The Big Parade, James L. Lumb

THE OLD PLANTATION By Burton Coon

"All up an' down re whole creation

Sadly I roam Still Zongin' for de oli plantation an for de ol' folks at home."

I felt something like that when my boys and I started out this morning to search for "Judge" Jackson's old cabin. I had not been there in 40 years, so I was not very sure of finding it; but as it happened we had no trouble. We went up across the fields, looking at the corn and the pastures and our neighbors' crops. When we struck the other road we took to the woods below Mike Borich's and followed a wood road for about half a mile until we came to an open field. I was not sure where I was, but we went on in the same general direction until in the near distance I saw some old cherry trees and two or three old apple trees. I said to the boys, "Here we are," and so it proved. Forty years ago my uncle and I went up to see Judge, and I still remember how he came out to meet us with the same old twinkle in his eyes and the same puckery smile playing about his mouth. But today he was not there. The roof of the cabin was gone--nothing but the bare stone walls standing in mute testimony of a human habitation. Nearby was the inevitable clump of lilac bushes--the one universal mark of civilization for a hundred years. Wherever you find them you may know that somebody has lived. The whole place was overgrown with an old-fashioned garden flower the name of which I have forgotten. We found the old well now filled with stones; the old pear tree by the potato patch; and the foundation of some kind of an out building. But we could not find the graves on the hill back of the house where the smallpox victims were laid. Probably they were never marked. We came back down the little lane and out through the clearing by the path that Judge had travelled so often in his journeys to and from the outer world. I was lothe to leave the place, for the man who lived there and his sister were connected with the earliest recollections of my childhood. I can yet see "Black Sarah" cleaning my grandmother's pantry in the old house on the farm where my mother spent her early womanhood and where she often used to take me as a child. As we left "the old plantation" we went up along the edge of the meadow and suddenly came upon another old house place. I think it is where Peter Patrick used to live. It is a more extensive ruin than Judge's cabin. It fronts on the meadow, and there is a narrow lane leading over toward the highway, down which I imagine he often came, with his children running out to meet him, and the dog barking at their heels, while his wife stood expectantly in the doorway. As we stood looking into the old cellar I said to the boys "Somebody once lived here, and they lived the same human life that we now live. They had the same human passions and temptations--the same loves, hatreds and prejudices--the same hard struggle to make ends meet that we have. And their moments of joy and of sorrow were as keenly felt." How I wish that I might have a picture of them

and of the life that they lived 75 years ago. Where is the rooster that crowed in the morning; and the cow that mooed by the pasture bars at night, and the cat that rubbed herself against her mistress' dress coaxing for her dish of milk? Where are the horses that plowed the velds and the birds that sang in the trees? Gone, gone all gone! In fact the earth is one vast sepulchre--the graveyard of creation. Well, we followed the road out to the highway, where we found another old cellar and chimney of more recent human occupation. John Myer used to live there. The grass in the road was a foot high, yet there was a comparatively fresh automobile track which suggested a curious blending of past and present. What will be the mark of the future? I wonder. We followed the road on up the hill, around a small pond, then more lilac bushes but no visible ruins--only a little fenced in piece of ground which had evidently been a garden and potato patch. Then we came to where Freeman Teator lived and raised his family; where Arthur Phillips spent his later years and died; where Henry Tallman and his parents were the last human occupants. We spent some time here wandering through the forsaken rooms and recalling the past. Then we made our way over the hills homeward. I looked at the thermometer. It was 94 in the shade. Yet I felt refreshed and invigorated because memory, the only thing that will connect us with this earthly life in the great hereafter, had been rejuvenated within me.

When Harriet Beecher Stowe created the character of Uncle Tom, she did a distinct service to the world. In him, as a representative of his race and people, she showed us the kindly, generous, childlike heart of the black man and we have loved him better ever since. I went to his cabin yesterday, up among the Milan hills where he lives with his sister that simple, rustic life so characteristic of his people. He came out to meet me with a broad smile, a strong handshake, and a hearty welcome. We put out the horse in the little stable and then went into the house. We talked of all the common things of life--the little things that make such a big difference in one's comfort and happiness. We talked of the past and the changes that had come over the neighborhood--of this one and that one who had dropped out--of the churches and the farms--and of Rhinebeck and its people. "Uncle Tom's" memory is longer than mine, for he is much older, and it was interesting to hear him tell about the village and its business men and the great fire which happened before my time. Presently dinner was ready--a chicken dinner, of course who would expect anything else at "Uncle Tom's"? A chicken dinner laid on a snowy, white cloth, and all that goes with it of good trimmings, good cooking, and good fellowship. Dear reader, I wish you might have been there and so lost your taste for hootch and cabaret and counterfeit society. After dinner I went out into the yard and looked around. There was every evidence of peace and contentment. The house banked with leaves and boughs of cedar, the rustic fence, the little garden, the old grape vine by the smoke house, the plum trees, the comfortable wood pile, and the old well with its long sweep, just over in the lot. Some chickens and four or five turkeys were strolling about, glad for the warm sunshine of returning spring. In the barnyard were two Guernsey cows contentedly munching their noon feed, and I knew that old Bill, the black horse, was well cared for in the stable. Up on a little knoll, among the locusts, "Uncle Tom" had built a playhouse for his nieces children, who come up to see him every summer from the city. It is a wonderful building, set on tiles, with a roof, and seats and a railing around and steps leading up to it. And I can imagine the children sitting there of a summer afternoon, listening to the song of birds and the humming of the bees, and smelling the fresh scent of the woods; or as the evening shadows begin to lengthen, they climb on "Uncle Tom's" knee and listen to his stories of the cows, and the turkeys, and the chickens, and the old horse. Happy childhood. And thrice happy in such a spot as this. When I came back into the house we sat and talked again, a long while, of God, and how to be good, and of the wickedness of the world. And then we had music and singing. Music, of course! You would not expect anything else in "Uncle Tom's" cabin. Not a violin or a banjo, it is true, but a fine, old organ; and as "Uncle Tom's" fingers ran over the keys, and his heavy rich voice rang out through the room, it sounded to me better than all the jazz in Christendom. We sang together some of the old devotional heart songs of a generation ago--songs that make people think, and feel, and

get ready to die. And, you know, it is only when you are ready to die that you are ready to live. Well, we sang on and on until a neighbor came on an errand that introduced some of the more prosaic elements of life, but which only served to show the innate kindliness of "Uncle Tom's" heart. Then, as the sun began to lower in the Western sky, our thoughts turned homeward. We must leave this peaceful spot and return to the workaday world. So we said goodbye in the little front yard "hard by the cabin door," where the afternoon sun pours its glorious flood of mellow light through the naked trees, glad for the opportunity of having spent one more day with these children of nature and of grace, in their home among the Milan hills.

The following essay was prepared for reading January 1978 to the Club of Poughkeepsie, a group of long-time residents who have met periodically for many years to share papers of particular interest.

THE BIG PARADE By James L. Lumb

First of all, this paper started out to be completely related to parades - those great marching shows that furnished much of our excitement back in the days when the eldest of this group was young. Those were the far off days before many movies, or any appreciable number of automobiles for a Sunday drive. No one could imagine television at the flick of a switch on our well-accustomed tube. Except for productions at the Collingwood Opera House or 5-Acts-5 at Cohen's Rialto, in my memory we had only the marching shows as a main entertainment. Volunteer Firemen planned these parades, made ready for the big day, and shined up their fire engines and other equipment. Then they marched proudly for the special delectation of the ladies and children, and for their own justifiable pride. As a matter of fact, I had it all planned that I would read to you a thorough research on those Firemen's parades that happened every year when we were younger. The colorful pageants were red letter days in those far off summers. Nothing could be more exciting and satisfying than to sit on a camp chair near the gutter on the Christ Church side of Montgomery Street or - if extremely privileged - at a second story window of Luckey Platt's store on Main Street, to watch and hear the parade go by. We are getting to be mellow senior citizens and it seems appropriate that we reminisce about such fascinating, momentous goings-on of our youth while they can still be recalled. It's about time to remember the long boring wait for parade action, broken only by the balloon man with his great canopy of bright floating colors, and a few stray dogs capering on the tarred city streets. We waited impatiently. But finally, from out of sight, came a faint beat of drums and the sound of the distant horns of a marching band. Soon, came a parade marshal on his spirited horse, then a cortege of notables in horse drawn carriages, in early days, and, later, in touring cars. On view for everyone's admiration were a mayor, a police chief, some aldermen and the fire notables; all in high style, flushed cheeks and well-filled garments. The first band - maybe Schofield's - the best local group - well uniformed and disciplined - set the tone of importance. They blared fine, sprightly upbeat Sousa-like pieces. Next came the first fire company, all the members were in dress uniform. They were accompanied by a hose cart, a steamer - a machine for pumping water from hydrants at high pressure into the hoses - a hook and ladder truck. Those big, gorgeous horses stepped easily, pulling the wagons - two for most rigs but three, named Jake and Mike and George B. - for the great long Davy Crockett hook-and-ladder wagon.

Can anyone here remember the Niagara steamer, fire under the boiler, some smoke from the stack, and its nickel-plated casing shining like a mirror? What about Booth Hose, Cataract or Lady Washington? Each fire company had its emblem hung from a horizontal pole carried ahead by the marching members - to tell us who they were - plus a couple of officers carrying ornamental, silver-plated trumpets full of flowers. The uniforms were colorful and of great variety. Phoenix Hose had heavy buff costumes - pants and long tailed coats with two rows of shiny buttons. Young America from down Church Street wore red flannel shirts - great for 90 degree weather - and had its own fife and drum corps. There were lots of bands, well drilled companies of marchers; visiting companies from all up and down the river, stray dogs, and young boys tramping in the gutters. This was a great day in a younger, unsophisticated American era. Almost everyone in town - or for miles around - marched, made music, or watched with full attention and applause. Such was the plan for this paper - a recall of parades - Firemen's, Fourth of July, Memorial Day or specials such as the first Armistice Day. But in the process of research, there came to my attention the greatest parade I ever heard of.

This parade covered 150 miles. This parade lasted over two weeks. This parade was years in planning stage and two years in actual preparation. The Commission in charge of planning and execution reported the total results to the New York State Legislature in two volumes containing over 1400 pages, including illustrations and photographs. The Bicentennial of last year seems anemic in comparison. The great parade you're going to hear about was the HudsonFulton Celebration, the immense event that took place in September and October, 1909. Henry Hudson had come up the river in 1609 in his little boat. Robert Fulton puffed and splashed along in the Clermont in 1807, but Eastern New York State people thought the two events would make a bigger anniversary celebration if brought together. So, very important and dedicated people set their minds on a fitting tribute to a couple of Hudson Valley pioneers. A group had started in the early 1900's to plan for a Robert Fulton celebration in 1907 - to take place 100 years after the first trip of his steamboat Clermont. But, already, a great movement was afoot to honor Henry Hudson - (not Hendrick, because he was an Englishman, after all, even though in command of a Dutch ship). This group of important citizens and descendents of the early Dutch settlers had a real stake in building up the importance of their ancestors. However, in a very sensible move, the Fultons and Hudsons got together to put on a spectacular. Planning started years before the event, and even two years before the pageant in September 1909, there was a great deal of activity. A Managing Commission was organized - some members were very active, some honorary. But the Commission numbered over 1,000 people! And many of them labored mightily for months - years really.

The names of the leading spirits still ring a bell - Levi P. Morton, Charles Evans Hughes (the governor), J. P. Morgan, Seth Low, James Stillman, George B. McClellan, Mark Twain, Vanderbilts, Roosevelts, Henry Hackett, Carnegie. Everybody of importance was involved and most of them took a very active part. They met, they planned, they organized and put together a pretty packet of money above and beyond the generous amounts voted by states, cities and towns. This was no half-hearted effort - it was, we may say, the greatest production in the first century and a half of our nation - maybe the greatest ever. With such public excitement and involvement something momentous was bound to happen. And, one gets the deep conviction that such a strong motivation for this kind of historical celebration could have happened only at a particular stage in our history. The United States was, at that time, a brash (maybe), young, emergent, developing society. In its wars for independence from Britain, its tragic but vital internal struggle in the 1860's, there were blood baths, but on an internal, survival basis. Even the war with Spain was only an incident in its virile and strong development of a great fertile continent. The United States was a vibrant, self-sufficient, ingenuous country with little idea of its strength or potential. It seemed to have no great feeling about international problems (except for some stirrings by Teddy Roosevelt on the sanctity of the Western Hemisphere from Old World infringement). Our country was normally willing to carry on its business and politics for its own domestic needs - and pay little or no attention to tensions and goings-on abroad. So, here was a young, enthusiastic society ready for some action. It was planning and pursuing its course (as a strong, naive, ebullient people would proceed to do) for its entertainment. It was about to celebrate the deeds of two Hudson River pioneers. Reports indicate that European countries took us more seriously than we did ourselves. We were still unallied to any European powers and generally disinterested in world affairs. It would suddenly occur to us eight or ten years hence that world affairs were our business and we'd get involved in a great European war and try to dictate to a peace conference. Some of us would even want to join a League of Nations. But not yet. Europe was at peace, with the Triple Alliance (composed of Germany, Austria and Italy), opposing the Triple Entente with Britain, France and Russia as members. It made for a precarious equilibrium - a balance that we today term "Entente". Our country was prosperous (except for panics like that in 1907). Our population was growing, and there was a great deal of empty land, mineral wealth and industry to develop. Evidently, there was plenty of vitality to keep up our commercial establishment and also to put on a big show. And a big show was about to spread itself over 150 miles of the Hudson River. To help promote this super pageant, the Dutch Government decided to make a big contribution. It offered to build a replica of Henry Hudson's Half Moon, send it over here with a crew, for free. The name is spelled, and, I'm sure, pronounced differently in Holland, but we will use the English

name. It took the Dutch nearly a year to research the design of the original ship, but at least there had been many of this exact type built. When you read about this tiny, cramped ship, you come to respect the sailors and navigators of Hudson's day. The 'tween decks area, where there was a cook stove, for instance, had four feet of head room. The whole ship was 58'6" long, 16' at the widest and had a 7'0" draft. It could make four knots in the wind; and yet the mariners of that day thought little of crossing the wide Atlantic in such uncomfortable cockle shells. So, the Dutch built the replica, loaded it on a passenger liner, and sent it across the Atlantic with a crew who would sail it up the river. After some soul searching, a contract by the Commission was let to build a new Clermont, as near a copy of Fulton's steamboat as possible, on Staten Island. It wasn't a true replica but at least it was 150 feet long, 12 feet wide and drew 2 feet of water - approximately the measurements of the original. She was launched with much ado, and speeches in great flowery verbiage, plus a gorgeous poem whose flowing versifying you cannot believe. A great flock of homing pigeons was released in honor of the occasion. One of them reached 341 W. 11th Street in 90 seconds. It's all in the big books of report. After commissioning, the new Clermont set sail from the Staten Island Shipbuilding Company on September 25th with many Crarys aboard. These Crarys were lineal descendents of Robert Fulton. Among them was Dr. Robert Fulton Crary, Rector of Holy Comforter Church in Poughkeepsie. It is also recorded that Kay Sague (her father was our mayor) and Almira Livingston Troy, whom many of us knew, were junior notables among the company. It was at this point that the real celebration started. There was a great naval parade on the Hudson from Staten Island toward Spuyten Duyvil. There were listed 1596 ships including thirty-one U.S. Navy ships and sixteen foreign ones. There were four German ships-of-the-line under Gross Admiral Von Koester and four English ones under Admiral of the Fleet Sir Edward Hollart Seymour, plus lesser representations from less naval-oriented countries. The procession proceeded from Staten Island to the "water gate" at 110th Street. It was reviewed and visited, and the corollary parades, pageants, exercises, banquets, ceremonies, exhibitions and dedications started. Buildings, bridges and monuments were decorated by lights, 107,152 in New York alone. Fireworks displays in all Manhattan boroughs were prodigious. German singing societies and orchestras of all ethnic groups gave concerts; museums had "special exhibitions" of almost any art and artifact connected with our history. Every foreign official or dignitary was dined sumptuously time and again - and the menus are formidable, There wasn't a day in the period from September 25th to 30th when the five New York City boroughs weren't in a great turmoil. Every borough had several parades, banquets, aquatic sports, races, exercises, dedications and exhibitions. There were gorgeous, sententious speeches and poems. Everyone was honored at the dinners and receptions and, of course, everyone responded. The 1400 pages of the commission report

of Kinderhook Waite Sr. William by taken of photograph Copy

the Hudson River in Clermont of the Replica

record almost every word that was declaimed. It was a great outpouring of sincere, uninhibited, naive, sentiment. To put on a show of the great advances in air travel achieved by pioneers of the early 20th century, a committee worked diligently. It considered importing dirigibles from Europe. But the expense was too great even for these people. Including the gas generators, they estimated a cost of nearly $100,000, and rejected the display. An American officer on the committee stated that the United States Aeronautical plant at Fort Omaha cost only $79,949.49. So they turned to heavier-than-air machines. European pilots, such as Bleriot, wanted a lot of money to perform and were too busy with exhibitions at home. So, the committee turned to Wilbur Wright and Glenn Curtis. Wright signed a contract for $1,000 to cover time and expenses. If he could make one or more flights exceeding either 10 miles in distance or more than one hour's duration, he was to receive $15,000. Curtis would receive $5,000 for any of several described flights of over 10 miles. Wright would not fly on a Sunday; Monday the 27th was rainy; Tuesday, windy and threatening. But Wednesday, the 29th, had ideal conditions with a "soft, steady wind from the west." At 9:15 a.m., with an easy glide, he left the ground, made two circles, then flew east to Buttermilk Channel, north to the end of Governor's Island and back. In seven minutes and 10 seconds at altitudes from 40 to 200 feet he went 2 miles: A second flight lasted only 5 minutes. But on Monday morning, October the 4th, came the big flight. The plane flew across New York Bay and up Manhattan to 110th Street - with great acclaim - and returned to base safely. He is reported to have covered 20 miles in the remarkable time of 33 minutes, 30 seconds. That afternoon Wright tried to start his engine 9 times. On the last try, he blew off the cylinder head and said, "No more flights in New York." There's nothing said about it, but he must have collected the big money. Glenn Curtis got off the ground once, never flew over water, came back down in less than a minute and packed up his plane for the trip home. During the events in New York, great emphasis was put on illumination. For two weeks the city was described as being in a blaze of light (nobody seems to have heard the word "cliche" at this time). City Hall, four borough halls, the East River Bridges, the Washington Arch, the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in Brooklyn and Grant's Mausoleum (sic) were festooned, and there were searchlights on Fifth Avenue from Washington Square to Central Park. The Committee had a thorough-going publicity campaign. Papers, booklets and handbills told of the great affair time and again. There were an official badge (not as gaudy as you'd expect), a celebration flag, several medals, posters for the whole valley and even a postage stamp - all in a sort of Dutch tricolor of orange, blue and white. Even today - faded as the ribbons are - the colors are attractive. Parades in Manhattan - as well as in the other four boroughs - were great shows. In each one there would be about 2,000 marchers plus the bands, numbering probably at least 500 musicians. After all, thirty bands seemed about par for each event. It took at least fifty horsedrawn floats per

parade to be impressive. As far as I can tell, hundreds of dressed-up characters rode the floats to point out historical occasions, or to just represent gods, fairies, famous musicians, warriors, politicians, heroes or pioneers. The photographs give the impression that the whole eastern seaboard had been drained fresh out of paper mache by the time the processions started. In the metropolitan area, a major event was the banquet at the Hotel Astor on Wednesday, September 29th. It must have been a Lucullan feast. The menu - undoubtedly quite typical of the day - is worth a little time; and a speculation of how those present could ingest so much food and then listen for hours to speeches, individual welcomes and punctilious replies, with some lengthy poetry thrown in. Those men in their white ties and tail coats were made of pretty stern stuff. But feast they did and listen dutifully to speech, reply, and poesy they did. And evidently, there was no public charge of discrimination against minorities in those days. You were either invited by a select committee of the Commission or you were left out in the cold. Leaders in the seats of power had little use for equality - discrimination, evidently, was taken for granted. You are going to hear some passages that concern local color. Here's one - the goings-on by the top echelons of the Commission and their guests at the Hotel Astor, Wednesday, September 29. I give you the menu - as printed in an impressive booklet - of the grand reception and dinner held there:

Hotel Astor Wednesday, September 29, 1909

Cantaloupes de la Vallee du'Hudson - Frappes

Consomme Tortue Verte a l'Americaine hors d'oeuvre Varies Timbales de Crabes a l'Orientale Filets de Pompano Robert Fulton Pommes de terre en croquette

Ris de Veau Piques Glaces a l'Amsterdam Fonds d'Artichauts Epicurienne Sorbet au Curacoa Poussins de Bruyere au Cresson Salade Tropicale Glace Monumentale - Henry Hudson Petits Fours Fruits Assortis Cafe Noir

. . and the wines:

Brauneberger 1904 Ponte Canet 1898 Moet & Chandon Henry Hudson - Cuvee 1898 White Rock Water

With this dinner, the high point of activity in the New York Metropolitan Area had been reached. Libraries and museums would have exhibits - pertinent to the celebration more or less - parades would wind through the streets of the boroughs. Poems, minor receptions, and diminishing illumination would continue for several days.

But, before we follow the parade north from Manhattan, there should be a serious review of popular attitudes, as exhibited in the poetry this occasion engendered from the accepted rhymsters in this ebullient population. Unkind as it may be to focus your concentration this evening on sentiments expressed by the cultured people of that time, it is important that you understand and recognize the deeper feelings of better-recognized early 20th Century authors in our area. One of these poetic leaders was Julia Ward Howe. For this occasion she wrote an outstanding work entitled simply "Fulton." For your edification, I shall read the first three and the final verses of this work: "Fulton" "A river flashing like a gem Crowned with a mountain diadem Invites an unaccustomed Guest To launch his shallop on her crest A pilgrim whose exploring mind Must leave his tardy pace behind... "My bark creeps slow, the world is vast How shall its pace be overpassed?"

"Responsive to his cry appears A visionary, young in years, Commissioned with prophetic brain The mystic problem to explain "When fire and water closest blend There find a servant and a friend."

"Yet many a moon must wax and wane With sleepless nights and days of pain, Pleading a monarch's court before Shrewd processes and study sore, Ere on the silver tide shall float Swifter than thought, young Fulton's boat."

This theme continues for a while and then Julia makes a stirring closing:

"And as one Sun doth encompass all That shall arise or may befall One fiat on creation's night Bestowed the blessed boon of night So shall we all one promise fill For Freedom, Justice and Good Will."

My gracious! I give you now, in contrast, the ending of Henry Van Dyck's "Henry Hudson's Last Voyage." You remember that, after Hudson had cruised the Atlantic Seaboard and sailed up the Hudson, he returned to Holland. The great Northwest Passage to the Indies and China had not been found; North America was a poor substitute to his Dutch masters, so, again he sailed farther north into Hudson's Bay and a mutiny by his men. They put Hudson, his son and a few loyal supporters in a small boat, sailed away and left their captain to the elements. Hudson, the story goes, sailed on among the ice floes to oblivion. But here is the end of Van Dyck's poem - with Hudson speaking:

"We hold hope as long as life endures These are the longest days of all the year The world is round and God is everywhere And while our white shallop floats we still can steer.

"So, point her up, John King, NW by N We'll keep the honor of a certain aim Amid the peril of uncertain quays And sail ahead and leave the rest to God."

Now, with some small hope that you are deeply interested in another message of the early 20th Century, I read a work entitled "Manhattan." It was written for the occasion by one Joseph Ignatius Constantine Clark. The whole encompassed (see, I am becoming infected with their verbiage) four full pages of small type. You are to have the pleasure of only part of the last page.

Ode! "Constant my soul on the hard path of duty Striving to win to the levels above Leaving my soul in the gardens of beauty Eager my heart in the gardens of love Tender my soul to the angels of pity Humble my soul to the bearers of light Fearless my soul at the gates of the City Stalwart my soul for the ultimate light.

"Mighty my dreams of a city imperial Radiant, free with an ordered love Rich but with mind - gold beyond the material Powerful, merciful, just without flaw Thrift - strong and gentle voiced, rippling with laughter Song filled and thrilled with the triumphs of art Poverty banished and now and hereafter Peace in my bosom and joy in my heart."

Remember, this rhapsody was about New York City. I would like to report that sometime during my research, there came to light a real poetic dilly by a female from Rockland County. It was declaimed at one of the dedications. But it seems to be lost, and you will never know what you have missed. Pages and pages in the report of the Commission to the Legislature were taken up with speeches, introductions and acknowledgements. Word for word. I have selected for your enjoyment only the response of Brigadier General Machado of Cuba at the Hotel Astor reception - in part, of course.

"Cuba as a sovereign country joins in this celebration with as much enthusiasm as is felt by any other nation or State of the Union, not only on account of its keen interest in World Progress and the advancement of science, but also because of the everlasting friendship and of the close relations which exist between the island republic and the U.S.A."

All rather prophetic, don't you think? And fairly similar to all of the expressions at these functions - there were, evidently, only so many different sentiments available. But, now the center of attention began to travel up that river which was, after all, the focal point of the whole parade. The flotilla left the upper North River of New York and proceeded by fits and starts up the Hudson to visit cities, towns and villages that would take up the carnival atmosphere. By September 30th, the two flagships, Hudson and Clermont had proceeded to Haverstraw and Peekskill. These towns were ready with their receptions, parades, speeches and general celebrations. Stony Point dedicated (or re-dedicated) a monument to Mad Anthony Wayne (who was a kind of younger, ungovernable prototype of George Patton). Anthony was a hero in suppressing British strong points on the Hudson during the Revolutionary War and had frequently an unsettling and disturbing effect on General Washington. On the first of October, the flotilla had survived and passed the bashing guns at West Point and its welcome there. It had safely made the passage between Storm King and Break Neck Mountains to encounter the outpouring of Newburgh's welcome. Behind it, there were still great events being held in the five boroughs of New York City - bands, concerts by singing societies (they never seemed to tire) and more of those great parades. The parades were eye - and ear - shaking events, the like of which I've never seen or even heard rumors. Floats - in those days - were built on long wagons drawn by about four horses. They were significant, depicting races, historical events, books, art, artists, musicians or anything else even slightly depictable. There are unbelievable pictures of them in the 1400-page Report to the Legislature. Their themes - either "Historical" or "Cultural" - must be seen in the illustrations to be believed. Just imagine today's crowd - especially teenagers and those slightly older - looking at the floats of those days. We have riots and protests for all possible reasons. Imagine the picketing and brick-bat throwing at the approach of floats showing humble Negroes, subservient Indians, or other ethnic motifs. Well, as we read it in the Commission's 1400-page, 2 volume report to the State, you'd think that a great deal had gone on up and down the Hudson except at Poughkeepsie. You'd think our city's citizens and their leaders (especially John K. Saque, George V. L. Spratt and Peter Troy) had a simple reception for the naval march - or fleet - and sat on their oars. However, an examination of the archives in the Adriance Memorial Library gives a somewhat different impression of the activities in town. There, one finds a complete record of the goings-on in our city. Activity started on September 30 - two days before the naval parade was to arrive - and continued to October 4 with unconfined enthusiasm. Those people were certainly of a different cast from today's society . . . young, energetic, brash, enthusiastic and pretty ingenuous. So, on September 30 the local celebration started with a registration of Dutchess County emigres who were extensively wooed to come back and see the excitement. There