barrytown when the ice off Croton began to break up. It needs at least six inches of ice to support its 2,500 pound weight. Robert Bard of Red Hook, a Hudson River Ice Sailing Club member, said the restoration was completed by the combined effort of many persons who often met Tuesday evening after work to lavish attention on the boat. Reid Bielenberg of Red Hook assisted with the rigging, and Bard helped mix adhesive. Other local men who helped in different stages were Dick Suggat of Rhinebeck, Earl A’Brial of Red Hook, Bob Fennel of Barrytown and Rick Aldrich of Barrytown. Bard said the craft was launched at Barrytown with some difficulty, because of its weight and size. Its mast is more than 30 feet tall and seven inches in diameter. The boom is 33 feet long, and its main runners are 28 feet long. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's note: The following text is an except from "Fifteen Minutes around New York" by George G. Foster, published by DeWitt & Davenport, New York circa 1854, pages 52-54. Thank you to Contributing Scholar 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. It was very warm -- a sort of sultry, sticky day, which makes you feel as if you had washed yourself in molasses and water, and had found that the chambermaid had forgotten to give you a towel. The very rust on the hinges of the Park gate has melted and run down into the sockets, making them creak with a sort of ferruginous lubricity, as you feebly push them open. The hands on the City Hall clock droop, and look as if they would knock off work if they only had sufficient energy to get up a strike. The omnibus horses creep languidly along, and yet can't stand still when they are pulled up to take in or let out passengers -- the flies are so persevering, so bitter, so hungry. Let us go over to Hoboken, and get a mouthful of fresh air, a drink of cool water from the Sybil's spring, a good roll on the green grass of the Elysian Fields. Down we drop, through the hot, dusty, perspiring, choking streets -- pass the rancid "family groceries," which infect all this part of the city, and are nuisances of the first water -- and, after stumbling our way through a basket store, "piled mountains high," we at length find ourselves fairly on board the ferry boat, and panting with the freshness of the sea breeze, which even here in the slip, steals deliciously up from the bay, which, even here in the slip, steals deliciously up from the bay, tripping with white over the night-capped and lace-filled waves. Ding-dong! Now we are off! Hurry out to this further end of the boat, where you see everybody is crowding and rushing. Why? Why? Why, because you will be in Hoboken fully three seconds sooner than those unfortunate devils at the other end. Isn't that an object? Certainly. Push, therefore, elbow, tramp, and scramble! If you have corns, so, most likely, has your neighbor. At any rate, you can but try. No matter if your hat gets smashed, or one of the tails is torn off your coat. You get ahead. That's the idea -- that's the only thing worth living for. What's the use of going to Hoboken, unless you can get there sooner than anyone else? Hoboken wouldn't be Hoboken, if somebody else should arrive before you. Now -- jump! -- climb over the chain, and jump ashore. You are not more than ten feet from the wharf. You may not be able to make it -- but then again, you may; and it is at least worth the trial. Should you succeed, you will gain almost another whole second! and, if you fail, why, it is only a ducking -- doubtless they will fish you out. Certainly they don't allow people to get drowned. The Common Council, base as it is, would never permit that! Well! here we are at last, safe on the sands of a foreign shore. New Jersey extends her dry and arid bosom to receive us. What a long, disagreeable walk from the ferry, before you get anywhere. What an ugly expense of gullies and mud, by lumber yards and vacant lots, before we begin to enjoy the beauties of this lovely and charming Hoboken! One would almost think that these disagreeable objects were placed there on purpose to enhance the beauties to which they lead. At last we are in the shady walk -- cool and sequestered, notwithstanding that it is full of people. The venerable trees -- the very same beneath whose branches passed Hamilton and Burr to their fatal rendezvous -- the same that have listened to the whispering love-tales of so many generations of the young Dutch burghers and their frauleins -- cast a deep and almost solemn shade along this walk. We have passed so quickly from the city and its hubbub, that the charm of this delicious contrast is absolutely magical. What a motley crowd! Old and young, men women and children, those ever-recurring elements of life and movement. Well-dressed and badly-dressed, and scarcely dressed at all -- Germans, French, Italians, Americans, with here and there a mincing Londoner, with his cockney gait and trim whiskers. This walk in Hoboken is one of the most absolutely democratic places in the world -- the boulevards of social equality, where every rank, state, condition, existing in our country -- except, of course, the tip-top exclusives -- meet mingle, push and elbow their way along with sparse courtesy or civility. Now, we are on the smooth graveled walk -- the beautiful magnificent water terrace, whose rival does not exist in all the world. Here, for a mile and a half, the walk lies directly upon the river, winding in and out with its yielding outline, and around the base of precipitous rocky cliffs, crowned with lofty trees. From the Bay, and afar off through the Narrows, the fresh sea breeze comes rushing up from the Atlantic, strengthened and made more joyous, more elastic by its race of three thousand miles -- as youth grows stronger by activity. Before us, fading into a greyish distance, lies the city, low and murky, like a huge monster -- its domes and spires seeming but the scales and protuberances upon his body. One fancies that he can still hear the faint murmur of his perpetual roar. No -- 'tis but the voice of the pleasant waves, dashing themselves to pieces in silver spray, against the rocky shore. The retreating tide calls in whispers, its army of waves to flow to their home in the sea. Take care -- don't tumble off these high and unbalustraded steps, -- or will you choose rather to go through the turn-stile at the foot of the bluff? It is very lean, madam -- which you are not -- and we doubt if you can manage your way through. We thought so! Allow me to help you over the steps. They are placed here, we verily believe, as a practical illustration of life -- up one side of the hill, and down the other -- for there is no material, physical, or topographical reason, that we can discover, for their existence. Here is a family group, seated on the little wooden bench, placed under this jutting rock. The mother's attention is painfully divided equally between the two large boys, the toddling little girl of six, who laughs and claps her hand with glee at discovering that she can't throw a pebble into the water, like her brothers -- and the baby, who spreads out his hands and legs to their utmost stretch, like the sails of a little boat which tries to catch as much of the breeze as it can, and who crows like a little chanticleer, in the very exuberance of his baby existence. Two half nibbled cakes, neglected in the happiness of breathing this pure, keen air -- which, by the way, will give them a tremendous appetite, by-and-by -- are lying among the pebbles, and ever the baby has forgotten to suck its fat little thumb. Sybil’s Cave is the oldest manmade structure in Hoboken, created in 1832 by the Stevens Family as a folly on their property that contained a natural spring. By the mid-19th century the cave was a recreational destination within walking distance from downtown Hoboken. A restaurant offered outdoor refreshments beside the cave. https://www.hobokenmuseum.org/explore-hoboken/historic-highlights/sybils-cave/sybils-cave-today-and-yesterday/ The Sybil's Cave, with its cool fountain bubbling and sparkling forever in the subterranean darkness, now tempts us to another pause. The little refreshment shop under the trees looks like an ice-cream plaster stuck against the rocks. Nobody wants "refreshments," my dear girl, while the pure cool water of the Sybil's fountain can be had for nothing. What? Yes they do. The insane idea that to buy something away from home -- to eat or drink -- is at work even here. A little man, with thin bandy legs, whose bouncing wife and children are a practical illustration of the one-sided effects of matrimony, has bought "something to take" for the whole family. Pop goes the weasel! What is it? Sarsaparilla -- pooh! Now let us go on round this sharp curve, (what a splendid spot for a railroad accident!) and then along the widened terrace path, until it loses itself in a green and spacious lawn, lovingly rising to meet the stooping branches of the trees. This is the entrance to the far-famed Elysian Fields. Along the banks of the winding gravel paths, children are playing, with their floating locks streaming in the wind -- while prone on the green grass recline weary people, escaped from the week's ceaseless toil, and subsiding joyfully into an hour of rest -- to them the highest happiness. The centre of the lawn has been marked out into a magnificent ball ground, and two parties of rollicking, joyous young men are engaged in that excellent and health-imparting sport, base ball. They are without hats, coats or waistcoats, and their well-knit forms, and elastic movements, as they bound after the bounding ball, .... Yonder in the corner by that thick clump of trees, is the merry go-round, with its cargo of half-laughing, half-shrieking juvenile humanity, swinging up and down like a vessel riding at anchor. Happy, thoughtless voyagers! Although your baby bark moves up and down, and round and round, yet you fell the exhilarating motion, and you think you advance. After all, perhaps it would be a blessed thing if your bright and happy lives could stop here. Never again will you bee so happy as now; and often, in the hard and bitter journey of life, you will look back to these infantile hours, wondering if the evening of life shall be as peaceful as its morning. But the sun has swung down behind the Weehawken Heights, and the trees cast their long shadows over lawn and river, pointing with waving fingers our way home. The heart is calmer, the head clearer, the blood cooler, for this delicious respite. We thank thee, oh grand Hoboken, for thy shade, and fresh foliage, and tender grass, and the murmuring of the glad and breezy waters -- and especially for having furnished us with a subject for this chapter. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's Note: This article was originally written by Anthony P. Musso and published in the November 1, 2017 issue of the Poughkeepsie (NY) Journal. For information about current ice boating on the Hudson River go to White Wings and Black Ice here. Built in 1863 by John Aspinwall Roosevelt to store his ice yacht boat, Icicle, the boathouse was subsequently used as a bait and tackle shop before falling into disrepair. It still stands on the former Rosedale estate in Hyde Park, once home to Isaac Roosevelt, grandfather of Franklin D. Roosevelt. ANTHONY P. MUSSO Poughkeepsie Journal (Poughkeepsie, New York) · Wed, Nov 1, 2017 HYDE PARK - On the east bank of the Hudson River along River Point Road in Hyde Park is a long, wood-frame structure that once served as a boathouse for John Aspinwall Roosevelt, uncle of former U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt. The parcel of land the building sits on was once part of an estate named Rosedale, which was owned by the late president's grandfather, Isaac. Beginning in the mid- to late-18th century, wealthy families from New York City started to acquire large tracts of land to establish estates, many in Hyde Park. Names such as Bard, Roosevelt, Rogers, Langdon, Astor, Vanderbilt and Mills were among the most prominent. A popular pastime for many of them became ice-yacht racing along the Hudson River. While it proved to be an exciting spectator sport for residents in the area, the activity was quickly dubbed a “rich man’s hobby.” Following the death of Isaac Roosevelt in 1863, his son John inherited Rosedale and had the boathouse erected to house his vessel, named Icicle. A champion ice yacht racer, Roosevelt's boat — at 68 feet, 10 inches long and boasting a sail spread of 1,070 square feet — was the largest ice boat in the world at the time. “Icicle is now owned by the New York State Museum {Editor Note: "Icicle is on loan from the National Park Service Home of Franklin Delano Roosevelt] and is currently on loan to the [Hudson River] Maritime Museum in Kingston,” said Jeffrey Urbin, education specialist at the FDR Presidential Library and Museum. The boathouse featured six casement windows, a paneled wooden door and a board and batten-hinged door. The lower portion of its northern end was constructed of stone. The design of the boathouse was crafted specifically to store Roosevelt's ice yacht fleet while the space available above was occupied by sails. The building’s double-pitched roof provided additional space in the loft, in his younger years, FDR stored his 28-foot ice yacht, named Hawk, in the structure; the boat was a Christmas gift from his mother, Sara, in 1901. In 1861, at 21 years old, John Roosevelt founded and became the commodore of the Poughkeepsie Ice Yacht Club and, in 1885, he founded and held the same position with the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club. Both organizations still exist today. The area the boathouse occupies became known as Roosevelt Point and, during the latter part of the 19th and early 20th centuries, was used as the starting point for many world-class races held along the river. With a smaller version of the original Icicle — this one spanning 50 feet with a 750-square-foot sail area — John Roosevelt won the Ice Yacht Challenge Pennant of America in 1888, '89, ‘92 and ‘99. An additional structure that no longer exists at the site but once sat just south of the boathouse was known as the Roosevelt Point Cottage. Built in the 1850s as a tenant dwelling on the estate, records indicate that, from 1877 through 1886, it was occupied by Rosedale's gardener, Robert Gibson, The cottage maintained a front room that featured a stove, in which ice yacht enthusiasts could find warmth while waiting for a favorable wind to take their vessels on the river. “Ice yachting went into decline after 1912 as other pursuits, such as the automobile and airplane, captured the fascination of the public,” said John Sperr, of the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club. “World events were also a factor in the demise of ice yachting on the Hudson, as the onset of World War II found it necessary to keep the river open in winter so the large munitions and war material produced in Troy, Watervliet and Schenectady could be readily put into service.” The land the boathouse occupies was separated from Rosedale during the 1950s, when single-family homes were built on the former estate. Today, along with Isaac Roosevelt's house (located closer to Route 9), the boathouse remains vacant but an original remnant of the thriving 19th-century estate. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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.' 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. ... 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. 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. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's note: The following text about a sloop journey up the Hudson River in 1801 was originally published In The Life of Charles Brockden Brown" by William Dunlap, Philadelphia 1815. 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. p. 50 July 7, 1801 Very suddenly conceived the design of voyaging up the Hudson river, as far as Albany. Had heard much of the grandeur of its shores, but never had gone above ten miles from New York. My friend C. having some leisure was willing to adventure for ten days or a fortnight, and I having still more, and being greatly in want of air and exercise, agreed to accompany him. We found a most spacious and well furnished vessel, captain R.----- in which we embarked at sunset this day. The wind propitious and the air wonderfully bland. p. 51 We bade adieu to our friends B.----- J.----- and D.----. I took my post at the stern, and found much employment for my feelings, in marking through the dusk, the receding city and the glimmering lights; first of quays and avenues, and afterwards of farms and village. It is just three years since my visit to New York in 1798. an interval replete with events, various and momentous. Some of them humiliating and disastrous, but, on the whole leading me to my present situation in which I have reason for congratulation. July 8, 1801 I write this seated in the cabin, from the windows of which, we have a view of wooded slopes, rocky promontories and waving summits. Our attention has been, for some time, fixed upon Stony Point, a memorable post in the late war, a spot familiar to my ears since my infancy, but which I have now seen for the first time. It is a rocky and rugged mass advancing into the river, the sides of which are covered with dwarf cedars, and the summit conspicuous still with some remains of fortification, a general solitude and vacancy around it, and a white cow grazing within the ruinous walls, produce a pleasing effect on my imagination. A craggy eminence, crowned with the ruins of a fortress, is an interesting spectacle every where, but a very rare one in America. I much wished to go ashore and ascend this hill, but it was not convenient. What are called the highlands of the North river, are a mountainous district, through which the river flows for some miles. I had heard much of the stupendous and alpine magnificence of the scenery. We entered it this morning, with a mild breeze and serene sky, and the prospect hitherto has been soft and beautiful. Nothing abrupt, rugged or gigantic. Farms and cultivated fields seldom appear. Six or eight vessels like our own, have been constantly in sight, and greatly enliven the scene. We are now at anchor, have just dined. My companions have gone to sleep. The utmost stillness prevails. Nothing to be heard but the buzzing of flies near at hand, and the (p. 52) cawing of distant crows. We lay surrounded on all hands by loftier ridges, than I ever before saw bordered by water. We have formed various conjectures as to the heights of these summits. The captain's statements of five and six hundred feet are extravagant. Three hundred would be nearer the truth. Few or none of them are absolute precipices, but most of them are steep, and not to be scaled without difficulty. I have gazed at the passing scene from Stony Point to West Point, with great eagerness, and till my eye was weary and pained. how shall I describe them. I cannot particularize the substance of the rock, or the kind of tree, save oaks and cedars. I am as little versed in the picturesque. I can only describe their influence on me. My friend is a very diligent observer, and frequently betakes himself to the pen. Heavy brows and languid blood has made me indolent, and I have done nothing but look about me, or muse for the last two days. On Thursday afternoon with a brisk southward gale and a serene sky, we left the highlands. At the spot where the mountains recede from the river, the river expands into a kind of lake, about two miles wide and ten miles long. The entrance is formed by cliffs, lofty, steep and gloomy with woods, which the borders of the lake itself are easy slopes, checkered with cultivated fields, farms and villages. The highlands from the heights and boldness of the promontories and ruggedness of the rocks, and the fantastic shape the assume, fully answer the expectations which my friends had excited. But the voyage over the lake, exceeded whatever my fancy had pictured of delightful. Three populous villages, Peekskill, New Windsor and Newburg, and innumerable farms decorate its borders. Yesterday we moved but slowly, the wind becoming adverse. At noon we drew into a wharf at Red-hook, and remained there till evening. My friend and I seized the opportunity of wandering. The river bank is lofty, and wooded as usual, but no wise remarkable. p. 53 Some hours before, a waving and bluish line in the horizon reminded us of the Kaats-kill mountains. These are seen very advantageously from Red-hook, distant about twenty miles, and appear of stupendous height. Their elevation has been ascertained, but I do not recollect what it is. We roamed along the shore and among the bushes, highly pleased with the exercise, and concluded our rambles with a bathing in the river. In leaving the sloop, I left most of my sluggish feelings behind me, and walked enough to make the night's repose acceptable and sound. With the tide to favour us we left Red-hook at eight o'clock, but were obliged to anchor again before morning. At six o'clock my friend and I accompanied the captain ashore, in search of milk and blackberries. I have since seated myself on deck, watching the shore, as the breeze carried us along. My friend is busy with his spy glass, reconnoitering the rocks and ay stacks, and surveying the wharves and store houses of Lunenburg and Hudson, villages we have just passed. I have observed but little besides a steep bank, roughened by rocks and bushes, occasionally yielding to slopes of a parched and yellowish soil, with poor cottages sparingly scattered, and now and then a small garden or field of corn. A fellow passenger left us at Hudson. One only remaining, a Mr. H.---- of Albany, a well behaved man, whose attention is swallowed up by Mrs. Bennet's "Beggar Girl." [Editor's Note: A 7 volume work by Anna Maria Bennett in 1797 "The Beggar Girl and Her Benefactors"] The sloop's crew consists of captain, mate, a man and a boy as cook; all orderly, peaceful obliging persons. The cabin being perfectly clean and comfortable, and provisions plentiful and good, we have no reason to regret the delays occasioned by adverse winds, and by calms. I have some vacant moments when a book might amuse. The captain's whole stock consists of a book on navigation, Dillworth's Arithmetic, and Goldsmith's Citizen of the World. I have looked into the last, but it does not please me. The fiction is ill supported, the style smooth and elegant, but the sentiments and observations far from judicious or profound. The mate has been telling me his adventures. A very crude and brief tale it was, but acceptable and pleasing to me. (p. 54) A voyage round the globe is a very trivial adventure, now-a-days. This man has been twice to Nootka, thence to Canton, and thence to Europe and home. He performed one whaling voyage to Greenland, and was fifteen months a seaman in a British seventy-four. His South Sea voyage occupied eighteen months, during which there was neither sickness nor death among the crew. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's note: The following text was originally published on June 4, 1887 in "The Cumberland Mercury", Parramatta, New South Wales, Australia. 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. ICE YACHTING AT POUGHKEEPSIE. Sir,—I thought I would send you a little account of the sport an old subscriber of yours is enjoying at present. My profession — that of a civil engineer — carries me into all parts of the country, and sometimes I am fortunate enough to run across good sport of one kind or another, fishing and duck shooting being my general pastime; but at present I am located at the head-quarters of a sport less common, viz., ice boating, which beats everything I ever engaged in in this country. You cannot credit the amount of speed these boats gather until you have ridden in one with a good stiff breeze blowing off shore. The frames of the boats are mere skeletons. The chief timbers are placed in the form of a T; the centre timber, including bowsprit, is generally about 50ft. in length, and the cross piece or runner plank about 20ft. The commonest rig is jib and mainsail; the cat rig is sometimes used, and this season the lateen rig is coming into favour. A boat this size can be built for £100. The sailing is very simple; she wears without gybing, and tacks without trimming sails, which are always trimmed flat aft, unless the wind is very strong on her beam, then the sheet is allowed to go off a foot or so. A mile a minute is common speed, and is often beaten. Here are some records: The Snowflake made nine miles from here to New Hamburgh in seven minutes; the Haze made the same time, at one part of the run doing two miles in one minute. In 1879 the Comet, Phantom, Zephyr, and Magic together sailed ten miles in ten minutes; most of the time the wind blew so hard that their windward runners were elevated at an angle of 46°. There is very little friction on the runners, but the boats never make any leeway except with a very high wind and smooth ice. If any of your subscribers should happen to be in this country this time next season, they could not enjoy themselves better than by coming up here, where they will find a good hotel, and will be very well received by the members of the club. This is the height of the season, the afternoon sun melting the snow, and the night frost making a hard smooth surface for morning. To-day, if there is any wind, the champion pennant is to be sailed for. — Edwr. T. N. MACDOUGALL. Poughkeepsie, N.Y., Feb. 14. — Field. The Cumberland Mercury (Parramatta, NSW, June 4, 1887. 1887-06-04 -- The Cumberland Mercury (Parramatta, NSW) If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's note: A few weeks ago we featured an article on commercial ice houses. Today's article is about ice houses for family home and farm use.. The following text was originally published in September 1849 in the publication "The Genesee Farmer". 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. Construction of Ice-Houses Ice is a cheap luxury in this country, and the Ice House very justly begins to be reckoned one of the necessary buildings on every complete farming establishment. Indeed it is indispensable to the proper preservation of the products of the Dairy and the Garden, as well as of meats, pastry, & c. It would be a gain to many a family, in one year, of what one that would answer every purpose would cost. We recommend the matter, at once, to the attention of our readers. The following excellent suggestions on Ice Houses are extracted from the "Horticulturist": To build an ice house in sandy or gravelly soils, is one of the easiest things in the world. The drainage there is perfect, the dry porous soil is of itself a sufficiently good non-conductor. All that it is necessary to do, is to dig a pit, twelve feet square, and as many deep, line it with logs or joists faced with boards, cover it with a simple roof on a level with the ground, and fill it with ice. Such ice houses built with a trifling cost, and entirely answering the purpose of affording ample supply for a large family, are common in various parts of the country. But it often happens that one's residence is upon a strong loamy or clayey soil, based upon clay or slate, or, at least, rocky in its substratum. Such a soil is retentive of moisture, and even though it be well drained, the common ice house just described will not preserve ice half through the summer in a locality of that kind. The clayey or rocky soil is always damp – it is always an excellent conductor, and the ice melts in it in spite of the usual precautions. Something more than the common ice house is therefore needed in all such soils. "How shall it be built?" is the question which has frequently been put to us lately. We desired Mr. Wyeth's hints for building an ice house for family use, both above ground and below ground. In the beginning, we should remark that the great ice houses of our ice companies are usually built above ground; and Mr. Wyeth in his letter to us remarks, "we now never build or use an ice house underground; it never preserves ice as well as those built above ground, and costs much more. I, however, send you directions for the construction of both kinds, with slight sketches in explanation." The following are Mr. Wyeth's directions for building: "1st. An Ice House above ground. An ice house above ground should be built upon the plan of having a double partition, with the hollow space between filled with some non-conducting substance. In the first place, the frame of the sides should be formed of two ranges of upright joists, 6 x 4 inches; the lower ends of the joists should be put into the ground without sill, which is apt to let air pass through. These two ranges of joists should be about two feet and one-half apart at the bottom, and two feet at the top. At the top these joists should be morticed into the cross-beams, which are to support the upper floor. The joists in the two ranges should be placed each opposite another. They should then be lined or faced on one side with rough boarding, which need not be very tight. This boarding should be nailed to those edges of the joists nearest each other, so that one range of joists shall be outside the building, and the other inside the ice room or vault. The space between these boardings or partitions should be filled with wet tan, or sawdust, whichever is cheapest or most easily obtained. The reason for using wet material for filling this space is, that during winter it freezes, and until it is again thawed, little or no ice will melt at the sides of the vault. The bottom of the ice vault should be filled about a foot deep with small blocks of wood; these are levelled and covered with wood shavings, over which a strong plank floor should be laid to receive the ice. Upon the beams above the vault, a pretty tight floor should also be laid, and this floor should be covered several inches deep with dry tan or sawdust. The roof of the ice house should have considerable pitch, and the space between the upper floor and the roof should be ventilated by a lattice window at each gable end, or something equivalent, to pass out the warm air which will accumulate beneath the roof. A door must be provided in the side of the vault to fill and discharge it; but it should always be closed up higher than the ice, and when not in use should be kept closed altogether. 2d. An Ice House below ground. This his only thoroughly made by building up the sides of the it with a good brick or stone wall, laid in mortar. Inside of this wall set joists, and build a light wooden partition against which to place the ice. A good floor should be laid over the vault as just described, and this should also be covered with dry tan or sawdust. In this floor the door must be cut to give access to the ice. As regards the bottom of the vault, the floor, the lattice windows in the gables for ventilation, etc., the same remarks will apply that have just been given for the ice house above ground, with the addition that in one of the gables, in this case, must be the door for filling the house with ice. If the ground where ice houses of either kind are built, is not porous enough to let the melted ice drain away, then there should be a waste pipe to carry it off, which should be slightly ben, so as always to retain enough water in it to prevent the passage of air upwards into the ice house." If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's note: The following text was originally published on January 11, 1836 from the New York Herald. 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. TREMENDOUS SNOW STORM. New York has just been visited by one of the most splendid snow storms that ever perhaps has taken place since the old colonial times, when sleighing continued on Manhattan Island for three or four months a year without intermission. The quantity of snow now lying in our streets is beyond any thing that ever appeared in our time. About four or five years ago, we had a tolerable snow storm, which afforded fine sleighing for six weeks in succession. But the quantity then was only half what it is at present. On Thursday night last, the wind at east by north, thermometer 32°, it began to rain with violence, blowing a heavy gale at the same time. The rain and gale continued all day Friday, the wind shifting, [and] gradually changed to sleet, then small hail, and latterly large light flakes of snow. On Saturday morning, wind N. E., thermometer 32°, the early risers found the whole city and surrounding country covered with six inches of light flaky snow, which the wind in its hasty journey would seize in its terrible hand, and scatter about in wreaths with perfect ease. The shipping in the harbor became weather bound -- the packets and steam boats did not dare go to sea. During the whole of Saturday, the snow storm continued. At mid day, the weather was somewhat soft, but still the wind blew high and occasionally fierce -- The merry sleigh bells began to jingle through the streets. In spite of the weather, Wall street was as crowded as ever, and the gallant brokers kept up their little groups all the morning on the side walk, in the midst of the unruly elements. The walking was wet and disagreeable. The Ruins, during the snow, presented a most remarkable and novel appearance. It looked like the burning craters of so many miniature volcanoes on the snowy tops of the Andes or Himalaya mountains. -- Here and there the snow would lay piled up in heaps on the broken fragments of columns, walls, bricks, and other mutilated materials. Other places were perfectly bare -- a steam, curling up like smoke, as if from half a dozen of steam boilers, was blowing off under the bricks. On these spots the snow melted as soon as it fell, and was converted by the burning merchandize to little beautiful clouds of vapor. "The Ruins" -- There had been a disastrous fire in the city a few weeks earlier. On Saturday night, the weather grew colder and colder -- the snow thicker and thicker. Several snow balling rows broke out among the boys and the hackmen in Broadway. A squad of young clerks met by arrangement in Broadway, at 9 o'clock, and made a dead set at the rascally hackmen. At this period the snow was in an admirable condition for snow balling. It was soft, spungy, abundant and not extremely cold. From the opposite points the assailants made a severe fusillade upon the hackmen lying very quietly in their hacks near the Park. They durst not leave the hacks for fear of their horses running away, and the young fellows pelted them without any mercy. Every body relished the sport -- the very hack horses laughed outright -- shaking their very manes, and switching their tails in joy, as much as to say -- "don't spare the drivers, boys -- they don't spare the whip upon our backs." Towards eleven o'clock at night, the intensity of the storm increased. The thermometer gradually sank -- the barometer gradually rose. Towards morning, however, the thermometer rose again to 32°, wind still violent, and blowing from the N. E. The soft spungy flakes changed into hard, dry, round, clear, pearly white snow. Still there was a softness about it which gave it the power of cohesion. The trees now presented a splendid appearance. Every branch was thoroughly enveloped with a garment whiter than fine linen -- to such an extent that many gave way and broke entirely. In the Park and College Green many trees were then stripped of their pendant branches by the weight of the superincumbent snow. Round the Bowling Green, on the Battery, and in Wall street, the trees presented the same dismantled appearance. Throughout yesterday morning the wind blew violently apparently from the north-west and across the North River slantingly. The waves ran furiously against the western side of Castle Garden. The whole country around looked white -- nothing dark but the surly, agitated, gloomy, disturbed waters. Bedlow's Island, Governor's Island, Staten Island, looked like so many pearly icebergs rising out of the stormy billows. The London and Liverpool packets, the Ontario and the Roscoe, sailed yesterday, and by this time they must be far on their journey, with a smacking breeze behind, and a boundless ocean ahead. On the Battery, the snow was on a level nearly three feet deep. On taking a turn there, we found the top of the wooden benches the only [indication of the] foot path. The Rail Road cars which left Philadelphia on Saturday morning, at 7 o'clock, did not reach this city til yesterday at day light. We learn that they struggled an hour in passing the Delaware at Camden. The cars could not proceed faster than three or four miles a hour, so deep was the snow. There was an unusual number of passengers, male and female, besides many small children. Embarking on board the boat at South Amboy, they made a start for New York, but did not reach further than Perth Amboy, where, by the violence of the gale, the steam boat ran ashore. Here the passengers remained all night, without food or fuel, or place to lay their heads. The poor females were in terrible distress. About three o'clock in the morning, the boat started again, and reached the city about half past five. It was snowing violently all the time. We learn the line will not resume their operations for some time. We are therefore cut off from all communication with Philadelphia, except by the ordinary line over land. In the city all the streets running east and west are almost, if not quite impassible, from the snow having been driven into them by the violence of the gale. The shipping in the docks and at anchor in the stream, present an appearance truly beautiful, and it was well worth the walk to see them. From the truck to the deck, each mast yard and shroud was covered with a coat of pure white pearly snow. The dusky sails were covered with a "cloth of brilliant white." The tarry shrouds were enveloped in a covering as unusual as it was beautiful, and the tout ensemble was strikingly splendid. In the midst of this dreadful storm, should not a thought be given to the hapless seaman braving its terrors. May not a tear of pity be dropped for the luckless vessels thrown upon our coast, where all the elements are combined to destroy them. Many wrecks are strewn along the shore, whose crews, half famished and perishing with cold, are vainly striving to reach the land, in the hope of finding a shelter from the ruthless storm -- death stares them in the face which ever way they move -- if they proceed, how unlikely are they to find a house upon our desolate coast, and if they remain, the snow drift will be their burial place, the saint-like snow their shroud. And how truly is it said, that "one half of this world know not how the other half lives." How many hundreds of families are there in this city perishing for want of food and warmth. Let the haughty rich, who are seated by their cheerful fires, think of the sufferings of those devoted wretches -- let them by contributing a few dollars from their heavy purses, alleviate the suffering of thousands, whose grateful prayer of thanks will afford a truer satisfaction and a purer pleasure that the lavish expenditure of thousands upon things, which, if they afford pleasure at all, it is as unreal and fleeting as the summer cloud. Throughout the whole of yesterday it rained -- or snowed -- or sleeted -- or drifted. Up to a late hour at night, the same weather continued. In some of the streets the snow is seven feet high. Last night it had not become extremely cold, but to-day it is expected to be clear, cold and severe -- just such a day as will afford an opportunity for the finest sleighing that we have had in forty years. For nearly four days and four nights has the weather endured as we have represented it. To-day, if it should be clear, the whole city will be out sleighing -- sleighs will rise in value, and every thing in the shape of a sleigh will be put in requisition. New York Herald, January 11, 1836, p. 2, cols. 1-2 If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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