Appropriate it
is, for with the lordly Hudson at its feet, the sparkling
Fallkill creek containing numerous falls and cascades flowing
through the eastern and northern parts, the wonderful bridge
across the Hudson, and its numerous educational facilities, this
half-way city between New York and Albany has been to many weary
travelers a "safe and pleasant harbor."
"F. B. Morse, inventor of the telegraph, lived at Locust Grove,
two miles below the city, and in the process of his experiments
built wires into Poughkeepsie two years before they were
extended to New York City."
Just north of the city the wonderful cantilever bridge, six
thousand seven hundred and thirty-eight feet in length and two
hundred and twelve feet in height, spans the Hudson. It is the
highest bridge in the world built over navigable waters. As we
gazed at the marvelous structure a train crossed the long bridge
with muffled roar and disappeared in the heavily tree-clad
hillsides. Just above the city there is a bend in the river and
a fine prospect may be had. The foreground for the most part
consists of cultivated fields, and hills well wooded with trees
of great variety and graceful outline, growing higher as they
recede from it, until they range and rise in grand sublimity in
the Catskill mountains. Before and below the point where the
bridge spans the river, the dim outlines of vessels melt into
hazy indistinctness in the gathering twilight.
One of the sights of the city is the circular panoramic view of
the Hudson river valley, obtained from the top of College Hill
park. The winding automobile roadway on North Clinton street,
leading to the summit, is about two hundred feet above the
Poughkeepsie bridge. Fancy yourself, if you can, on the summit
of this hill, gay with bright colored flowers, fine maples and
elms; whose base slopes down to the sparkling Hudson. Beyond
you, terrace like, rises hill upon hill, stretching away
unbroken for many miles, covered thickly with verdant meadows
and oat fields and bounded by long lines of stone fences. The
varying shades of the undulations grow gradually dimmer until
they mingle with the Catskills on the far horizon.
Between the bases of the hills winds the leisurely, majestic
current of the river, clothed in those deep sunny hues that seem
like some lovely dream in place of a reality. To the southeast
the same green hills, with the same deep hues and mysterious
veils, lead your enraptured sight to where the distant peaks of
the Adirondacks with their hazy indistinctness seem like the far-
off shores of another world. Before and below you lies the city
with her sea of spires and dark smokestacks and the steamers
coming up the river, "filling the air with their dark breath or
the mournful sound of their voices."
After beholding so beautiful a scene as this, one loves to
remember Poughkeepsie, not for its beauty alone, but for the
beneficence of a great man - Matthew Vassar.
