Last on the River

The white steamers of the Hudson River Day Line were once as much a part of New York as horsecars and Coney Island. On sweltering summer days, their cool decks were a breezy contrast to the city's steaming streets. Even for those who couldn't or didn't know that it was more beautiful than the Rhine, the Hudson, with its cliffs and vistas, was still a sight for city dwellers' sore eyes. Picnickers dropped off at Indian Point or Bear Mountain at noon, took a downriver boat back to New York in the early evening.

The Day Line steamers were one of the last relics of a garish, opulent, but less hurried day. Once, 100 river steamers had competed for the river trade. The gingerbread grandeur of their interiors gave the passengers the elegant impression of a transatlantic voyage with none of its discomforts. Cotillions were held on their decks; financiers and gamblers masquerading as financiers thronged their saloons.

Fierce rivalry existed between the ships. One installed a 34-whistle calliope, regaled the countryside with Swanee River. Price wars were frequent, and races common. Many races ended with bursting boilers.

One shrewd skipper, who made up in ingenuity what his boat lacked in speed, would order his excellent band to play loudly when a rival drew alongside. All the passengers on the other boat would rush to the near side to listen, heeling their own vessel over until its other paddle wheel flailed helplessly half out of water.

But one by one, the ships disappeared from the river. Only the Day Line, "the Albany night boat," and a few others lingered on. The day boats maintained an air of spinsterish respectability. The night boat took on a raffish tilt. It became the favorite vehicle of newlyweds and not-yet-weds, of petty coggers and straw-hatted drummers. Later, vacationists bound for the Adirondacks still patronized it, grateful that they could stow their cars in its hold and their young in its berths.

In 1939, the last night boat gave up. Last week, the Manhattan press broke into a wail of nostalgia as the passing of the Day Line was announced. New York's cave dwellers felt a twinge of regret too--until they tried to remember when they had last ridden on a Day Line boat. It had been quite a while.

In an age insistent on speed and convenience, and indifferent to comfort, the boats had no place. As for scenery, modern man was now conditioned to taking it in a new form, as a thin strip that flicked past, like a long, evenly unwinding tape, on either side of a concrete highway--the kind he could see without turning his head.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.