Looks as If It Would Make an Exception This Year, However — Last Season’s Record Recalls the Great Flood of 1857, When Much Damage Was Caused in Albany.
If the Hudson river should skip a year in its record of spring freshets, Albanians would be agreeably surprised, for the years in which it has not overflowed its banks at this point when the ice went out or soon after have been few and far between. Forecaster Todd has compiled a record from many sources of the floods that have occurred at Albany extending back to 1645. Many early years since then are omitted, of course, no records
being available, but it makes a telling argument for the deepening of the upper Hudson and the clearing out of sandbars that facilitate the formation of ice gorges that serve as dams and back up the water until it overflows the docks and inundates a considerable section of the city.

Highest on Record.
The flood of last year is still fresh in the minds of Albanians. The water at this point reached the highest mark on record, 23 feet above mean low water level, even exceeding that of the great flood of 1857, which was until last year the greatest flood in the history of the Hudson. In 1867 the highest point reached was 21.25 feet above mean low water. There is no absolute surety that a freshet will not occur after the ice has passed out of the river. Last year the river began to rise rapidly on March 26, after the steamers of the Hudson River
Navigation company had resumed navigation and had been running some time. The flood was caused by heavy rains, helped by ice that came down from the Mohawk. The water continued to rise on the 27th and on the 30th reached its maximum height of 23 feet above mean low water. At midnight the river began slowly to recede and by March 31 had reached nearly normal conditions. In this flood bridges were washed away, barns, lumber and all sorts of debris floated past Albany and nearly every industry in this city. Rensselaer and Troy was suspended, about 100,000 in the three cities being temporarily thrown out of employment. There was great suffering in the South End, but perhaps the worst effect of this flood was the putting out of commission of the filtration plant and the pollution of the drinking water, which caused a good many cases of typhoid fever.

In these days, however, we are better able to cope with flood conditions and bring relief to those who are marooned in their houses than Albanians were in 1857. Although the water last spring rose to a higher point than it did in 1857, the flood of the latter year caused greater suffering and greater destruction of property. We have had floods as late as the first part of May, but this of 1857 occurred early in February and was succeeded by a smaller one in May, when the river was swollen by heavy rains and melting snow in the north and west, and the pier and docks were inundated.

Flood of 1857.
The flood of 1857 started on Monday, February 9, early in the morning. The mild weather which had prevailed all the previous week caused the great quantities of snow which had accumulated in the streets and upon the adjacent hills to melt with surprising rapidity. This was the case in the Mohawk as well as in the Hudson valley, the result being to pour down into the rivers an immense volume of water, the effect of which was first seen on the Hudson about noon on Saturday, February 7. Then it was first noticed that the heavy, solid mass of ice which had bridged the Hudson for upwards of two months was being gradually pressed upward by the swelling stream. In the course of the next 24 hours the river had raised six feet. Throughout the afternoon the pier, the docks and portions of the streets leading from the latter presented a scene of activity that was suggestive of a very busy day during the fall season. By sunset most of the merchants who had in previous years been visited by floods had removed all their goods from the first to the second floors, and retired feeling perfectly satisfied that they had saved their property and that it was beyond the reach of the rising water. Early Sunday morning, February 8, the ice in the Mohawk river broke up and came down, forcing its way into the Hudson, carrying away everything within its reach on the banks and producing a very disastrous flood at East and West Troy. It was this ice, together with a change of wind from southeast to northwest, which caused the fluctuations of the Hudson noticeable during Sunday afternoon and evening, the water at times advancing to the thresholds of some of the stores, and then receding suddenly off the docks. This fluctuation continued until about 11 p. m., when the heavy ice in front of the city was raised up in a moment, as quickly broke into millions of pieces and then went crashing along in the wildest and most terrific confusion, impelled by a torrent hitherto unknown to the ‘‘placid Hudson.”

Ice Gorge Formed.
The course of the ice was checked this side of Van Wie's Point, not more than three miles below the city, and to the fact that it blocked up there suddenly was due the rapid rise of the water that followed. The rapidity with which the water came up may be judged from the fact, that shortly after the ice broke up the rise was four feet in 10 minutes. Between 10:30 p. m. Sunday and 3:30 a. m. Monday, a period of six hours, the rise was about 11 feet. The rise continued until 8 o’clock, when it reached its highest point, being three feet higher than at any other period of which there then existed a record. A little after 10 o'clock Monday night, February 9, the water commenced falling and continued going down at the rate of an inch and a half an hour during the night and throughout Tuesday. The weather turned extremely cold and the river froze over so firmly that on Wednesday several teams crossed on the ice from Albany to Greenbush.

Great Damage.
The damage to property caused by this flood was estimated at not less than $1,500,000. The merchants on the docks and piers supposed that their property, having been removed from the first to the second floors, was entirely out of danger. Such, however, was not the case. The icy and muddy water entered on the second floors to the depth of from one to three feet. On these floors merchants had stored flour, grain and groceries and most of it was rendered useless. A man who had 278 head of cattle at East Albany (now Rensselaer)
awaiting shipment lost all but 28 of them in the flood. He visited them at 10 o’clock and found water in the yard, but was assured that it would not rise higher. He went again at 1 o’clock in the morning and found the animals in immediate danger of drowning. He begged the use of a boat from a person he saw near by and offered $50 for the favor, explaining that he wanted to go to the yard and open the gate, so as to let the animals out to swim ashore. He was refused, and the pent up creatures were nearly all drowned. Snowden & Charles, butchers, had upwards of 250 head of cattle at the distillery of Edson & Co., and 100 of them were drowned by daylight and some of the few that were saved died from cold and exhaustion shortly after being driven out of the water.

The greater part of the fleet wintering in the upper basin was sunk when the heavy ice crossed the pier into the basin, cutting the boats from their moorings. Columbia street bridge was carried away Sunday night upon the first moving of the ice, and upon the pier were stranded eight or 10 canal boats. The steam tug H. N. Dowd was sunk in the basin, and the R. J. Grant was turned keel up and lay with a lumber office on it. A sloop passed down the river soon after the ice started, was capsized and sank by the weight of the ice. The propeller Western World was on fire several times and was extinguished through the exertions of Assistant Engineer Coburn and some citizens with water thrown from buckets, but finally got beyond control and the boat was scuttled. Two Boston vessels loaded with merchandise were caught in the ice below the city in the fall. One was the packet Victor, which for 20 years had plied between Boston and this city, and the other was the John C. Calhoun. Both were lost. State street bridge was raised several feet above the iron columns and the east end of it broken off from the supports.

Fire Adds to Terror.
While this dreadful destruction was going on, the citizens were thrown into great excitement by repeated fire alarms. Some one was so frightened that he sent word to East and West Troy that what was left of Albany after the flood was being destroyed by fire, and towards noon of Monday fire engine companies from those places came to Albany to render assistance, which was not needed. There were five fires which started within a short
time of one another, the first one starting long before daylight in the lime kiln and plaster works of E. C. Warner & Son on South Broadway. The water reached the lime, slacking it, which set fire to whatever was combustible about the premises, and as all the streets for blocks around were inundated to a depth of two or or three feet, the fire engines could not reach the fire. Soon after a second alarm called the firemen to Gibson & Dalton’s plaster and planing mill in the north part of the city. This fire originated in the same way as that at Warner & Son’s, and as the premises were surrounded by water to a depth of six or seven feet, the engine companies were helpless until boats could be procured in which to extend their hose, and by that time nothing was left of the main building but its walls. All the costly machinery and finished material were destroyed, entailing a loss of about $100,000. The warehouse of W. R. Barrett, on the pier, also caught fire from the igniting of lime in the
second story, and the building and its contents were partially destroyed, among the latter being 4,000 bushels of corn. Two other fires followed, but were put out before much damage was done.

Relief Measures.
Both the the city officials and a committee of citizens took immediate steps to relieve the poor who were sufferers from the flood. The city hall was thrown open to those who had been driven from their homes and had no places to sleep. Food was distributed to those in the South End who were prisoners in their houses, and Very Rev. J. J. Conroy, pastor of St. Joseph’s church, opened the house at 798 Broadway for the distribution of soup and provisions for the poor of his parish, under the charge of Sisters of Charity. The poor of the northern part of the city of all creeds and sects were invited to apply for relief here.

Great Suffering.
The greatest suffering was in the First and Second wards. There more than 150 families were driven out of homes so suddenly that they had only time to dress and run for their lives. Most of these families were poor, but had managed to lay in their winter’s supply of provisions, which were ruined by the water. Officials and police went to their assistance. Some of those in the South End were still in their half submerged houses. Officers Clinton and Keefe, for instance, discovered a family in the second story of a dwelling unable to reach dry land and suffering severely from the cold. Near at hand was a man in a rowboat who refused to go to their succor unless paid an exorbitant price. The family had not as much as he asked and he was about to desert them when the officers seized the boat, ejected him and relieved the unfortunates.

In portions of the Sixth and Seventh wards the premises of many poor families were flooded and they lost nearly everything. An interesting anomaly was that in the inundated district in the North End, where many families were imprisoned in the second stories of their homes, one of their pressing wants was water. They had too much of it of a certain kind all around them, but none fit to drink, the water in the pipes being frozen.

Thrilling Escapes.
There were many thrilling escapes. A man named Moore who lived on the island just below the city (then called the & Vegetable Garden”) became aware that it was threatened with speedy inundation and removed his family and horses Sunday night, returning to the island to watch his property. In the morning he found, his house completely hemmed in, nearly up to the roof, and no possible chance of his escape at that time. He suffered much from exposure, but managed to survive until the waters receded and he could be rescued. A
man was carried down from somewhere up the river on a pile of lumber about noon on Monday. As it was nearing Greenbush the current carried it toward the ferry slip, when some persons on the dock threw a line, which he caught and tied around his body and he was drawn safely ashore. The bookkeeper of Gibson & Dalton, a Mr. Wetmore, also had a narrow escape. He, with two other men, remained in the building over night.

About 3 a. m. the water was rising so rapidly that he sent his companions to apprise his employers of that fact. While alone he thought it best to remove the books of the firm from the first to the second floor. After doing so he attempted to go down stairs again, when he discovered that the building was on fire and his course impeded by the smoke. He had no means of egree [sic, egress], and, wet to the skin, he was compelled to remain in the building. He was finally rescued by firemen, who found him completely exhausted. Three men went in a boat from near the house of Archibald Dunlop on the Troy road to bring off a family occupying a house on the island at that point, when the boat was capsized by a cake of ice and the three men were thrown into the water. Two of them managed to clamber into a tree, but the third was so cold that he could not raise himself from the water and was taken out in a dying state. The men on the island were rescued in a cart which was backed up to their relief.

Lola Montez’s Adventure.
An adventure in which Lola Montez, the famous (or infamous) dancer who later captivated the King of Belgium, figured at this time was chronicled by the Atlas and Argus of Feb. 11, 1857, as follows: "LOLA MONTEZ PLAYING THE DEUCE AGAIN. — Yesterday afternoon this notorious woman, who has had rooms at the Stanwix Hall during her engagement at the Green Street theatre, came to the conclusion that she could not remain in the city another day. She must go. The nearest, and the most perilous way for her to reach the other side of the river and take the cars was to cross over in a small skiff. No one had yet ventured to cross since the breaking up of the ice. Here was an adventure just suited to her daring spirit, and of course she was on nettles to embark.

“Ferrymen were procured and off they started, Lola accompanied by her sister, her agent (who was so unfortunate as to fall upon the ice and become damaged by water, thereby exciting the loud laughter of the danseuse) and another gentleman. They were ferried over in safety. The ferrymen then came back for Lola’s baggage, two heavy trunks. With that precious load they again shoved off for the opposite shore. The wind from the northwest was very strong and piercing cold. The men were somewhat exhausted by their previous
exertions and when in the centre of the stream the wind and rapid current drove their little boat into some drifting ice, and before they could extricate themselves their craft was firmly frozen to the moving mass.

“In this situation they were discovered by many of our citizens. Their peril was soon communicated throughout the city and much excitement ensued. All who could procured positions on the roofs of the higher buildings to obtain a view of the poor fellows. Away they floated, and when opposite Westerlo street the bell of the South Dutch church rang out an alarm. But it was impossible for anyone on this side to go to their assistance. Happily
the current tended to the Greenbush shore, and when they had nearly reached the ferry slip on that side they were floated against the solid ice.

"A dozen or more men out of Greenbush started for their relief and reached them by means of planks. Just then the ice gave way and the rescuers were compelled to retreat. They again essayed, and this time with more success, saving not only the men, but the trunks. The ferrymen have undoubtedly been severely frost bitten in return for indulging their adventurous spirit."

Breaking Ice Gorges.
Bars in the river have frequently afforded lodgment for the great cakes of ice piled one on top of the other as they floated down the stream and ice gorges have formed which rendered navigation impossible while other parts of the river were open. This was the case in 1857. On February 21 a committee of the Albany Board of Trade visited the ice barrier below the city and found it extend from Van Wie’s Point to Castleton, and so thick and solid as to defy any attempt to open a channel. As at this time river traffic was of large proportions, the ice embargo was severely felt by the commercial interests of this city. A man named Smith proposed to fill a box from four to six feet long with powder, to place this at an advantageous point in the ice gorge and to set off the powder by means of electricity. This plan, however, was rejected. The powder would probably have had about as much effect on the gorge as the kick of a grasshopper. However, late in the evening of the 21st the lower end of the barrier broke away and went down the river, and on the 25th the rest of the ice dam disappeared and the entire channel was found to be unobstructed except by floating masses of ice. The retiring water disclosed the unshapen mass which remained of the State street bridge. Navigation was at once resumed.

It was not until December, 1902, that the idea of smashing ice gorges on the Hudson by means of ramming them with powerful tugs was adopted. On the 22d of that month Captain Ulster Davis took the tug GEORGE C. VAN TUYL and attacked a gorge at the Livingston avenue bridge. The ice was jammed to the bottom of the river and piled up 10 feet high. The attempt was successful, after six days of “bucking.” Early in March, 1903, the
lower part of this city and Rensselaer was flooded by backwater from a gorge at Roah Hook. The old side- wheeler NORWICH and the tug BARIER [sic, BAVIER] were brought up from Rondout and attacked the gorge. The BARIER was a new steel hull steamer, and as it backed up 500 feet and then went at full speed into the gorge, it penetrated 25 or 30 feet. After several days the obstructions were cleared. Since then steamers have been employed with more or less success to break up the ice gorges in the river. In 1907 the powerful tug HERCULES got stuck hard and fast in an ice pack near Coxsackie and the big steamer POCAHONTAS and the tender HERCULES were sent to her rescue. The POCAHONTAS stove a plank in her bow and had to be beached at Catskill. 

The ROB got stuck in the ice alongside the Hercules, but after many hours, was pried loose. Then the ROB cut the HERCULES out of the floe and pulled her away with a stout hawser.

One of the greatest achievements of Captain Davis in breaking an ice gorge on the Hudson was in March, 1907. when he brought up the powerful tug CORNELL and the tender ROB from Rondout, a good part of the way cutting through ice two feet thick, and smashed upon the great barrier near Coeymans. It took four hours to make the trip of about two miles from Saugerties Light to Malden. Even after the gorge had been broken the immense cakes of floating ice jammed and formed other barriers, but were in turn rammed and dislodged, and after four days of strenuous work Captain Davis and his crews had the satisfaction of seeing the ice flowing freely and knew that the river was open to the ocean. The State now makes preparations for attacking ice gorges in the Hudson with steamers whenever necessary.

First Flood Record.
From the records compiled by Forecaster Todd we learn that in 1645 “a very high freshet, unequalled since 1639,” occurred, "which destroyed a number of horses in their stables, nearly carried away the fort and inflicted considerable other damage in the colonie.’’ In 1648 freshets nearly destroyed Fort Orange and in 1661 the country around Fort Orange for miles was under water and a few days later the heaviest flood the colonists had experienced up to that time forced them to quit their dwellings and flee with their cattle for safety to the woods on the adjoining hills. The “woods” at that time were where some of the finest residences of Albany are located now.

In 1818 the greatest freshet known in Albany in 40 years occurred. The river froze over that winter on December 7, 1817, and remained frozen until March 3, 1818, when the ice moved out in a body for some distance south and then remained stationary. On the night of March 3 the water rose to a great height in the river, so that several families in Church street would have perished if they had not been rescued. The water was two feet deep in the barroom of the Eagle tavern, at the southwest corner of South Market and Hamilton streets. Sloops were thrown upon the wharf and the horse ferry boat was driven about half way up to Pearl
street. A family that occupied a house on the island opposite the city were rescued by the people of Bath. The river was not clear this year until March 25.

Open Three Times.
The river was open to navigation three times between December, 1823, and February 11, 1824. On the latter date the breaking up was so sudden that sloops and other vessels moored for the season were carried away.

The worst freshet recorded before 1857 was on January 26, 1839, when the water at Albany rose to 17.28 feet above mean low water mark. Many citizens were driven from their houses and a soup house was opened at the city hall for their benefit. A late spring freshet was that of 1833, when the river began to rise on May 14 and two days later had reached its greatest height, causing much damage. South Market street was impassable below Hamilton street. Another was on May 2, 1841. The ice had gone out without making any trouble on March 24, but later heavy rains swelled the stream and when a great snow storm set in on May 2 the water overflowed the docks.

Freshets Not Only in Spring.
Occasionally the Hudson river goes on the rampage in the fall. In 1823, it even cut up on Christmas day, when the rain and mild weather conspired to break up the ice and considerable damage was done. The pier, which was nearly completed, was exposed for the first time to such a freshet. There was such a heavy rain during the first four days of September, 1828, when nearly as much fell as in the months of July and August, that the river rose and submerged the docks and pier. Heavy rain sent the water over the docks on September 3, 1849, and on October 28 of the same year heavy rain that had fallen for 36 hours caused the island at the lower end of the city to be inundated for the eighth time that season, entailing great damage to crops. On November 14, 1853, heavy rain of the previous two days caused a rise in the river, which overflowed the docks. A great freshet caused by rain of the previous 36 hours on August 21, 1856, carried away the bridge over the Normanskill on the Bethlehem turnpike and damaged several mills. On October 8, 1903, the river began to rise rapidly and by the 10th reached 16.3 feet above mean low water mark at Albany. The greatest rainfall ever recorded for 24 hours at Albany was on the 9th, when 4.75 inches fell.

1878-12-12 Sun (NY) - GREAT DAMAGE BY FLOODS.
Railroad Bridges Swept Away, Passenger Trains Wrecked, Mill Property Destroyed, and Villages Inundated—The Highest Flood Known for Many Years in the Delaware.

Kingston, N. Y., Dec. 11.--The rainstorms of Monday and Tuesday [Dec. 9 and 10, 1878] have terribly affected Ulster County. The heavy mountain snow melted, and the result has been a freshet that has worked frightful damage. Bridges have been swept away on the Wallkill Valley and on the Ulster and Delaware Railroads. The roadbed of the latter is damaged to an extent that cannot be remedied for several days. At 3 o'clock this morning the canal barges on the Rondout broke adrift and went crushing one against the other downstream. Several of them, loaded with coal, were sunk. Nearly all of them had crew aboard, and some of them had entire families. Whether loss of life resulted is yet uncertain. The loss of property along the Rondout Creek will approximate $75,000, $10,000 of which is the value of cement barrelled [sic] and ready for delivery to New York markets. At Saugerties, on the Esopus Creek, the loss is not less than $50,000. Six boats of the steamer MARINA were carried away, and the MARINA left high on the flats. The bulkhead of the dam on the creek was carried away, and much coal, lumber, and wood were lost. From the back country come reports of loss of life. Several wrecked residences have passed down the Esopus. The white lead factory at Glen Erie [sic, Glenerie?] suffered to the extent of $10,000. The loss at Wilbur exceeds $3,000. The mouth of the Rondout was crowded this morning by a confused mass of boats and vessels of every kind, the majority of which were total wrecks.

A rumor was rife this morning that there had been great loss of life at Eddyville, a small village on Rondout Creek, in this county. THE SUN's representative visited that place to investigate. The route was difficult. The wagon wheels were hub deep in mud and water for half the distance. Within three feet of the roadway the current seethed and rushed with a terrible velocity. The creek was fairly crowded with household goods and wrecked buildings from up the stream. Within half a mile of the village the road was washed away. The bridge across the turbulent waters was standing, but the approach to it was cut off by a gulch fifty feet deep. There was but one way to reach Eddyville, and that was by crossing the rushing creek through the débris. It was with difficulty that a boatman was procured willing to risk such  a venture. The streets of Eddyville were still flooded. Not less than twenty houses have been swept away. The guard lock burst last night, and the village has since been at the mercy of the flood. The foundations of every building in the place have been weakened and there is scarcely an outbuilding remaining. The canal stables were flooded, and toward of 100 horses and mules were drowned. One large tenement house was washed from its foundations and carried some distance to the main road, where it is wrecked. The entire place is flooded below the hill. The stables, outhouses, &c. on the “fly" were carried down the creek with the current. The débris is strewn all the way from the lighthouse to Eddyville. The house of Hiram Davis was floated to the upper end of the Island pier, and there lodged, when the furniture drifted away. The barn belonging to Mr. Black was floated to the south dike, with a horse in it. The horse was saved. Stables with pigs, cows, and geese in them went down the creek and were lost. The stores are flooded and the goods damaged. The lumber for Lambert's new ice house was carried away. The steamers MARTIN and EAGLE, of the Newburgh and Albany line, could not enter the creek. After the guard lock broke[,] a boat went over the dam, loaded with upward of 1,000 barrels of cement. The boat parted in the middle, and her cargo went to the bottom. The crew were saved, though one young man is severely bruised. The report of lives lost was unfounded. One boat, however, went down the stream in which was the family of a canal boatman. They are missing. It is possible that they escaped drowning.

Rondout, Dec. 11.—The schooners KATE and MARY and the sloops JAMES GRANT, BEN AIKIN and CHARLES LYNCH, McCausland’s sectional docks. the barges C. R. WORDENDYKE, ScCHUYLER HONESDALE, MARVIN KING, and a large number of canal boats, laden and light, are either piled on the north and south dykes or sunk. The steamers W. B. CRANE, PITTSTON, and A. B. VALENTINE are damaged. The JAMES W. BALDWIN and WILLIAM COOK are uninjured, but cannot leave, owing to the freshet. The extent of the damage is not yet known and cannot be estimated. All the wharves are submerged and everything not secured has floated off.
​
Newburgh, Dec. 11.—Some small buildings have been swept away. The tide last night was the highest ever known, the river covering nearly every wharf in this city. The buildings in the lower streets were filled with water, and several serious washouts occurred on the short cut branches of the Erie Railroad. No trains have passed over it since noon yesterday, the trains to and from New York going by way of Newburgh branch. At Cornwall, yesterday, many houses near the river were flooded, and the people rowed over the wharves in boats. One or two small barns were carried away at Highland Falls. Sixty cords of wood floated off the wharf at Fort Montgomery. At Fishkill Landing the Duchess Hat Works were partially inundated. Brundage & Place's storehouse was flooded by the high tide, 300 barrels of lime slaked, and the building narrowly escaped destruction by fire. Loss, $500.
​
ALBANY, Dec, 11.—Many cellars and basements on the river front are full of water, and much damage has been done. Among other sufferers are Mr. McCabe, who loses $1,000 worth of lime; Robert Geer, who loses $800 worth of tobacco; Mr. Rork, who had a large amount of lumber swept away; and Messrs. Durant & Elmore, who lose a car load of flour.

1878-12-12 Democrat and Chronicle (Rochester, NY) TORRENTS' TERRORS
Rondout, Dee. 11.—The freshet is the most damaging one in Rondout and Esopus creeks ever known. The schooners KATE, MARY and CANAL, with the sloops JAMES GRANT, BEN AKIN and CHARLES LYNCH, McCausland's sectional docks, the barges C. R. WORDENDIKES, SCHUYLER, HONESDALE, MARVIN, KING OF THE NORTH, and a large number of canal boats laden and light are either piled on the north or south side or sunk. The steamers W. B CRANE, PITTSTON, and A. B. VALENTINE are damaged. Some lives are supposed to be lost on the sunken boats. Tugs cannot assist the vessels on the dikes by reason of the strong current. Six boats and the steamer MARINA were carried away. The MARINA is high on the flats. The bulkhead of the dam on the creek was carried away. Much coal, lumber and wood have been lost. There are fears that there is loss of life on the boats carried out of Saugerties creek. The entire damage in Kingston, Wilbur, Eddyville, Rondout is roughly is estimated at half a million.

​At Eddyville, the water damaged the guard lock on the Delaware and Hudson canal. The water ran over and through it and has flooded what is known as the fly on which there were buildings, five of which are destroyed and many others damaged. One large tenement was washed from the foundations and carried a long distance to the main road, where it is wrecked. The entire place is flooded below the hill. The stables, outhouses, etc., on the fly were carried down the creek with the current. The debris was strewn all the way from the lighthouse to Eddyville. The house of Hiram Davis was floated to the upper end of the island dock and lodged, when the furniture drifted away. The barn of Mr. Black floated to the South Dike with a horse therein. The horse was saved. The stables with pigs, cows and geese therein went down the creek and were lost.  Stores were flooded and goods damaged. The lumber for Lambert’s new ice house was carried away. The steamers MARTIN and EAGLE of the Newburgh and Albany line could not enter the creek. The canal at Eddyville was much damaged.

​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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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!"
​
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.
​
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.
​
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.
​
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