Peter K. Dederick’s Albany Agricultural and Machine Works was one of the first major agricultural implement factories. Dederick held several patents, beginning in 1843, and his works made the first commercial hay press. The works in Tivoli Hollow were massive, and a significant chunk of the old factory remains. The train tracks seen in this view to the south of the factory are still there today. A Google search for P.K. Dederick will turn up a significant amount of ephemera and memorabilia.
Some academic collections serve a maddeningly singular purpose, but in this case that purpose serves Hoxsie well. Within Columbia University’s Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library resides The Biggert Collection of Architectural Vignettes on Commercial Stationery. Luckily for us, this fascination with architectural vignettes produces some magnificent reminders of historical buildings in the Capital District.
This is the billhead of the Aerated Bread Co. of 193, 195 and 197 North Pearl Street in Albany. Sadly, the location near the corner of Wilson Street is no more than a vacant lot today, but once it housed a graceful old building in which E. J. Larrabee & Co. (successors to Belcher & Larrabee) made “Egg, Cream, Milk, Graham and Lemon Biscuit, and every variety of Crackers” as well as “Holmes’ Patent Ginger Snaps, Lemon Snaps, Jumbles, &c.” They were also the sole local agents for Holmes’ Patent Snap Machines.
The Larrabee companies were prominent in the development of the cookie and cracker business nationwide; Belcher and Larrabee was formed in 1860, becoming E.J. Larrabee in 1871. In procuring the newest dough-mixing technology from England, they also procured the services of John Holmes, creator of the aforementioned “snap” machines, who went on to build one of New York City’s most prominent cracker factories, Holmes & Coutts, manufacturer of the “Sea Foam” biscuit.
The billhead was printed by the prominent Albany printer Weed, Parsons & Co. It was made out in 1871, and though the handwriting is hard to follow, it would appear to be to a Joseph (?) Gibbons for one bushel of oyster crackers.
City and County started as the Albany City Savings Institution in 1850. It changed its name to City Savings Bank of Albany in 1922. In 1935 it merged with Albany County Savings Bank and became, sensibly enough, City and County Savings Bank. Things stayed stable until its merger in 1981 with Home Savings Bank, at which point the “County” would be forgotten and Home and City Savings Bank was created. 10 years later it was merged with Trustco, the former Schenectady Trust Company. While the downtown Trustco branch is a few doors up from its legacy headquarters, the uptown branch remains a Trustco.
This article from the Gloversville Morning Herald, July 17, 1926, details how my 15-year-old grandfather (the “aged 16” in the article is either erroneous or, more likely, a lie) blew his thumb and forefinger off by applying flame to a dynamite blasting cap, the device that detonates a stick of dynamite. He was up to no good, probably stole the caps from another boy, and this would hardly be his (or his father’s) only trouble in the rough-and-tumble immigrant city of Amsterdam, New York in the 1920s and 1930s.
The article reads as follows:
Dynamite Cap Injures Three
One, John Crisalle, Loses Thumb And Finger Of Right Hand In Explosion.
John Crisalle, 140 Forbes street, Amsterdam, aged 16, had the thumb and finger of his right hand blown off shortly before noon yesterday by the explosion of a dynamite cap, to which he was applying the flame of a match. His left hand was mutilated and his face gashed also, while Dominick Severa, 268 East Main street, and Edmund Carbonelli, 9 Eagle street, who stood near, received puncture wounds and gashes in the face, neck and chest.
The dynamite cap which exploded was one of several which Crisalle had, three others being found in his pocket after the accident. The explosion occurred in a yard between St. Casimir’s church on East Main street and the residence of Raymond J. Gilston. This yard is often used by the boys of the neighborhood as a playground. There were several there at the time of the explosion, the three who were hurt being close together watching for the results of fire applied to the cap. The explosion was heard throughout the neighborhood, and four or five men were on the scene within a moment or two. Fragments of bone and flesh blown from Crisalle’ [sic] hands were discovered lying on the ground. He was taken to the office of Dr. Lombardi and thence to St. Mary’s hospital. The stumps of the thumb and fore finger of the right hand were amputated, but the wounds to the left did not indicate that there will be any loss of fingers to that hand. His face was cut, a gash under the left eye being very deep. The other two boys were attended by Dr. Tomlinson at his office.
The cap which exploded is one of the kind used in quarries. The caps are metal cylinders only about an inch and a half to two inches in length and hardly the diameter of an ordinary pencil. They are used to communicate the spark from the battery to the dynamite charge proper. It is not quite certain how Crisalle obtained them. He spoke of having received them from a lad named Joseph Bucci of Lark street. Bucci was summoned to police headquarters. He admitted having had quite a number of similar caps for some time. He got them, he says, from a bunch of rags, part of a collection of his grandfather, who is a dealer in rags and junk. He had a box full, he said, and has played with them himself now and then and thrown them around, but they never went off.
He had no idea that they were dynamite and had evidently been under the impression that they were some ordinary sort of cap or blank cartridge. He denied having given any of them to Crisalle, but he did say that he was throwing them about in the neighborhood of his home, and that Crisalle was there and must have picked some of them up, or somebody else did and then gave them to the injured boy.
In journalism school, we always referred to tales of ink-stained wretches and newspapers gone by told by our professors as “war stories.” But a teacher of French at the Albany Female Academy in the 1830s had some real war stories to tell: General Henri La Fayette Villaume Ducoudray Holstein.
He was a native of Germany who entered the French service and acquired the confidence of Napoleon and had a relationship with Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette. Joel Munsell reports that on the restoration of the Bourbons, he went to South America, “where he found scope for his military skill.” That’s shorthand for a plot to liberate Puerto Rico from Spain, establish it as the Republic of Boricua, and turn a profit. This became known as the Ducoudray Holstein Expedition. The Spanish got wind of it, asked the Dutch government of neutral port Curacao to intercede, and Ducoudray Holstein found himself under arrest in Curacao. Over a series of trials and appeals, he was found guilty of mercenary acts and sailing under false Dutch papers, and sentenced to death. It is said that Lafayette and the government of the United States interceded with the Netherlands on his behalf, and Ducoudray Holstein found himself sailing for a new home in the United States. After a time teaching military tactics, he settled his family in remote upstate New York, where he became a professor of the French, Spanish and German languages and literature at Geneva College in Ontario County.
The General taught there for a number of years and then came to the Albany Female Academy (now known as the Albany Academy for Girls), where he taught French for six years until his death, and (again according to Munsell), “won the esteem of all who knew him.” While in Albany he wrote “The New French Reader, for the use of Universities, Colleges, Academies and Schools,containing original and selected anecdotes, biographical sketches and character portraits of persons distinguished by their genius and their knowledge.” And that was just the title. Luckily, the rest is available to us through Google Books. He also contributed to a periodical called “The Zodiac.” He died May 23, 1839, at the age of 76, and was buried in Albany Rural Cemetery.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about all the other Albanies that were named for our Albany. One of the most distant places on the planet was named, not for Albany, but for a prominent Albany native: The Eights Coast of Antarctica was named for prominent scientist and artist James Eights.
His exact year and place of birth are in question, but it’s fair to say he was born around 1798. The son of a physician (and possibly a physician himself; he was often referred to as “Doctor”), Eights was early associated with Amos Eaton‘s exploration and collection of the geology of the Erie Canal, and was on the board of the Albany Lyceum of Natural History, formed in 1823. He showed great skill as a draftsman, contributing detailed drawings of Lyceum specimens. He also helped in the development of the Albany Institute of History and Art.
He moved on to New York City, where he was involved with the Sketch Club, an artists’ gathering, and the New York Lyceum. With the support of Stephen Van Rensselaer (Amos Eaton’s partner in the creation of Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute), Eights was appointed as naturalist on an expedition to explore the South Seas that set out in October, 1829. While this was a time when the continent of Antarctica was still hypothetical, his investigations in the South Shetland Islands turned up the first fossils from that region. In honor of that early exploration, the Eights Coast of Antarctica was named in his honor more than a century later.
His South Seas exploits hardly registered here in Albany, but he is remembered for the paintings he made of Old Albany. Later in his life, around 1850, he made a series of paintings from memory of how Albany looked when he was a boy. These beautiful watercolors are in many instances the only references we have for the long-lost old Dutch city.
A very detailed life of James Eights by Daniel McKinley is available here.
Joel Munsell’s “Annals of Albany, Vol. 10” from 1859 includes items of interest from the newspapers of the years gone by, including this delightful bit of commercial doggerel attached to an item from Nov. 13, 1835:
The hat factory of Edward S. Willett, corner of Green and Basset streets, was burnt. He was the first to commence the manufacture of silk hats in this city. To show that Mr. Willett was not alone a man of fur merely, but also a poet, his advertisement is introduced. As a man of law he can speak for himself.
If e’er a man in earnest sought
To make a hat as workmen ought,
Substantial, and with beauty fraught,
And well may he take pains to please
When hosts of Fashion’s devotees
Are daily swarming like bees,
Hundreds and hundreds who’ve surveyed
The hats in other stores displayed,
Have left them all and come to trade
Ask the genteel where’er you go,
Who made that elegant chapeau?
And ten to one he’ll say, I trow,
Who showed those hats, so rich and rare,
That took the prize twice at the fair,
Causing the craft to wince and stare?
The Eagle with the hat that won
The prize that dimm’d a certain Sun,
Displays a taste that’s touch’d by none
The corner of Green and Bassett, an old, old part of the city, doesn’t retain much of its 1835 look today.
The next day, the Times reported that “Three experts made an exhaustive examination today of the accounts of the Schenectady Savings Bank, whose head accountant, August Henke, killed himself Wednesday night. The investigation disclosed that Henke’s method was to make false entries in the transfer of accounts from the individual to the general ledger. The peculations were in small amounts.”
If you wondered why Mr. Henke felt the need to wander all the way up to Aqueduct to take his life — he was the treasurer of the Schenectady Canoe Club and presumably familiar with the Mohawk River in that stretch, which is still popular with canoeists.
I’m just going to go ahead and assume that ban passed.