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NEW CORNWALL, AND NEW WINDSOR.
It is bad policy to call places new. The name will
do very well for a set out, but when they begin to
assume an air of antiquity, it becomes quite unsuitable.
It is too much the case with those who stand godfathers
to towns in our country. They seem to think
because we live in a new world, every thing must be
christened accordingly. The most flagrant instance of
this enormity is New York, which although ten times
as large, and ten times as handsome as York in England,
is destined by this infamous cognomen of “new,”
to play second to that old worn out town, which has nothing
in it worth seeing except its great minister. The
least people can do after condemning a town to be called
new, is to paint their houses every now and then, that
the place may do honour to its christening. But between
ourselves, Monsieur Traveller, the whole thing is
absurd. Some score of centuries hence, we shall have
a dozen clutterheaded antiquaries, disputing whether
New York and old York, were not one and the same
city; and it is just as likely as not, that the latter will
run away with all the glories of the queen of the new
world. Why not call our cities by a name utterly new
to human ears, Conecocheague, Amoonoosuck, Chabaquidick,
would then be no danger of their being confounded with
those of the old world, and they would stand by themselves
in sesquipedalian dignity, till the end of time,
or till people had not breath to utter their names.
“New Cornwall,” as Alderman Janson truly observes,
“is assuredly not one of the largest towns on
the river; but it might be so, and it is not its fault that
it is not six times as large as Pekin, London, Paris or
Constantinople, as it can be clearly proved that it might
have extended half a dozen leagues towards any of the
four quarters of the world without stumbling over any
thing of consequence except a river and a mountain.
If its illustrious founders (whose names are unknown)
instead of confining their energies to building a few
wooden houses, which they forgot to paint even with
Spanish brown, had cut a canal to the Pacific Ocean,
made a rail road to Passamaquoddy, and a tunnel under
the Atlantic, and erected three hundred thousand handsome
brick houses with folding doors, and marble mantel
pieces, without doubt it might have been at this moment
the greatest city in the known world. I know
that a certain ignoramus of a critic denies all this, inasmuch
as the river is in the way towards the east and
therefore it cannot extend that way. But I suppose
this blockhead never heard of turning the course of the
Hudson into the channel of Fishkill Creek, and so at
the same time improving the navigation of both, and
affording ample space for the growth of the city by
digging down Fishkill Mountains. Nay, we dare affirm
he is totally ignorant of the mode of sucking a river,
may be easily passed over dry shod, a method still pursued
by the people of Terra Incognita, and those that
carry their heads below their necks, mentioned by Herodotus.
We therefore affirm that the only reason why
this is not the greatest city in the universe, is because
the founders did not do as I have just said. If the
aforesaid blockhead of a critic denies this, may he never
be the founder of a great city, or even a great book.
He ought to know, blockhead as he is, that in this
age of improvement, every thing is possible; and that
the foundations of a great city may be laid any where
in despite of that old superannuated baggage `Nature,'
whom nobody minds now a days. Only give me a bank,
and the liberty of issuing as much paper as I please,
without the disagreeable necessity of redeeming it; or
only let the state of New York `loan me its credit' for
a million or so, and I will engage to turn Nature topsy-turvy,
or commit any other enormity in the way of conferring
benefits on the community. If Archimedes had
known any thing about banks, he would have required
no other basis for the lever with which he was to raise
the world. But unfortunately for the march of mind
and the progress of public improvements, the banking
capital of this portion of the republic was diverted to
one of the most singular objects, by one of the most
singular conspiracies on record.
“It seems” continues the alderman, “the people of
New York, with rather more discretion than they have
since displayed in similar cases, became at one time
rather shy of the paper money of certain country banks,
the directors, as fame loudly reported at that time, did
incontinently get together and determine to starve the
good citizens of New York into swallowing their notes
by cutting off their supplies of Goshen butter. Accordingly
as the aforesaid goddess did loudly trumpet
forth to the world, divers agents, directors, clerks and
cashiers, were sent into the rich bottoms of Orange
County, to contract for all the butter made or to be
made, during that remarkable year. The consequence
was that a horrible scarcity took place in New York, the
burghers whereof had for a long time nothing to butter
their parsnips with but fair words. But the good people
of the metropolis held out manfully, refusing for a long
time to swallow the aforesaid bank notes, until being
at length actually reduced to the necessity of substituting
Philadelphia butter, they gave in at last and agreed
to swallow any thing rather than the said butter. Hereupon
the butter and the notes came to market in great
quantities, and such was the sympathy which grew up
between them, that the latter actually turned yellow, and
assumed the exact colour of the former. In memory
of this renowned victory over the New Yorkers, the
county was called Orange, in honour of the butter, which
is exactly of that colour, and all the milk maids to this
day wear orange coloured ribbons, as they sit milking
their cows and singing Dutch songs.”
This is not the place for dilating on the manifold
advantages of banks and paper money, which last we
look upon as the greatest discovery of modern times, or
indeed of all times whatever. But we hope the enlightened
his eyes from the beauties of the scenery, to attend to
a few of the most prominent blessings of paper money
and banks.
In the first place, the institution of paper money has
called forth the talents of divers persons in the fine arts,
as is exemplified in the numerous attempts at imitation,
which is the basis of the fine arts. Before the
sublime invention of paper money, it was not worth
while for a man to risk his neck or his liberty, for the
paltry purpose of counterfeiting a silver dollar; but
now since the forgery of a single note, and the successful
passing it away, may put a thousand dollars in
the pocket, there is some stimulus to the exercise of
genius. Besides, a man can carry in his pocket book
forged notes, to the amount of hundreds of thousands
of dollars, without exciting attention; whereas the same
amount in counterfeit specie, would require a dozen
wagons or a steam boat, and inevitably excite suspicion.
Thus it will be found, that this branch of the fine
arts has improved and extended prodigiously under the
institution of paper money; insomuch that the works of
our best artists have been frequently imitated so successfully
as to impose upon the most experienced eye.
In addition to this singular advantage, it cannot be denied,
that every dollar thus created by this spirit of
emulation in the fine arts, adds so much to the public
wealth, and forms an accession to the circulating medium.
When at last its circulation is stopt, by a discovery,
it will generally be found in the hands of some
is a matter of little consequence, as he would at all
events be poor, either with or without them. Besides,
he deserves to suffer for his ignorance, like every body
else in the world.
Another great blessing of paper money is, that it
makes every body believe themselves richer than they
really are, as is exemplified in the following authentic
story of a Connecticut farmer, which we extract from
the annals of that state.
The farmer had a sow and pigs, just at the time a
little bank was set up in a village hard by, which by
making money plenty raised the price of his sow and
pigs, some fifty per cent. This tempted him to sell
them, which he did, for a high price, as much as fifty
dollars. The next spring he wanted another sow and
pigs for his winter pork. In the meanwhile, the paper
of the little bank having been issued with too great
liberality, had depreciated very considerably, and he
was obliged to give seventy-five dollars for a sow and
pigs. Very well—the sow and pigs were now worth
seventy-five dollars. About this time, the legislative
wisdom chartered another bank, in another neighbouring
town, having a church and a blacksmith's shop—but no
whipping posts, they being abolished for the benefit of
honest people. This made money still more plenty than
before, and our honest farmer was again tempted to sell
his sow and pigs, for a hundred dollars. He was now
worth fifty dollars more than when he commenced
speculating, but then the mischief was, that he wanted
a sow and pigs. Very well. The multiplication of
it so happened, that he was obliged to buy a sow and
pigs, for a hundred and fifty dollars. He calculated he
had now made a hundred dollars by his speculation, but
still he had nothing to show for it, but his sow and pigs.
To make an end of our story; our honest farmer was
once more tempted to speculate, by an offer of two hundred
dollars for his sow and pigs, and began to talk of
buying an addition to his farm, when unluckily the bank
failed, and the good man's speculation ended in having
exchanged his sow and pigs for nothing. But he had
enjoyed the delight of imaginary wealth all this time,
which every body knows is far better than the reality,
as it brings all the pleasures without any of the cares of
riches. How often do we see men, rolling in actual
wealth, suffering more than the pangs of poverty, by
the anticipation of it; but who ever saw one who imagined
himself rich haunted by a similar bugbear.
Banking capital is in truth a capital thing. All other
capital is real; this is imaginary, and every body knows
the pleasures of imagination far transcend those of
reality. It is better than the music of Amphion or
Orpheus, for the former only whistled up the walls of a
city, and the latter set the trees and bears dancing;
while your banking capital can build houses and furnish
them too; and not only put the bulls and bears on tiptoe,
but make an ass as wise as Solomon. In short,
not to delay the traveller too long, from the beauties of
nature, had the old philosophers, known any thing of
paper money, they would no longer have disputed about
the magnum bonum, which is neither a vile Brummagem
currency.
Newburgh is the capital of Orange County, so called,
according to Alderman Janson, from the fine yellow
butter made there in great quantities. It is the colour
of an orange. It is a thriving village, and a great place
for holding conventions. The steam boats stop here
just long enough to give people a fair chance of breaking
their shins, in coming aboard, and getting ashore.
The two tides of people meeting, occasions a pleasant
bustle very amusing to the spectator, but not to the actor.
There is a bank here, the notes of which are yellow in
compliment to the butter. The houses are mostly
painted yellow for a similar reason, and the men wear
yellow breeches when they go to church on Sundays.
The complexions of the young women are a little tinged
with this peculiarity; but they are very handsome notwithstanding,
though they cant hold a candle to the
jolly Dutch girls at Fishkill on the opposite side. Newburgh is not illustrious for any particular delicacy of the
table, which might give it distinction, and therefore we
advise the intelligent traveller not to trouble himself to
stop there. In order to eat his way through a country
with proper advantage, the enlightened tourist should
be apprized beforehand of these matters, else he will
travel to little purpose.
From Newburgh to Poughkeepsie, the river presents
nothing particularly striking; but the shores are every
where varied with picturesque points of view. Neither
is there any thing remarkable in the eating way. The
traveller may therefore pass on to Poughkeepsie, Pokepsie,
Augustus De Roos is pleased to call it in his Travels of
Twenty-One Days.
Poughkeepsie is the capital of Dutchess County, so
called in honour of the Dutchess of York, daughter of
the famous Chancellor Clarendon, and who, if Monseigneur
the Count de Grammont tells the truth, had very
little honour to bestow upon the county in return. The
origin of the word Poughkeepsie, is buried in the remote
ages of antiquity; but it is supposed to be either
Creek or Greek. It is however neither mentioned by
Ptolemy or Strabo. This omission may be supposed
to indicate that it was not in being at that time. But
the fact is, the ancients were like their successors the
moderns, deplorably ignorant of this country, as well as
of the noble science of gastronomy, and expended as
much money upon a goose's liver, as would furnish a
dozen tables with all the delicacies of a Paris Restauratory.
They stuffed the goose with figs—a fig for such
stuffing! Yet must we not undervalue the skill of the
Romans, who were worthy to conquer the world, if it
were only for discovering the inimitable art of not only
roasting a goose alive, but eating it alive afterwards.
The fattening of worms with meal was also an inimitable
excellence of these people. But it is the noble and
princely price of their meals which most excites our
envy and applause; and in this respect it is that the
immortal Apicius, who spent 2,000,000 of dollars in
suppers, deserved to give his name to all modern gourmands.
Neither the death of Curtius, nor Cato of Utica,
nor any other Roman worthy, can touch the heel of the
shoe of that of the thrice renowned Apicius, who starved
but about four hundred thousand dollars to spend in fattening
worms, enlarging livers, and roasting geese alive.
It was a glorious æra, when a supper cost half a million
of dollars; and it was worth while for a man to visit
Rome from the uttermost ends of the earth, only to see
these people eat. Truly, we say again, they deserved
the empire of the world.
The highest price we ever paid for a supper in
Poughkeepsie, was—we are ashamed to mention it—
was seventy-five cents. But then we had no live geese,
stuffed worms, or diseased livers. Alas! we shall
never conquer the world if we go on in this way!
Somewhere between Poughkeepsie and Hudson inclusive,
is said to be a great hot bed of politics, and
some of the greatest politicians of the state infest this
quarter. In proof of this, it is always found that they
are on the right, that is to say the strongest side. We
are told, but do not vouch for the fact, that they consult
the weather cock on the court house steeple, and change
their coats accordingly. If the wind blows from the
northeast, they put on their domestic woollens; if from
the south, or west, these being warm winds, they change
their domestic woollens, for light regent's cloth; and if
the wind veers about as it sometimes does, without
settling in any quarter, they throw by their coat entirely,
until it blows steadily. Those who have but one coat
to their backs, are obliged to turn it to suit the wind and
weather. But this is the case with but few, as they are
all too good politicians to be reduced to such extremity.
This may be true or not, we speak but by hearsay, and
however, that every saddler in the town, publicly advertises
himself as “saddler and trimmer,” whether in
allusion to his politics or not, we cannot say. If the
first be the case, it shows a most profligate state of public
sentiment. What would the unchangeable, inflexible
patriots of New York and Albany, who dont turn their
coats above once or twice a year, say to such open
profession of versatility.
Nevertheless, Poughkeepsie abounds in the most
beautiful of all the works of nature, always excepting
canvass back ducks, or geese roasted alive, to wit,
scores of beautiful damsels; that is, if nature may dispute
with a French milliner the honour of producing a
fashionable woman, or a woman fashionably accoutred.
We ourselves sojourned here, erewhile, that is to say,
some five and thirty years ago, and have not yet got rid
of the scars of certain deep wounds, received from the
sharp glances of beauty's eyes. A walk on the romantic
bluffs which overhang the river, of a summer evening,
when the boats are gliding noiselessly by at our feet;
the beautiful landscape, softening in the touching obscurity
of twilight; and the distant peaks of the Kaatskill,
melting into nothing, with one of these fair damsels
hanging on our arm, is a thing to be remembered for
many a year, a mighty pretty morsel to put into “time's
wallet,” only its apt to to give a man the heart ache for
at least ten years afterwards. Many an invincible
dandy from the west side of Broadway, who never felt
the pangs of love, except for his own dear self, has
suffered more than his tailor, from one of these evening
the loss of such sweet communion, such innocent,
yet dangerous delights. As the prize poet says:
The future, ev'n at best, but seems;
The present is—and then—is not;
Such is man—and such his lot.
Behind, he cannot see for tears;
Before, is nought but hopes and fears;
One cheats him with an empty bubble,
The other always pays him double.
'Tis a vile farce, of scenes ideal,
Where nought but misery is real.”
From Poughkeepsie to Hudson, the eastern bank of
the river exhibits a uniform character of picturesque
beauty. Villages and landing places at the mouths of
large brooks, are scattered at distances of a few miles,
and all is cultivated and pastoral repose. The western
shore is more bold in its features, bounded at intervals
by the blue peaks of the Kaatskill in the distance.
Here lies Kingston, already risen from its ruins, and exhibiting
few traces of that wanton and foolish barbarity
which stimulated the British commander to set fire to it,
during the revolutionary war. Here too, lies Athens,
about which our learned Thebans have had such hot disputes;
some maintaining that Boston, others that Philadelphia,
and others that New York was the real Athens
of America. In vain have they wasted their ink, their
time, and their reader's patience on the theme. Here
lies the true Athens of America, unknown and unnoticed
by the learned, who are always looking for Babylon
mountains of erudition in searching for something right
under their nose, like the great bookworm Magliabechi,
who spent three days in looking for a pen, which he carried
in his mouth all the time.
What is it constitutes the identity of a man? His
name. And what, we would ask, constitutes the identy
of a city? The same. Would New York be New
York, or Albany, Albany—by any other name; and
would any thing be necessary to change New York into
Albany, and Albany into New York, except to exchange
their names? What nonsense is it then for
people to be denying that Athens is Athens, and not
Boston, Philadelphia, or New York, which had better
be content with their own true baptismal names, than to
be usurping those of other cities. We trust we have
settled this question forever, and that hereafter, these
great overgrown, upstart cities will leave our little
Athens in the undisturbed possession of its name and
honours. If any city of the United States could dispute
this matter without blushing, it would assuredly be
New York, which has a “Pantheon,” for vending oysters;
an “Acropolis,” for ready made linen; an
“Athenian Company,” for manufacturing coarse woollens;
and a duck pond, called the Piræus. Nor are
Boston and Philadelphia without very specious claims;
the former having an Athenæum, and a market house,
with a front in imitation of the Temple of Minerva, because
Minerva is the goddess of wisdom, and all market
women are thrifty, or in common acceptation, wise;
and the latter has its two magnificent fanes of Plutus,
to whom the Christians erect temples.
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