​Tired from the toil of the trip [from Philadelphia, through New Jersey] and having
formed some acquaintances in New York, I thought I would visit Boston and then return
to New York, whence I would embark for England.  The harshness of the winter held me
suspended for some time and finally made me change the plan.  The sound and the
rivers remained frozen for a long time, obstructing all navigation, and the roads,
although covered with snow, became impassable with the frequent thaws -- neither
sledge nor wheels could attempt them.  So I decided to remain here until the weather
improved and I moved to better lodging, at Maiden Lane No. 9, the home of Mr.
Ellsworth and an excellent private inn, paying seven pesos fuertes weekly (not including
fire and liquor) for myself.  The servant I had brought from Philadelphia, who was
obligated to serve me for two and a half years, escaped a few days after my arrival
here.  I had bought him for ten guineas in Philadelphia, on board an Irish ship bearing a
cargo of more than three hundred male and female slaves.  John Dean (his name) was
born in Scotland and was about sixteen years old; he seemed to me honest and without
mischievousness, but the event proved the contrary.

On the twentieth of February I set out on another foray, this one to West Point, with the intention of seeing this celebrated place and the neighboring areas, scenes of military actions in the recent war.  At two o'clock in the afternoon, provided with letters of recommendation given me by Governor Clinton, my friend Colonel Hamilton, General McDougall, Mr. Parker, etc., I started out on my sledge, accompanied by Cornet Taylor.  At three o'clock we reached the country house of Colonel Robert Morris, ten miles from New York, one of the handsomest and most pleasing of its type that I have seen in America, as much for its location as for the neatness and taste with which it was built.  Two miles farther are Land Hill and Laurel Hill, where we stopped and climbed up to Fort Washington, situated on the former, where I had the pleasure of viewing again
the famous British lines I have mentioned.  Three miles ahead we crossed Kings Bridge,
and traveling another mile, we arrived at Courtland House, where we were very well
received and were lodged for the night of the General and her two younger sons,
       
Early in the morning we sallied forth and, covering the distance of fourteen miles
over extremely broken and hilly ground, reached White Plains, where we had breakfast
in a small tavern, the only house remaining there, and then proceeded to visit the posts
and positions of the American and British armies that operated on said ground in
September, 1776.  
       
Four miles farther is another small river, the Sawmill, over which there is a wooden bridge, and one mile farther the small town of Tarrytown, on the North River.  On the highway near Tarrytown is a large tree marking the spot where Major André was arrested by three young, rustic militiamen, an incident that produced so much clatter afterwards.  From there they took him to New Salem, ten miles distant, and thence to West Point, ten miles farther on.  Nine miles from Tarrytown is New Bridge, a well-built wooden structure over the Croton River, the waters of which are quite abundant.  Here we ate middlingly in a rural tavern  and, following our route on a road that is everywhere broken, hilly, and covered with rocks, at sunset reached Peekskill, a village of some twenty or thirty small houses on the North River ten miles farther on.  Here we came upon a mediocre tavern and a most comical scene between a squire of the locality, a justice of the peace, and a drunk who thrust himself into the tavern and insulted them in a thousand ways.  Nobody dared to restrain or throw him out, notwithstanding said insulted personages comprised the police of the town and manifested a desire to do so.
       
The next day we continued our journey over the ice of the North River, the surface of which had the appearance of a very handsome and polished lamina.  The ice must have been two feet thick, and the snow on top of this one and a half feet; we did not have the least misgivings about danger, for, although it has broken many times in those places where the wind introduces itself between the surface of the water and the mass of ice, the way was already so beaten with the multitude of sledges which came and went on the river that there was no basis for the least care.  I assure you ingenuously that this entire spectacle seemed to me one of the strangest one can see in nature.  Both shores of the river are extremely elevated and the surface of its waters quite extensive, so that to look at the height of the mountains while one is traveling on the river, or, on the other hand, to observe from the heights the carriages on the ice, is a magnificent and extraordinary scene; the objects look so small in the midst of these majestic strokes of mature that the sledge and horses seemed to me the playthings of a child drawn by a pair of lap dogs.
       
At ten o'clock in the morning we arrived at West Point and directed our steps to
the tavern there, without anybody investigating or caring to know who the newly arrived
strangers were -- one of the most pleasant circumstances enjoyed in a free country. 
 At eleven o'clock, after a second breakfast, Mr. Taylor and I went to visit the commander of the post, to whom we presented our credentials and who received us with the greatest hospitality and attention, obliging us to take lodging in his own house.  [They tour the facility.]

From here we ascended the near-by mountain which commands Fort Clinton and
the plain in which is located the main buildings, that is, the quarters, the house of the
commandant, store houses, etc.; there I saw Fort Putnam (also takes its name from the
colonel who began its construction), which follows Fort Clinton in solidity and strength,
although it is much smaller, and is the work of the American General Kosciusko, a Pole
by birth, who came to this continent at the time of the revolution.  A series of mountains
which mutually dominate one another make these positions seem very precarious
defenses, to which one adds that the productions of art in fortifying them are neither
ingenious nor of much soundness.
       
Having finished the visit of all these positions, we retired, around three o'clock to
the house of the commander, Colonel Hull, who gave us a good meal.  In the evening
we enjoyed the company of the ladies of the garrison, who, because of the
novelty of foreigners, came to have tea with Mrs. Hull.

The next day, after breakfast, we resumed our military visit . . . , ascending the mountain with no little difficulty and toil, for it is quite high and perpendicular and was covered with snow and ice, we reached Points No. 1, 2, 3, and 4, in a circumference of five miles around the entire post.  These are still more redoubts, the ramparts of which can barely support light artillery.  A series of commanding grounds surrounding this post have produced such a number of weak advance works that the higher parts, which ought to be the strongest, are the weakest.

Our visit this day ended at a wooden blockhouse on the river, very well built and the most advanced work in that part, and at three-thirty, not a little tired, we reached the lgyodging of Major of Artillery Doughty, who gave us a very good meal.  In the evening we
drank tea and had supper at the house of the artillery commander, Major Bauman, who
likewise treated us very well.

Early the next day we crossed the river in a sledge and visited the fortifications on Constitution Island, which consist of three very strong redoubts (very well built and
located in dominant places) protecting the great chain and the passage of the river in
that spot.  We made an observation there: cutting the ice in the middle of the channel,
we found it to be two and a half feet thick.  We crossed the river to the location called
the Ferry and, ascending a mountain extremely high and difficult of access, visited
North and South Forts, medium redoubts located in very dominant places; from them an
immense prospectus over vast lands and the North River is revealed. 

At the foot of these heights and two miles from West Point is the house of
General McDougall (formerly of Colonel Robinson), and here we alighted at three
o'clock.  His son the Colonel, at the time the only one there, gave us a very good meal;
certainly the best apples I have ever tasted, I ate there that day (called pippins, and
those of this area are very special). 
       
West Point is the most advantageous position that could be selected to cut off the
navigation of the river, because, in addition to the narrowness of the latter at that spot, it
turn it makes forces every vessel to shift sails and consequently reduce its speed, at
which time the obstacles and batteries already mentioned can destroy it very easily.  An
attack upon the post by land would have been of more probable success, but, as the
army always maintained such a position of coming to its aid in case of necessity, this
was not possible either.  The location is extremely romantic and majestic in the higher
parts.  Butter Hill, contiguous to it, rises twelve hundred feet above the surface of the
river.  One also sees from West Point the Catskill Mountains, the highest in this part of
the continent.
  
Early on the twenty-sixth, after a light breakfast, we started out on our return to
New York by way of Jersey, with the intention of seeing the Passaic cascade.  Major
Doughty, Mr. Taylor and I accommodated ourselves very well in two sledges and went
down the river over the ice, like lightning.  Five miles from West Point, on the west bank,
are the ruins of Fort Montgomery and on the opposite bank, the extremity called
Anthony's nose, upon which had been fixed a chain in order to cut off the navigation of
the river, protected by said fort, the loss of which resulted in the Americans forming the
idea of fortifying and establishing West Point.
       
Continuing our Laplandish route over the ice, we arrived at Verplancks Point,
seven miles farther down, where we went on land.  Going about two miles, we reached
Kings Ferry, opposite Stony Point, where there is a redoubt, capacious and very well
built (perhaps the best I have even seen of its kind), called Lafayette.  Also in this
vicinity is the encampment the American and French armies occupied in 1782 upon
their withdrawal from Virginia, after the capture of Cornwallis, etc.

From Kings Ferry we crossed the river over the ice, with no slight misgiving, for in some places the water penetrated and the ice was known to be quite thin, but comforting us were a good guide we had in front and stick in the hand to support ourselves should our feet open a large hole.  So we all crossed on foot, sending before us the sledge and horses for greater safety.  The river in this spot is something more than a mile wide.  In a poor tavern there we found some fresh fish (just caught in the river through a hole made for this purpose in the ice), from which we asked them to prepare something to eat while we visited the place.
       
Stony Point is on the west bank of the North River, exactly in front of Fort Lafayette, and is by its shape and location one of the most advantageous positions for fortifications that nature has formed.  It completely commands what ground there is within (p. 91) the reach of cannon and by its configuration naturally flanks all the avenues by which it can be attacked.  So with very little help from art one can erect there the strongest fortification that can be imagined.  At present there is only a small fort of earth and wood there, which was what the Americans reduced it to after having taken it and ruined its fortifications, but one still sees very distinctly the lines, moats, etc. of these as they were built by the British, and I assure you ingenuously that, having examined them well and meditated upon the matter, I cannot conceive how the operation of the capture was effected, and with such little cost.  The garrison consisted of eight hundred well-regulated troops, a number sufficient for its defense.  We should not resort to the subterfuge of saying they were taken by surprise, knowing that the advance posts gave the alarm in time and fired upon the attacking American parties.  The strength of the latter amounted in all to twelve hundred men, selected and led by General Wayne.
       
The losses were sixty dead and forty wounded on the part of the British, thirty dead and seventy wounded for the Americans. These circumstances leave me in no doubt that this was one of the most brilliant feats of its kind one can find in military history.  Our military investigations completed, we returned to the tavern, where we found the meal we had ordered already prepared with the addition of potatoes, good butter, and abundant cider.  Our appetites were well disposed and so we are grandly, in the country style.  Soon afterward we took to the road, for it was already two o'clock.  Our friends and companions recrossed the river, to take their sledge (which had remained in Fort Lafayette) and return to West Point; Mr. Taylor and I took ours and continued our journey to Passaic Falls.
       
About two miles farther on, near the riverbank, is the house of Mr. Smith, where Major André stopped off and held his final conference with General Arnold, it is quite capacious, new, and of good architecture.  Three miles further on we found the small town of Haverstraw, situated exactly on the bank of the North river, where we noticed an enormous quantity of firewood; this was to be sent to New York whenever the ice should desist and permit the navigation of the river, because so great a shortage was being experienced there that a cartload of firewood was worth twenty or thirty pesos.  We continued seven miles to Clarkstown, which has about fifteen houses in its vicinity; here we stopped to give food to the horses and warm ourselves a bit, for the cold pressed upon us like a demon.  As darkness came, having traveled seven miles farther, we reached Orangetown (some call it Tappan, from the name of the district), the inhabitants of which are contained in sixteen houses.  We spent the night in a Dutch inn there.
       
Here one can see the position where the American army was encamped in 1781 where the unfortunate André was hanged.  I have seen the room where he was imprisoned, people who gave him assistance, and the site of the execution.  His body was buried at the foot of the gallows, and his sepulcher remains there, with two ordinary flat stones without inscription or mark indicating the least remembrance of his fame.  I do not doubt, having examined the matter thoroughly and gathered the most authentic information, that the plan of the project which led him to the mentioned punishment was his production entirely, based on the intimate friendship he had formed in Philadelphia with Mrs. Arnold (then Miss Shippen), which channel seemed to him, and without doubt was, the most suitable for managing the conspiracy.  The result revealed very clearly that he did not lack ability for closet machination and intrigue, but at the same time lets us know he was not the man for its execution, for he did not have that presence of mind which is indispensable for handling critical moments.  The way that Arnold played his role (that is, knowing through a letter that André had been arrested, he escaped, without the loss of a moment, from the midst of all his enemies, over a million hazards) forms a quite singular and characteristic contrast of the temper and spirit of both men. 

​May 28, 1784.  At five thirty in the afternoon, I set sail from Albany Pier, New York, on the sloop Schuyler, Captain Willet, for Albany.  The passengers were two Frenchmen, three American men, and two American women of fairly good manners and not unsociable.  With a lazy wind from the south we went up the North River and passed several delightful and very well situated country houses, outstanding among them those of Mr. Lespenard, Mr. Montier, Mr. Eliot, Mr. W. Bayard, Mr. Oliver DeLancey, etc.  The wind having changed to the north, we cast anchor in Tappan Bay, thirty-six miles from New York, at seven o'clock in the morning.
        [
May] 29.  We remained here the entire day, with the sole recourse of our small
society and some books, for the wind was blowing too strongly for us to venture to
disembark for a walk on land.
       
[May] 30.  The wind having calmed a bit, we set sail at four o'clock in the morning and, aided by the tide, arrived at eight o'clock at Haverstraw, four miles farther on, where it was necessary for us to drop anchor again, the wind having increased too much.  Around nine-thirty most of us went on land and took a good walk.  The Frenchman and I ate in a poor but clean tavern, and I had an adventure with a shepherdess in the manner of the shepherd Phido, but with greater success.  The wind having fallen and the tide rising in our favor, we set sail at four o'clock, in the afternoon.  At the setting of the sun we were off Stony Point and Fort Lafayette, helped by the tide. for the wind was adverse; thus we passed Peekskll and finally reached Horse Race, where we anchored at eleven o'clock, six miles up river from where we had set sail.
       
[May] 31.  At seven-thirty in the morning we set sail with a lazy wind from the north and at ten o'clock anchored about a mile farther up, in front of a beautiful cascade created by nature on the east bank.  We disembarked to take a walk with the ladies and in the shade of the trees had a colloquy somewhat gallant and amorous.  At four o'clock we set sail with the current and at the setting of the sun passed Fort Montgomery opposite Anthonys Nose.  At nine o'clock we passed by Buttermilk Falls, one mile from West Point on the West Bank, and by all the works of this post, Constitution Island, etc., having travelled seven miles.  Here we came upon a fresh wind from the south, with which we soon reached the spot they call Blowing Hole (for the reason that the wind always blows here extraordinarily).  This point is the limit of the Highlands, six miles from West Point.  Three miles up river on the east bank is the town of New Windsor, and a little before the chevaux-de-frise, in front of Polopels Island, of the same type as those on the Delaware.  Here we were becalmed, and with the tide and a light wind we continued, passing the town of Newburgh about two miles farther, exactly on the bank, and two miles farther on the opposite bank, the town of Fishkill, where we anchored at three o'clock in the morning.
       
June 1.  At eight o'clock we set sail with a lazy wind from the south, passing the town of Poughkeepsie, twelve miles up river on the east bank; at eleven, Davis Store, Livingstons Store, Duers Distillery, Shenks Mills, North's Store, and various other buildings on one or the other bank.  Here we drank the river water, exceedingly good and drinkable.  Continuing up river, six miles farther on the west bank is Devoes Ferry; farther ahead, Esopus Island; eight miles ahead, Esopus Creek; ten miles farther, Mudlane Island (to the left of the river, in the interior of the continent, are the high Catskills, part of the Allegheny Mountains); two miles farther, Red Hook Landing and Island; one mile farther, Tory Livingston House, on the east bank; on the same bank two miles farther, Widow Livingston House and Manor; four miles ahead, West Camp and East Camp, two small towns opposite each other on the banks of the river, founded by Germans; four miles up river, Livingston Upper Manor and House; four miles farther, Claverack and Lansingburgh Landing Places, the former on the east, the latter on the west bank; eight miles farther on the east bank, the remarkable Kinderhook Landing Place, nine miles up river, Coeyman's Overslaugh, a bar which not vessel drawing more than nine feet an pass; nine miles up river, Upper Overslaugh, another
bar, which at high tide only has seven and a half feet of water; here we cast anchor at
two o'clock in the morning, because it was dark and we could not see the pickets which
serve as marks.
       
June 2.  At four o'clock in the morning, the day already bright, we set sail and half an hour later tied up at the Albany wharves three miles up river on the east bank.  Half a mile from Albany is the house of Mr. Henry Cuylar, large and of good architecture; on the opposite bank and almost in front is that of General Schuyler, better in every respect.  In the northern extreme of the town, also on the river, is another famous house (not as well situated as the two previous ones, but larger), belonging to Mr. Stephen Van Rensselaer.  After disembarking, I took a long walk through the city in the company of Dr. Eliot, one of the passengers, and then obtained lodging at the Hollenbake Inn.

[June] 3.  At three o'clock in the afternoon I left Albany, with my servant, on two very good horses rented for two pesos daily.  The weather was very good and the road so pleasant that it was with the greatest delight I continued my journey on the banks of the North River as far as the spot where the Mohawk River joins its waters, about seven miles from Albany.  From here I traveled over the banks of the Mohawk to Cohoes Falls, five miles farther up, where I arrived at five o'clock.  The grasses of the fields exuded such an aromatic odor, the forests presented a sight so fertile, the grains and other crops appeared so beautiful and luxuriant, and the land so rich that I thought I was in Puerto Rico, Cuba, or part of our American continent.  The entire region is middlingly populated, and proportionately there is sufficient agriculture, but the inhabitants seem to be poor.  The women commonly walk without shoes, and the number of Negroes is large.  The latter and the whites speak Dutch generally, so that the traveler imagines himself in the middle of a Dutch colony.
When I saw this very famous cascade I confess it surprised me and gave me such contentment as few objects in nature have produced in my spirit.  The height of the falls is about 40 varas [OED: A linear measure used in Spain, Portugal, and Spanish America, of
varying length in different localities, but usually about 33 inches long; a Spanish yard. and the width about 220, but this is not all that forms its beauty; the play of the waters among the irregularities of the rock and the harmony, union, and aggregate of the whole give it an
air of majesty and symmetry exceeding what the mind can conceive without having
seen it first.  Various other effects contribute to embellish the object; some of them is the
rainbow the rays of the sun form in the particles of water floating in the atmosphere
thereabout.  Having examined all this very well and admiring more each time the land
on the banks of this river, the most fertile and luxuriant region of all North America, I
rested a little in a house nearby, where two country girls gave me the freshest water to
drink and very good conversation.  It is a peculiar thing that almost all the inhabitants of
this region speak both Dutch and English!
       
At seven o'clock in the evening I arrived at Half Moon (the river forms exactly this figure there) on the banks of the North River, where I took lodging at the home of the widow Pepples.  Here I had very good tea, supper, etc., and a conversation with the daughter of said widow, about sixteen years old, to whom I offered to send some books from New York.
       
[June] 4.  At seven thirty in the morning I sallied forth, continuing on the west bank of the North River.  At four miles are the mills for sawing wood called Funday's Mills, and three miles farther the stream they call Stillwater, or Palmer's Mills, the former because here one begins to feel the rapidity of the current of the river, the latter for some mills for sawing wood, like the preceding ones.  It is incredible the quantity of sawed wood one sees, all the distance from Albany, upon this river on rafts, by means of which they transport the wood to New York at very little cost.

The following account of the speed of an ice boat on the Hudson river in the vicinity of Staatsburg is given by the Poughkeepsie Eagle: — "On Thursday (19 February) the wind blew very fresh from the south, and the owner of the new ice bout Cyclone, determined to take advantage of the favourable opportunity for timing his yacht.  The Hudson at this point is very wide, and at the course selected its breadth is one mile.  Having made every preparation for the feat to be accomplished the reef points were shaken out of the sails, and every stitch of canvas spread to the gale.  With two men on the windward runner to keep the boat down to the ice, the helm was turned, the sails filled and in a moment, with every inch of canvass drawing, she was under full headway.  Like an arrow from a how she darted away on the course, clouds of pulverised ice following in the track of her runners.  As they hummed over the surface of the river, and in what seemed but an instant the river had been crossed and the mile accomplished in the almost incredible time of 31 sec. being at the rate of two miles in 1 min. 2 sec.  Persons on shore compared the speed of the flying racer to that of a meteor flashing through the sky, and watched her movements with eager interest.  Wanganui Herald (Wanganui, New Zealand), May 18, 1874

Winter Travelling in America. The Steamboat. [from our own correspondent.]
I propose, in my next few letters, to give the readers of the Echo a few sketches of the various modes of travelling during the winter season in America, but I shall preface my remarks by a slight allusion to the kind of weather we are now experiencing. Although the cold is much more intense in this country than it is in England, the winter taken altogether is much more pleasant than it is “at home.” The air is keen but dry, and there is not that atmospheric dampness noticeable here that characterizes an English winter, and we escape that depressing heavy feeling which so frequently steals over us in England when the weather sometimes get a little out of sorts. This has been one of the coldest winters known in America for many years. Here, in New York, the thermometer has sometimes stood at 3 deg. Below zero, but within a half-day’s journey of us the cold has been much more severely felt, 16 deg. Below having been reported on more than one occasion; while in the “cold districts” the thermometer has stood at 40 deg. Below for days together. Of course, there have been a large number of casualties, and great loss of life in some parts. Steamships have been caught in the ice and kept there for days. Trains have been snowed up, and many a poor creature has been frozen to death. Hopes are now entertained that the worst has passed. There are many people here, as in England, live long distances from their places of business, and to watch the influx into New York every morning is a sight to be remembered. Some come by rail or steam-cars, others make their trips by tramway or horse car, and again vast numbers patronize the river boats and steam ferries. 
​
It is with these latter that I shall deal now, leaving over the “tramways” – a subject by the way that old Stockton is considerably interested in – until a future occasion. The river steamers which several times a day make trips from Harlem to Fulton-street, New York, a distance of eight miles, are marvels of comfort and cleanliness. They are large enough to accommodate about 500 persons, and as they stop to take up and set down passengers at various places along the route, large numbers of persons avail themselves of the accommodations they afford. The fare is ten cents (5d) and when the river is clear of ice the trip is made in about thirty-five minutes, or nearly as fast as the steamers travel from Stockton to Middlesbrough. The saloons are fitted up in a style far superior to anything I have ever seen in English steamers; and, although the trip from point to point of travel is not a long one, the steamboat companies here, unlike their English brethren, minister to the comfort of their patrons. Notwithstanding that the river is blocked with miniature icebergs, I have this day made a trip in the “Harlem”, doing the eight miles in fifty minutes. When the captain of any of the boats sees a chunk of ice in his path, he does not ring his bell for the engineer to shut off steam, but directs the bow of the boat at the offending object, splitting the ice into pieces, and often smashing the steamer’s paddle wheels into splinters, while the passengers who have been watching the exploit suddenly find themselves so mixed up “in a heap” that it takes several seconds for each man to pick himself out of the pile of humanity, and make sure of his personal identity.

Winter Travelling in America. The Steamboat. [from our own correspondent.]
I propose, in my next few letters, to give the readers of the Echo a few sketches of the various modes of travelling during the winter season in America, but I shall preface my remarks by a slight allusion to the kind of weather we are now experiencing. Although the cold is much more intense in this country than it is in England, the winter taken altogether is much more pleasant than it is “at home.” The air is keen but dry, and there is not that atmospheric dampness noticeable here that characterizes an English winter, and we escape that depressing heavy feeling which so frequently steals over us in England when the weather sometimes get a little out of sorts. This has been one of the coldest winters known in America for many years. Here, in New York, the thermometer has sometimes stood at 3 deg. Below zero, but within a half-day’s journey of us the cold has been much more severely felt, 16 deg. Below having been reported on more than one occasion; while in the “cold districts” the thermometer has stood at 40 deg. Below for days together. Of course, there have been a large number of casualties, and great loss of life in some parts. Steamships have been caught in the ice and kept there for days. Trains have been snowed up, and many a poor creature has been frozen to death. Hopes are now entertained that the worst has passed. There are many people here, as in England, live long distances from their places of business, and to watch the influx into New York every morning is a sight to be remembered. Some come by rail or steam-cars, others make their trips by tramway or horse car, and again vast numbers patronize the river boats and steam ferries. 
​
It is with these latter that I shall deal now, leaving over the “tramways” – a subject by the way that old Stockton is considerably interested in – until a future occasion. The river steamers which several times a day make trips from Harlem to Fulton-street, New York, a distance of eight miles, are marvels of comfort and cleanliness. They are large enough to accommodate about 500 persons, and as they stop to take up and set down passengers at various places along the route, large numbers of persons avail themselves of the accommodations they afford. The fare is ten cents (5d) and when the river is clear of ice the trip is made in about thirty-five minutes, or nearly as fast as the steamers travel from Stockton to Middlesbrough. The saloons are fitted up in a style far superior to anything I have ever seen in English steamers; and, although the trip from point to point of travel is not a long one, the steamboat companies here, unlike their English brethren, minister to the comfort of their patrons. Notwithstanding that the river is blocked with miniature icebergs, I have this day made a trip in the “Harlem”, doing the eight miles in fifty minutes. When the captain of any of the boats sees a chunk of ice in his path, he does not ring his bell for the engineer to shut off steam, but directs the bow of the boat at the offending object, splitting the ice into pieces, and often smashing the steamer’s paddle wheels into splinters, while the passengers who have been watching the exploit suddenly find themselves so mixed up “in a heap” that it takes several seconds for each man to pick himself out of the pile of humanity, and make sure of his personal identity.

To a stranger is is rather hard work to appear perfectly composed and unconcerned at the sudden shocks he experiences from these collisions; but I do really believe that if a captain were to try and dodge one of these obstacles instead of smashing it, the whole crowd, ladies as well, would turn out on to the promenade decks and mob him. Each steamer is fitted up with refreshment bars, ladies’ saloons, smoking compartments for the gentlemen, wash-rooms, where soap and clean towels are always on hand, store-rooms for parcels and, above everything, in the winter time every part of the boat is comfortably heated, either with stoves or warm water pipes. In the day time, the numerous windows in both decks – there are two decks – make the compartments very cheery and lightsome; and in the evening the saloons are brilliantly lighted with lamps. There are large polished glass mirrors fixed up in different parts of the saloons, and when the boats are lighted up, they certainly do present the appearance of floating palaces; and for speed, comfort, economy, and the civility which the traveller meets with from the officials, this river travelling beats anything of its kind that it has been my fortune to have every witnessed in the Old Country. 

The huge ferries which daily carry thousands of passengers, and horses, and wagons of all kinds, to and from New York and Brooklyn on the one side, and Jersey City on the other, are also well worthy of notice; but as the trip, when the river is clear, only takes a few minutes, there has not been that attention paid to the comforts of the passengers that is to be met with in the boats making the longer trips. The fare on these ferries is two cents per passenger, and this winter there have been several instances in which the unfortunate passengers have received considerably more than their money’s worth. The distance across the river to Brooklyn is only about 200 yards, but the ice has come up the river in such tremendous quantities that in some instances persons have been four hours crossing. There is no bridge, and the only way to get across is by the ferries, unless one likes to chance jumping from piece to piece of detached ice to gain the New York side – a foolhardy feat that has been accomplished by numbers of people this year. The steamboats have in many instances become wedged in by fields of ice, and have either been compelled to remain stationary in the middle of the river, or have drifted far down the water away from their proper destination. Only about a week ago, one steamer had to remain with a full cargo embedded in the ice all night, in sight of both shores, without the passengers being able to get to land or help being afforded by those on terra firma. Under these circumstances, steamboat travelling is not altogether an unalloyed pleasure, and if “the novelty of the situation” is somewhat romantic, it is not very charming. G.S.B. New York, February 19th, 1875

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM Contributing Scholar Carl Mayer. This article was originally published  December 19, 1976.

Capt. William O. Benson recalls the rough autumn run of 1926

Many years ago, before the Hudson River channel to Albany was deepened for ocean vessels and kept open all winter by the Coast Guard, rivermen marked time by the last tow of the season. For boatmen, the last December run was more or less the end of the year, and it was often fraught with problems. Like the last tow out of Albany in 1926:

That autumn of fifty years ago had weather to match this year's. November temperatures had been below normal and banks of fog, sometimes pea soup thick, rolled in every morning. Cold nights brought skim ice along the shores and froze over the coves along the upper Hudson.

In early December a date was announced for the last Cornell tow to leave Albany. In those days almost all the towing on the Hudson River was done by the Cornell Steamboat Company.
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As usual, some scows and barges in the Albany area were not completely unloaded by the deadline, and others at the brickyards at Coeymans were still being loaded with brick for the New York market.

The owners put up a howl because they didn't want their barges to miss the last tow. When that happened, the barges froze in for the winter and lots of money was lost. So the owners kept yelling until the tow steamed out of Albany – a day later than announced.

About 30 boats were in the tow – a diverse fleet of late canal barges, scrap iron scows, lighters, and dredges that had been working on the upper Hudson. The lead boat in charge was the big tug "Pocahontas", with the "George W. Pratt", "G.C. Adams", Empire" and "Geo. N. Southwick", assisting as helpers. All five had wooden hulls.

Just before the flotilla started down river, the snow began. Before long it was a blizzard, which went on all day and through the night, accompanied by a biting cold north wind. As the tow approached Van Wies Point, the pilots could barely see either bank.

Slush, or 'snow ice' was forming from shore to shore. And, as it did in those days, the slush that passed under the wooden scows and barges clung to their flat bottoms and kept building until it actually dragged on the bottom of the river in the shallow parts.

The next morning the tow was off Castleton, only about eight miles from where it had started, and barely moving. Captain Gus Gulligan of the "Pocahontas" sent Captain Ed Van Woert of the "Adams" into Castleton to telephone Cornell's New York office for help. When Captain Van Woert came back to the tow, he said the big tugs "Geo. W. Washburn" and "Edwin H.. Mead", together with the helper tubs "W.N. Bavier" and "Edwin Terry", were on their way up river to assist the tow to New York. All four of these tugs had steel or iron hulls.
The loaded scows from the brickyards at Coeymans were added to the tow. With the benefit of an ebb tide and the helper tugs to break a track in the snow ice ahead, the flotilla was able to move slowly downstream. But off New Baltimore, it came to a dead stop. The slush under the barges had hit bottom.

The second morning set in clear and cold with the river beginning to freeze solid. All the crews kept looking down river, trying o be the first to spot the heavy smoke over the hills in back of Kinderhook that would signal the approach of the "Washburn" or "Mead".

Towards noon the "Washburn" was spotted coming around Bronck's Island with a bone in her teeth, pushing the ice and the river ahead of her. When she took hold of the tow it began to move again and in a short while the "Mead" showed up. The smaller "Bavier" and "Terry" had to stop then at Rondout for coal and grub.

The tow was off Coxsackie when who walks out on the ice but Mr. Robert Oliver, Cornell's superintendent of operations. It didn't faze him a bit that there were cracks in the ice. Captain Frank McCabe of the "Empire" put his tug's bow against one of the cracks, and Mr. Oliver climbed up over her bow and was put aboard the "Washburn".

As the tow was nearing Hudson the four helpers that started out with the group in Albany were running out of coal. One by one they went into Hudson, where coal trucks came down to the dock to load them up.

Because of the deep drafts of the "Washburn" and "Mead", the tow had to progress from there down the deeper Hudson channel instead of the Athens channel.

By this time, the "Bavier' and the "Terry" were in tow, bringing the number of Cornell boats in the group to nine – more than the company floated during their final years of operation in the late 1950s.

After the tow cleared the Hudson channel, Mr. Oliver ordered the captains of all the wooden-hulled tugs to go to the end of the tow and start in the broken track. He was afraid they might break a hull plank in the ice and sink.

Off Percy's Reach, the steamer "Catskill" of the Catskill Evening Line, was seen lying fast in heavy ice. Mr. Oliver sent the "Bavier" and "Terry" ahead to break her out, which It didn't take them long to do. The "Catskill" headed right into Catskill Point to tie up for the winter.

By now, both the "Washburn" and the "Mead" were pulling on the tow while the "Bavier" and  "Terry" broke the ice ahead. The flotilla was perking along at about four miles an hour.
Down off Smith's Landing, the tug "Joan Flannery" was waiting for the Cornell tow to come down. She had three lighters loaded with cement for New York, and her captain knew he could never make it alone. As the Cornell Tow went by, Captain Jim Malia of the "Flannery" pulled in about 50 feet behind, following right in their track in the ice.

"Whoever is on the "Joan Flannery" must have worked in Cornell's at one time," Mr. Oliver told the "Washburn" Captain Jim Dee. And Dee replied: "Yeh, that's Jim Malia who used to be captain of the "Townsend" and the "Cornell."

After all the scows from the brickyards between Malden and Kingston were added to the tow, the flotilla had grown to 55 boats. But off Kingston Point, five of them said goodbye. The wooden hullers in the group made a bee line for the Cornell shops on Rondout Creek to lay up for the winter.

Once past Kingston, the only obstacle was floating ice. The passenger and freight steamers "Newburgh" and "Poughkeepsie" of the Central Hudson Line operated daily between Kingston and New York in those days and kept the ice pretty well broken up.
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The tugboat men of fifty years ago sure had their trials and tribulations. Captains and pilots were always worried about what the ice might do to their boats – and to the other scows and barges in the tow. But in that year, as in most, good judgement and a certain amount of luck prevailed. The boats brought the tow safely down the old Hudson, and, with it, the close of the season of 1926 on the upper river.

Editor's Note: This article was by Raymond A. Ruge and originally published in the February 10, 1945 issue of "The Saturday Evening Post".  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.  ​

Once a rich man's game, iceboating today is a sport for anyone who has seventy-five dollars, a craving for speed—and plenty of ice.

ICE on the Shrewsbury! After half a dozen mild winters, the freeze-up of 1940 had clamped a ten-  inch layer of glassy ice over the shallow, brackish river. As if by magic, iceboats appeared from barns, garages, cellars and woodsheds, for this is real ice-boating country, where the sport's traditions run back nearly 100 years. And now the Eastern Ice Yachting Association had voted to hold its annual championship regatta on the famous New Jersey course. 

Two week ends of hard racing had all but completed the program. The pick of the fleets of twelve member clubs had fought for five class championships—an iceboat's class is based on sail area alone—from the tiny Class E Skeeters, with their pocket-handkerchief sails of only seventy-five square feet, to the big, powerful Class A racers, prides of the Shrewsbury, spreading 350 feet of creamy canvas. Between these came the champions of Class D, Class C and Class B, at 125, 175 and 200 square feet. There was just one race to go, the Open Championship, in which all these class champions fight it out without handicap to pick the year's undisputed king of the Eastern ice ways.
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Since early morning, the northwest gale had roared, driving the furred and helmeted skippers to shelter round the clubhouse stove. At the rear of the long room steamed a huge chowder bowl, brimful of tangy, salty brew, concocted from good home-grown Jersey clams by the master hand of the old salt who now pridefully dispensed it. For chowder's "on the house" at Red Bank when the ice is right.

Around the crackling stove, half a dozen younger skippers were tangled in argument with the veterans.

"Why, I can remember the Rocket—eight hunderd an' fifty foot of sail, she had! And you call those little things iceboats!"

"Okay, okay! Just wait till this race gets started—if it ever does!" 

Down the long side of the room was a workbench, where a pair of grimy characters filed away at long v-edged runners held in special blocks at just the proper angle. After filing the blades, they dressed them with light emery cloth and oil until they shone like polished silver.

"There. That ought to hold 'em," grunted one of the workers, as he straightened up and tossed aside his black oily gloves. "Only dirty job in this sport, but you can't get far without doing it, and you sure can't hire anybody to do it for you. How's for some chowder?"

"I'm your man," said his companion. "By the way, who's got a five-sixteenths drill?"

​"Look in my box—that green one under the bench," volunteered one of the men around the stove. 'Clearly, here was a gang who knew and respected one another. They swapped ideas, tools and equipment like sailors swapping telephone numbers after a six months' cruise—apparently with perfect confidence that all favors would be returned in kind whenever possible. The iceboaters are like that. Most of them build their own boats. They have a mutual love for a fast, hard sport—one which automatically weeds out all but the regular guys by the sheer discomfort and disappointments that are part of the game. 

Outside, halyards slapped a tattoo against shivering spars, taut rigging whistled and moaned, and canvas covers whipped viciously, as the fleet stood by, five champions waiting eagerly for the first lull that would permit starting of the Open. Finally, it came.
"Start at 3:15!" flashed the committee. Chowder was forgotten, the stove abandoned, as flying suits were pulled on and helmets buckled down. Shouldering runners, which are always removed at nightfall to prevent rusting, and toting sail bags, the crews lunged out into the gale. Canvas covers were stripped from gleaming mahogany and spruce. Lead weights were strapped to runner planks, runners and rigging given a last check-over before sails were hoisted for the jolting, grinding punishment to come.

"Course shortened to ten miles! Leave all marks to starboard! Skippers and crews ready! Spectators keep back!"
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And there were plenty of spectators, for this was the race that Red Bank had been waiting for. The Class A yachts of time-honored stern-steering design had been undisputed speed kings of the ice for a quarter of a century. Then in the early 1930's, in Wisconsin, where iceboating flourishes under the sponsorship of the Northwestern Ice Yachting Association, a few daring pioneers tried a boat that reversed the usual arrangement, and steered from a single runner up front, something like Sister Susie's tricycle. They gave it a boxlike fuselage for a hull, so the pilot could sit upright and see where he was going—surely desirable at seventy miles an hour. He also was seated down inside the hull, so he could stay aboard without having to be an acrobat as well as a sailor. The traditional jib-and-mainsail rig gave way to the simpler cat, with its single sail. And, surprisingly, the new reverse-English jobs began trimming the pants off the older-style boats. By 1940, several had been brought East, and here they were at Red Bank, daring to tackle the old-style boats of nearly five times their sail area. Even the boldest of the young folks had to admit that the little eighteen-foot Western-built Skeeter, with its one-man crew, looked like a toy out there beside the thirty-five-foot Class A entry boast-ing both a skipper and a sheet tender.

The roar of the cannon sent them away. As the boats leaped away down-river, the big A left the others far behind. Turning the lower mark, she started across the lower river on the outer leg of the triangular course and was nearly a quarter mile ahead.

The old-timers chuckled. "See what we told you? Those little mahogany cracker boxes can't stay with a real ice-boat. Look where they are already!"

Up the river now, they crisscrossed as they tacked their way into the teeth of the gale toward the home stake. Three of the five starters were already far behind, but the little boat was moving up! This was going to be a race, after all. As the mighty Goliath of the river roared up and around the mark to start the second lap, right on her heels, not 100 yards behind, was that pesky little cracker box, the smallest boat in the race. Down the river again, lost in the flying snow. Across the outer leg and back up that wicked zigzag leg to windward. This time the Skeeter was even closer—a hornet chasing an eagle.

 At the end of the third lap, they were even. One to go, and it was anybody's race. Downstream they went, down and across the outer leg, the eagle still ahead, but the hornet right on her tail. The last leg would tell the story. Up they came tacking, turning, fighting for every inch. Then the tiny Skeeter slipped past the big boat not a quarter mile from the finish, and went on to win by fifteen seconds.
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The victory emphasized the fact that iceboating had switched from a rich man's game, with an outlay of $2500 or more for a top-flight racer, to a sport for the average man. The Skeeter that won the 1940 Open cost $350, complete—about as much as a single set of runners for the big yacht she had so neatly trimmed. Annual maintenance on a Skeeter runs in the neighborhood of a ten-dollar bill. By building their own boats, many fans cut the initial cost be-low the $200 mark. For transportation, a car-top carrier or a small two-wheeled trailer does the trick. 

Iceboating had found a level where al-most anyone who wanted to could enjoy it. New clubs sprang up wherever there was ice enough to sail the boats. Be-tween 1931 and 1941, the number of ice-boats in active use was just about quadrupled. Allowing the usual quota of one owner—the skipper—and at least two or three enthusiastic pals per boat, the number of iceboaters was multiplied by twelve to sixteen. More accurate figures are impossible to get. Although organized iceboating was discontinued for the duration, after the regattas of 1942, informal sailing is today going on as usual.

Whenever the conversation gets around to iceboating, there are certain questions that always turn up. The first one, of course, goes: "Well, all kidding aside, how fast do they really go?" And right off the bat we run into the mystery of "faster than the wind." Actually, ice-boats do sail faster than the wind—a whole lot faster, in fact—but only when they're sailing across the wind, not running along with it. An iceboat moves so easily on her polished metal runners that a half-ton boat, once under way, can be pushed along by any ten-year-old, and there's practically no increase in ice friction as the speed increases. At the same time, the sharp V edges of the runners completely eliminate sideslip, so that every ounce of power developed by the sail goes into forward motion. As a result, when the boat is sailed directly across the wind stream, so the wind tries to push her sideways, her runners say "Nothing doing," and she has to slip ahead out of this squeeze play like a watermelon seed popping out from between your fingers.

Furthermore, the forward movement of the boat immediately brings into action a second air flow, equal to the speed of the boat, and coming from dead ahead. Her sails don't feel it, but they don't feel the same breeze as a person standing still, either. What they get and what actually drives the boat is a combination of the true wind and the air current caused by the boat's motion. This combined breeze is known as the "apparent wind," and because iceboats move so easily, they soon build up their apparent wind to a velocity far higher than that of the real wind. They can keep on working the squeeze play and the wind build-up until they get up to about four times the original wind speed. Then the apparent wind is coming from so nearly dead ahead that they can't build it up any more. But four times the speed of the wind is enough for anybody.

​Now you can begin to understand how Long Branch's famous Commodore Price broke every speed record on the books by sailing the Clarel 140 miles an hour one winter day in 1908. He didn't have a hurricane—just a typical winter westerly, with puffs hitting forty or forty-five, and he got the old girl going at just the right angle. Debutante III, of Oshkosh, claims 119 in a race on Gull Lake, Michigan. Flying Dutchman, of the same club, is credited with 124. Both these records are to the credit of the famous skipper, John Buckstaff, of Oshkosh. 

Iceboats, however, don't always go tearing around four times as fast as the wind. Most of the time their speed is closer to twice the wind speed, and because they have to tack to get to wind-ward, they cover a greater distance than the measured course in every race. The real test of a boat's ability is what she can do around a course from a standing start. A comparison of old records with new will show what streamlining and modern rigs have done for speed. In 1892, the famous Jack Frost-720 square feet—set a record by sailing a twenty-mile race on the Hudson River at an average speed of 38.3 miles per hour. Actual distance: 31.4 miles; time: 49 minutes, 30 seconds. Almost a half century later, Charette II, carrying 125 square feet of sail, covered a ten-mile course in 11 minutes, 33 seconds at an average speed of 51.9 miles an hour to win the Eastern Open Championship for 1941.

Having been convinced that iceboats really do make time, our questioner in-variably follows up with this one: "At speeds like that, how do you ever stop the darned things?" Stopping is actually a cinch, provided the skipper hasn't made that basic error known to the trade as "running out of ice." Iceboats will stop in a surprisingly short distance, if they are headed straight into the wind.

"Isn't it dangerous?" In the hands of a fool or a show-off, yes. But properly handled—and it's easy—iceboats are a lot safer than automobiles. For one thing, there's no lurking ditch, nor is there a line of fence posts and a stream of opposing traffic. There's plenty of room; collisions are practically unheard of. Furthermore, with her sharp runners, an iceboat can be steered within a fraction of an inch of where her skipper wants to send her, with one exception. The older type of boat, with stern rudder, some-times will take matters into her own hands, kick up her heels and do a whirling dervish, spinning around two or three times as if trying to shake off both skipper and crew. And sometimes she succeeds.

In 1931, Starke Meyer, of Milwaukee, did some experimenting with models he hoped would lick the spin problem. He decided to reverse the traditional design and give the bow steerer a try. In the next few seasons he built several, all named Paula. The bow steerer turned out to be tremendously fast. Even more encouraging, she proved to be spin-proof. Paula's offspring can be numbered in the thousands. Most numerous are the ubiquitous Skeeters.

In fairness, however, it should be pointed out that, while the bow steerer won't spin and toss you off, she's a dangerous lady in a capsize. She lifts her crew high in the air as she rears, and if she goes over, they may be tossed out from a height of eight or ten feet or, even worse, have the whole works fall with them, in case the mast breaks. A few bad spills of this type occurred when bow steerers were younger and not so well understood. In recent years, skippers have learned always to carry the main sheet—the rope that controls the sail—so that it can be slipped a bit if the boat tries to hike more than a few inches. They have found that the boat makes better speed if she is kept down on the ice than when one runner is reaching for the sky, the way you see them in the newsreels. Since there is no profit and there is real danger in carrying a hike too far, capsizes these days are rare indeed. When they do occur, you may be sure that they are the result of just plain bad driving.

We can just about ignore the old question, "Isn't it terribly cold?" 'Sure it's cold. But everybody gets outdoors in the winter nowadays, and all you have to do is dress for it. For coldest days, ice-boaters smear their faces with camphor ice, petroleum jelly or cold cream, and their lips with pomade—don't laugh, brother; a split lip is no joke—as do skiers, fliers, mountain climbers and lots of other outdoor sportsmen.
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And so we get to the key questions: "Isn't it expensive?" and "How do I get started?" The Skeeter, professionally built at $350, home-built for $75 to $200, has pretty well settled the financial matter, for a good Skeeter is just as fast as anything else, and a lot less trouble. In the old days, when speed was more or less proportional to size, enormous yachts were built, at costs running into the thousands. Largest of all was the Icicle, owned by President Roosevelt's uncle, Commodore John E. Roosevelt, of the Hudson River Ice Yacht Club at Hyde Park. Originally built in 1869, she was enlarged and remodeled until she reached the amazing length of sixty-nine feet and lugged a thousand-square-foot spread of canvas. 

She has been carefully preserved, and now rests in the Roosevelt museum at Hyde Park. By 1890, she was being consistently beaten by much smaller but more efficient craft, and the big boats gradually dropped into the discard.

The largest yacht still sailing is the Debutante III, owned by Douglas and Camp van Dyke, of Oshkosh, Wisconsin. Carrying 618 square feet of sail in a towering rig that completely dwarfs every other boat in sight, she has seen both the Hearst and the Stuart cups, iceboating's premier trophies, lifted from her by smaller boats. The Hearst Cup now rests at Madison, jealously guarded by the 350-square-footer Fritz, owned by Fritz Jungbluth and sailed by Carl Bernard. The Stuart Cup is in Detroit, won and held by Rex Jacobs' fine 350-square-footer Ferdinand, under the able handling of George Hendrie. And even these super-racers have now and again been beaten by little bow steerers carrying 175 square feet or less, which means that a $350 Skeeter will put you right up there with the best of them.

Of real importance is the ease with which these little boats can be transported. In the East, for example, the Skeeter crowd has actually stretched the season from a former average of two months to the present one of nearer four. Opening the season on the earliest ice, up in the hills around Kent, Connecticut, they move down into Southern New York to Orange and Greenwood lakes, or into Northern Jersey to Lakes Hopatcong and Musconetcong. If it's a really hard winter, like that of 1940, the lakes will be snowed under. But there's bound to be ice on the Shrewsbury. So south-ward they go, for a Skeeter can be knocked down ready for the road in half an hour. As the winter wears along, the trek is reversed, until the last days of March find them back in Connecticut, winding up the season in glorious spring sunshine. In Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine, most of the large lakes sport a few boats, and there are several clubs of considerable size. If you're a Midwesterner, Lake St. Clair, at Detroit, Gull Lake, near Kalamazoo, Fox Lake, northwest of Chicago, Lakes Geneva, Mendota, Pewaukee and Winnebago in Wisconsin, or White Bear and Minnetonka in Minnesota, are the hot spots. There are lots of others, and it's a safe bet you live within an hour's drive of iceboating if you're in those latitudes.

And don't think it's all racing. Not by a long shot. Many an enthusiastic ice-boater never races. He probably likes to use tools, and he likes to get outdoors in the wintertime with a group of con-genial spirits. He gets a tremendous kick out of iceboating, even though race day finds him serving on the committee instead of clipping buoys.

The best way to get started is to go where the boats are and get talking to the people who sail them. You'll find them more than friendly, glad to give you a ride, and ready to welcome you heartily if you really get the bug and decide to acquire a boat. Even if you are a fine craftsman and are pretty sure you know just what you want to build, it is far wiser to buy your first iceboat, preferably secondhand. You'll learn a lot about what makes a good one good after you've sailed, rigged and played with one for a couple of seasons. Then is the time to build that superboat for yourself. And many's the fellow who's done it. Fritz, the boat we met a few lines back, winner in 1934 of the Hearst Cup, Stuart Cup, Northwestern Class A and Free-for-All Championships; Elizabeth R., owned and sailed by Rube White, of Red Bank, holder of the North American Class A Pennant; Scout, last winner-1922—of the Ice Yacht Challenge Pennant of America, sailed by Capt. Frank Drake, of New Hamburg, who still sails every winter, though shading seventy; my own, Charette II, four times Eastern Class C Champion and twice winner of the Eastern Open—all are home-built boats.
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Iceboating flourished in Northeastern Europe for many years. Stockholm, Riga and Berlin boasted many clubs and active fleets of yachts. Just before the war, the nations around the Baltic Sea banded together into the Europiiischen Eissegel Union, and sailed annual inter-national championships in several sail-area classes. It may well be that the next winter Olympics will see the inauguration of truly international ice yachting. Steps toward this end were under way when war broke out. Once it's over, you can look for more and faster iceboating wherever Jack Frost hangs his hat.

                                                  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

Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. This article was originally published ​ February 18, 1973.

One day back in February of ‘36 I took a drive to Bear Mountain where the steamboats “Onteora” and “Clermont” were layed up for the winter.  I planned to pay a visit to my friend John Tewbeck, who was the mate on the “Clermont” and acting as shipkeeper for the two steamboats.  He had been second Mate with my brother, Algot, when Algot had been first Mate of the “Onteora” back in 1921.
           
It was an overcast day and looked as if a snow storm might be in the making.  Sure enough, after I arrived aboard the “Clermont” about 2 p.m., it started to snow.  John had to go on an errand to Highland Falls and suggested I wait until he returned.  After he left, I took a walk around the two steamboats, all dark and still in their winter hibernation.
           
As I stood in the silent, cold pilot house of the “Onteora” I couldn’t help but think how it must have been there in the day when the “Onty” was new, back at the turn of the century, and running for the old Catskill Evening Line to Catskill, Hudson, Coxsackie and other up river landings. 

I could almost see the ghosts of Captain Ben Hoff and the Pilots and quartermaster during the early morning hours discussing the political events of the day, as pilot house crews are wont to do.  Perhaps talking about Teddy Roosevelt’s campaigns against Judge Alton B. Parker in 1904 and in 1912 against Wilson and Taft. 

Boyhood Memories
Then my thoughts wandered to the early 1920’s when the “Onteora” had been converted to an excursion steamer and was running between New York and Bear Mountain.  How as a little boy I would visit my brother and be sitting enthralled in that same pilot house.  On one such visit, I remembered looking out the port windows and seeing the steamer “Poughkeepsie” of the Central Hudson Line running up river at about the same speed as the “Onteora,” getting a little too close.  And Captain Hoff saying “Come on, Amos (meaning Captain Amos Cooper of the “Poughkeepsie”), get over there.”
           
Now, however, all was still and quiet in the pilot house and the only sound was a train on the New York Central going up the east side of the river at the foot of Anthony’s Nose.  How the steam would “siss” across the cold, icy river.
           
I then leisurely walked back on the “Clermont” and went through her cold, silent engine room.  The bright work and moving parts of her engine were all covered with black grease as protection against the onslaught of winter’s rust.  Up in her pilot house, it sure was cold with the snow falling outside.  The brass was all tarnished and dark.  By that time, dusk was falling and the now was coming down heavier.  I couldn’t even make out the Bear Mountain bridge or the aero beacon on top of the Nose. 
           
John Tewbeck came back and said, “Well, Bill I guess you will have to stay here tonight as the roads are very slippery.” So I stayed aboard the “Clermont” all night.  On the second deck, in one of her former staterooms on the port side, John had two cots and a small stove.
 
Rattling Windows
During the night, how the wind rattled her windows and how the “Clermont” creaked and groaned as she tugged on her mooring lines.
           
It was very snug and comfortable that winter’s night in the “Clermont’s” cabin with the reassuring dull red glow from the coal fire in the small stove.  How nice and warm it was to lay in bed and dimly see the lights up in Bear Mountain Park and the snow plows going along the highways very slow with their red lights blinking their warning signals.
           
About 3 a.m. I woke up and dressed.  John, somewhat taken aback, said, “Where are you going at this hour?” I answered, “I’m going to take a walk around the boat to see how it is this hour of the morning in a snowstorm.”
           
After giving me his flashlight, which I took, John said, “I guess there is only one Benson like you in this world.” I replied.  “Well, I will never again have this opportunity to stay all night and walk around a passenger boat tied up at Bear Mountain, so I thought I’d take advantage of it.” John retorted, “Well, Bill, enjoy yourself, while I sleep in this warm bed.”
 
Cold on Deck
I went out on deck.  It was bitter cold, but the snow had lightened up considerable.  I could now clearly see the Bear Mountain highway bridge and the aero light atop the Nose.  How different the river looked all full of ice and snow.
           
I went up to the dark, still pilot house of the “Clermont.” There was something about it that drew me there.  Although it was very cold, I couldn’t help but think of how it must have been in that pilot house in seasons past when the steamboat was alive. 
           
Things were all hustle and bustle with passengers out on the decks, and perhaps the “Clermont” might be going into Stockport on a warm summer's morning with all the pilot house windows and doors open to catch the warm breezes. 
           
Finally, the cold brought my thoughts back to the present and that warm bed and coal stove on the second deck.  John was fast asleep and in a few moments so was I.  About 7 a.m. I awoke to the aroma of freshly brewing coffee and frying ham and eggs.  It was indeed pleasant to eat breakfast by the warm fire and look out on the snow covered park with the sun shining brightly.
 
Recalling That Night
About 10 a.m. I left for home.  After that I went to visit John a number of times, but never again did I stay overnight.  In 1946 he died of a heart attack and the “Clermont” herself was broken up in 1949.  A number of times in years later when going by Bear Mountain on cold and stormy nights, I would think about that night in February 1936 and recall my pleasant winter visit to the layed up steamboats.
           
​I remember an editorial that once appeared in the old New York Herald Tribune when the Day Liner “Washington Irving” was finally sold for scrapping.  The writer observed that of all inanimate objects, ships and steamboats seemed to be endowed with a life of their own and have friends.  I know the truth of the writer’s words, for this was my feeling for the “Clermont” and “Onteora.”

​On Friday 25th Jan. last, about 3 o’Clock Mr. Brookman of this town, one Thomas Slack, and a Negro of Mr. Remden’s, went off in a boat in order to shoot some water fowl, which during this hard weather have come in great numbers into the open places in the harbour, and having wounded some, pursued them till they got entangled in the ice, so that they were not able to get to land.  

​Their distress being seen from the shore here, a boat with several hands put off to their assistance, but night coming on lost sight of them, and returned. – Mean while the people in the ice drove with the tide as far as Red-Hook, and fired several guns as signals of distress.  The guns were heard on shore, but no assistance could be given them.  And as the weather was extreamly cold, it was thought they would all have perished, -- which they themselves also expected.  

​In this extremity they had recourse to every expedient in their power: There happened to be an iron pot and an ax on board – they cut off a piece of the boat roap and pick’d it to oakum, and putting it in the pan of a gun with some powder, catched it on fire, which with some thin pieces cut from the mast, they kindled in the pot, and then cut up their mast, seats, &c. for fewel, and making a tent of their sail, wrapt themselves as well as they could; when they found themselves nearly overcome with the cold, notwithstanding their fire, they exercised themselves with wresting, which proved a very happy expedient, restored their natural warmth, and no doubt greatly contributed to their preservation.

In this manner they passed the whole night, in which they suffered much cold, but happily escaped with life, and without being frost bitten: Next morning, by firing guns, they were discovered in the ice by Mr. Seabring on Long Island, who, by laying planks on the ice for near a quarter of a mile, which otherwise was not strong enough to bear a man’s weight, they all got safe on shore, without the least hurt, and returned the same day to York.