The Project Gutenberg EBook of The New York and Albany Post Road, by
Charles Gilbert Hine
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Title: The New York and Albany Post Road
From Kings Bridge to "The Ferry at Crawlier, over against
Albany," Being an Account of a Jaunt on Foot Made at Sundry
Convenient Times between May and November, Nineteen Hundred
and Five
Author: Charles Gilbert Hine
Release Date: December 14, 2007 [EBook #23857]
Language: English
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THE
NEW YORK AND ALBANY
POST ROAD
FROM KINGS BRIDGE TO "THE FERRY AT CRAWLIER,
OVER AGAINST ALBANY," BEING AN ACCOUNT OF A
JAUNT ON FOOT MADE AT SUNDRY CONVENIENT TIMES
BETWEEN MAY AND NOVEMBER, NINETEEN HUNDRED
AND FIVE
BY C.G. HINE
_HINE'S ANNUAL, 1905_
BOOK I.
Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1906, by C.G. HINE,
in the office of the Librarian at Congress, Washington, D.C.
[Illustration: Sunnyside.]
Foreword.
The Hudson Valley, above all other places in this country, combines
historic and romantic interest with the beauties of nature. It is one
hundred and fifty miles crowded with the splendors of mountain and
forest and river, and replete with incident and legend. To quote
George William Curtis: "Its morning and evening reaches are like the
lakes of a dream." Everyone who visits New York comes or goes, if
possible, by the river route. Few know much of anything, however,
about the Old Post Road, that one-time artery of travel and trade,
whose dust has been stirred by the moccasin of the Indian and the boot
of the soldier; whose echoes are the crack of the stage driver's whip
and the whistle of the startled deer; whose bordering hills were named
for the wild boar and the wild cat, and along whose edges are still
scattered the interesting relics of a past that the passenger by
steamer or rail can never know.
Take it in May or June when all nature is fresh and green, with fleecy
clouds above, and below a bank of wild azalea or an apple orchard in
bloom. Or try it in the Fall when the woods are as gay as the painted
butterfly. Each season holds out its own attractions.
Few places can equal the Hudson Valley for the Autumn panorama. The
brilliant colors of the deciduous foliage intermingled with the dark
of the evergreens rise from the blue of the river to the blue of
heaven with every variety of tree and shrub to lend a hand in the
illumination. It is red gold and yellow gold, purple and fine linen,
and all manner of precious stones when the sun puts a crown of glory
on some great tulip or sparkles in the gorgeous maple leaves. The
colors are so splendid that even Turner, in all his glory, could not
equal one of these.
There is no office at which to buy a ticket for this Post Road route.
It is Shanks' mare, with an independence and freedom that no other
mode of travel knows. To be sure, one can also take it on horseback,
by bicycle or automobile, according to fancy and finances, and,
provided he does not exceed the speed limit, it matters little how he
goes. The speed limit naturally differs with the individual. The
writer thinks that three miles an hour is fast enough--a pace that
enables one to keep his eyes on the picture and does not necessitate a
continuous inspection of the road.
Naturally the weather plays its part in such an open air journey, and
this is particularly the case if the trip be made on foot. It is the
loss of the landscape, blotted out by the mist, rather than the
physical discomfort of being caught in a rain squall, that counts. In
fact, if one is protected by a light rubber cape, and will take the
storm philosophically with a mind to enjoy it and rise superior to the
drip on his knees, there is huge satisfaction in being alone with the
patter of the rain. But the loss of the landscape is serious in such
country as the Post Road deals with. An instance of this comes vividly
to mind in connection with the Wiccopee Pass and the plain south of
Fishkill. As I first saw it of a perfect June evening, it was as
delicately beautiful as a bit of silver filigree, but another time, in
September, the mist hung low on the mountains. It was either raining,
or had just stopped, or was about to begin again, and it had been
doing that or worse all day and the day before, and that which had
been a delight in June was now a matter of so many miles to be
disposed of as quickly as possible. There is a local expression in
these parts, applied to certain phases of the weather: "As black as a
black hat", which one can better appreciate after he has seen the
scowl with which an Autumn storm can sweep down these mountains. Good
May or June weather and the soft delight of Indian Summer are equally
enjoyable, but avoid the Ides of March, or, in other words, the days
of the equinoctial.
The amount of baggage is best decided after one has tramped it a bit.
At first the tendency is to take the various little luxuries that are
so necessary at home, but after they have been pulling at the
shoulders all day long and the unaccustomed strain has developed
possibilities in the way of aches undreamed of before, the conviction
is gradually forced on the wayfarer that every ounce counts, and next
time many of the "necessities" are left behind. A light suit of
pajamas, a pair of extra sox and a thin rubber cape are greatly to be
desired. A wash rag, nail brush and small piece of soap, tooth brush,
comb and shaving outfit, extra eye glasses, small corkscrew and court
plaster--all these can be carried in a "tourist's bag" slung from one
shoulder, and these are enough, with a bit of talcum powder and
vaseline for chafed spots. Over the other shoulder hang a small, light
camera and take the Post Road home with you to dream o'er of Winter
nights.
[Illustration]
New York to Albany by the Old Post Road.
In 1703 the Provincial Legislature passed a "Publick Highways" act,
part of which reads as follows:--
"Publick and Common General Highway to extend from King's Bridge in
the County of Westchester through the same County of Westchester,
Dutchess County and the County of Albany, of the breadth of four rods,
English measurement, at the least, to be, continue and remain forever,
the Publick Common General Road and Highway from King's Bridge
aforesaid to the ferry at Crawlier over against the city of Albany."
This, being in the reign of Queen Anne, was at first known as the
Queen's Road, but in due time became known as the Albany Post Road.
Stages for the north originally started from Cortland Street; later
the starting point was moved up to Broadway and Twenty-first Street,
and as other means of conveyance improved and multiplied, the point
for starting was moved north and further north until finally the
railroad was finished through to Albany and the stage coach was a
reminiscence of bygone times.
It is "159 m. from N. York" to Albany by the Post Road, as the old
mile stones figure it. When they were set up, a hundred years or so
ago, New York City was south of the present City Hall, and one can get
some idea of the city's growth when he knows that there still exists
on Manhattan Island a stone imbedded in a bordering wall along
Broadway, and in about its proper place, in the neighborhood of Two
Hundred and Fifteenth Street, which reads "12 miles from N. York."
[Sidenote: _KING'S BRIDGE._]
This trip starts with King's Bridge, built by Frederick Philipse in
1693. That bridge--which, like Mark Twain's jackknife, that had had
two new handles and six new blades, but was still the same old
jackknife--still connects Manhattan Island with the main land, being
supported on stone piers that are said to be the original ones used.
There is but one other bridge in the entire trip to Albany that can
rival its antique and aged appearance, and that crosses the Roeloff
Jansen Kill in Columbia County. Just East of the King's Bridge was the
"wading place" of the Indians, and later of the Dutch, where the
valiant Anthony Van Corlear met his fate, and, according to Irving,
gave the stream its present name.
To one who likes to speculate as to what might have been, had things
been different, King's Bridge affords large opportunity for thought.
It seems always to have been a favorite haunt of the human race, its
encircling hills and accessibility by water no doubt being responsible
for this popularity. Extensive beds of oyster shells testify to former
Indian occupancy, and the Dutch appear to have shown the same
preference for this quiet nook, though they finally pitched their
tents at the lower end of the island which furnished larger
opportunity for trade. If the city had been established here, would we
to-day be taking our pleasure jaunts into the country where now is the
Battery, and would our antiquarians still be discovering Indian
remains in that region?
Bolton's History of Westchester County says that the site of the
present village of King's Bridge was that originally selected by the
Dutch for their city of New Amsterdam, it being a spot protected from
the blasts of Winter by the encircling hills, and it may have been
that the swamps of Mosholu Creek gave them pleasurable anticipations
of dykes and ditches--a touch of home. They had but to re-name the
creek and make it a real Amster Dam.
Spuyten Duyvil Hill toward the west was known to the Indians as
Nipnichsen. Here they had a castle or stockade to protect them against
the Sauk-hi-can-ni, the "fire workers", who dwelt on the western shore
of the great river Mohican-i-tuck, and from which later came that
delectable fire-water known as "Jersey lightning," against which no
red man is ever known to have raised a hand. In later days three small
American redoubts, known as forts Nos. 1, 2 and 3, crowned this same
hill. One of these is now doing duty as the cellar walls of a
dwelling. On the rise of ground to the east known as Tetard's Height,
was Fort Independence, or No. 4. This series of eight small forts,
which covered the upper end of Manhattan Island from the heights of
the adjoining mainland, seem to have been more ornamental than useful,
as they fell into British hands with little or no fighting. No. 8
overlooked Laurel Hill, on which stood Fort George.
In the early days King's Bridge appears to have been the only
connecting link with the mainland, for not only did travelers for the
north go this way, but it seems that those for the east also availed
themselves of this approach to the mainland, as Madam Knight, on her
journey from New Haven to New York, in 1704, speaks of coming to
"Spiting Devil, else King's Bridge, where they pay three pence for
passing over with a horse, which the man that keeps the gate set up
at the end of the bridge receives."
The "Neutral Ground" came down to this point, and during the
Revolution it was the borderland over which the raids of both
belligerents swept. Congress, recognizing its importance, ordered in
May, 1775, "That a post be immediately taken and fortified at or near
King's Bridge, and that the ground be chosen with a particular view to
prevent the communication between the City of New York and the country
from being interrupted by land."
Here in January, 1777, Major-General Heath attacked a body of Hessians
under Knyphausen and drove them within their works, but the Americans
were in turn driven off, and again in 1781, in order to afford the
French officers a view of the British outposts, the American Army
moved down to King's Bridge when the usual skirmish followed--in fact,
it was a storm centre so long as the British occupied New York.
The Macomb mansion, a fine house even to-day, once the home of
Major-General Alexander Macomb, the "hero of Plattsburg," still
overlooks the waters of Spuyten Duyvil Creek. Originally a tavern, it
was purchased about 1800 by Alexander Macomb whose son, Robert, was
ruined by the destruction of Macomb's Dam, which went down before the
embattled farmers, with whom it interfered. The Macomb family was a
band of sturdy fighters, all of the five sons taking an active part in
the militia or the regular army, but the reputation of the family
rests principally on the glorious deeds of Alexander in the war of
1812.
[Sidenote: _THE VALE OF YONKERS._]
The Post Road, known in these days as Broadway, follows the eastern
edge of the Mosholu swamp to Van Cortlandt Park, through what is
called the Vale of Yonkers. Here is Vault Hill, one of the points
selected by Washington on which to make a display for the benefit of
the British while he quietly led his main army south for the
operations against Cornwallis. On a clear day the hill is in plain
view from Manhattan Island, and the camp fires and general indications
of activity on its summit helped materially in the scheme to deceive
the enemy. The hill has its name from the fact that it was used as a
burial ground by the early generations of the Van Cortlandt family.
The property was sold in 1699 by Hon. Frederick Philipse to his
son-in-law, Jacobus Van Cortlandt (a brother of Stephanus Van
Cortlandt of Cortlandt), and the mansion was erected by Frederick Van
Cortlandt in 1748. Northeast of it is situated Indian Field,
memorable as the scene of an engagement between the British and the
Stockbridge Indians, resulting in the practical annihilation of the
latter.
[Sidenote: _YONKERS._]
The road shortly becomes a village street and so continues into
Yonkers. In 1646 the Indian sachem Tacharew granted the land to Adrian
Von der Donck, the first lawyer of New Netherland. The Indians called
it Nap-pe-cha-mack, the "rapid water settlement," the "settlement"
being located about the mouth of the stream now known as Sawmill
River. The Dutch called their settlement Younkers, Younckers, Jonkers
or Yonkers, derived from Jonkheer, a common name for the male heir of
a Dutch family.
The old Philipse manor house, now Yonkers's City Hall, was erected
about 1682, the present front being added in 1745. In its palmy days
it is said to have sheltered a retinue of thirty white and twenty
colored servants. Here was born Mary Philipse, July 3, 1730, the
heroine of Cooper's "Spy," and the girl who is said to have refused
Washington. In January, 1758, she married Col. Roger Morris. Tradition
tells how, amid the splendors of the wedding feast, a tall Indian,
wrapped in his scarlet blanket, suddenly appeared in the doorway and
solemnly predicted that the family possessions should pass from its
control "When the eagle shall despoil the lion of his mane." The
mystery was explained later when the property was confiscated because
of the royalist leanings of the family.
The site of Pomona Hall, burned some twenty years ago, where Burr took
refuge for a time after the Hamilton duel, is now occupied by a modern
public school. It bordered the Post Road toward the northern edge of
the village, commanding a fine view of the Hudson.
Just inside the northern township line of Yonkers, in the river's
edge, lies the Great Stone, Mackassin, of the Indians, the
"copper-colored stone," an enchanted rock which was an object of
veneration, and on whose flat surface the aborigines probably held
sacred feasts. Originally it stood out in the water, but the railway
embankment has changed all this, and now it is overshadowed by great
advertising boards which the pale-face provides for his traveling
brother to feast his eyes upon.
For some miles, practically as far as the Croton River, the way is
lined with the fine estates of the wealthy, some made notable by
reason of their owners, as Greystone, the former home of Samuel J.
Tilden. It is no uncommon thing to have some particularly fine lawn
pointed out as the most perfect in the country. If what the local
patriots say is true, there is at least one such in every village
hereabouts.
This region is a bit too thickly settled for the pedestrian who, with
his knapsack slung over his shoulder, receives more attention from
nurse maids and children than is sometimes comfortable, but it is
easily possible to send one's impedimenta on by rail if the night's
stopping place can be figured out in advance, and he can then progress
without fear of gibe or jeer.
[Sidenote: _GREENBURGH._]
Greenburgh, "Graintown" bounds Yonkers on the north. Here, the present
site of Dobbs Ferry, was the Indian town of Weck-quas-keck, "the place
of the bark kettle." It was the unprovoked murder of an Indian here
and its subsequent revenge that led to the massacre of the Indians in
Jersey and the following Indian war which brought the Dutch almost to
the last extremity.
[Sidenote: _HASTINGS._]
Hastings, the first town beyond Yonkers, covers the old Post Estate.
In early times the inhabitants seem to have developed a rather
unenviable reputation as sports, cock fights and horse racing being
mentioned as the principal amusements. Here, in 1776, a troop of
Sheldon's Horse ambuscaded a body of Hessians, only one of whom
escaped. Peter Post, who appears to have helped lead the enemy to
destruction, was later caught by them and beaten, being left for dead.
As the traveler enters Hastings he passes the former residence of Dr.
Henry Draper. The old observatory, built in 1870, still stands, though
damaged by a recent fire. Here Dr. Draper made the first photographs
ever taken of the moon. The name of Draper should be revered by every
amateur photographer. The father of Henry, Dr. John William, was a
friend of Daguerre, and it is said that in this building was developed
the first portrait negative. The dwelling is beautifully situated on
the high river bluff and affords a wonderful view up and down the
watery highway.
Close on the road stands an old forge or smithy where Washington's
officers were in the habit of having their horses shod when in the
neighborhood. The place also boasts a "Washington Spring," but its
chiefest natural glory is a great walnut tree which tradition says
was, away back in the Indian days, a Council Tree of the
Weckquaskecks. In one of the Draper cottages once lived Admiral
Farragut, whose wife used the first prize money he received to
purchase some needed article for the local church. There are few
places that hold so many and varied interests for the pilgrim as the
old Draper homestead, and none whose hostess could be more gracious to
the stranger.
[Sidenote: _DOBBS FERRY._]
The road winds along the sides of the hills, sometimes fifty,
sometimes one hundred and fifty feet above the water, and many are the
beautiful vistas through the trees and across the well-kept lawns. By
this time the solid wall of the Palisades is beginning to break and
the outline of the Jersey hills becomes more varied. But we are just
now interested nearer home, for as one approaches Dobbs Ferry he steps
on almost holy ground. Here is the Livingston house, where, after the
fighting was all over, Washington and Governor Clinton met the British
commander, General Sir Guy Carlton, to make the final arrangements for
peace; here the papers were signed which permitted of the disbanding
of the American Army, and in which the British gave up all claim upon
the allegiance and control of the country.
So far back as 1698 a Dob was located here. On account of the ferry
the place was an important one during the Revolution and many
interesting incidents happened in the neighborhood. It was here that
Arnold and André planned to hold their first meeting, but accident
prevented their coming together; and it was here that Sir Henry
Clinton's representative met General Greene, October, 1780, in an
unsuccessful attempt to prevent the execution of André. In July, 1781,
the American and French armies were encamped on the hills round about
while preparations were being pushed as though for an attack on New
York, pioneers being sent forward to clear the roads toward King's
Bridge. Even the American army was wholly unaware of Washington's
intention to strike Cornwallis, and the British were so completely
deceived that the American troops reached the Delaware before Clinton
awoke to the situation.
Those patriotic Democrats who mourn the extravagance of the government
in granting pensions may be interested to know that the first pension
ever granted by the United States was to a Dobbs Ferry boy named
Vincent, who was crippled for life by a gang of Tory cowboys. The boys
had been making remarks of a somewhat personal character which annoyed
the gentle cowboy who, catching three of them, killed two and
permanently injured the third.
Of this class of freebooters Irving writes: "In a little while the
debatable ground became infested by roving bands, claiming from either
side, and all pretending to redress wrongs and punish political
offenses; but all prone, in the exercise of their high functions, to
sack hen roosts, drive off cattle and lay farm houses under
contributions; such was the origin of two great orders of border
chivalry, the Skinners and the Cowboys, famous in Revolutionary story.
The former fought, or rather marauded, under the American, the latter
under the British banner. In the zeal of service, both were apt to
make blunders, and confound the property of friend and foe. Neither of
them in the heat and hurry of a foray had time to ascertain the
politics of a horse or cow which they were driving off into captivity;
nor when they wrung the neck of a rooster did they trouble their heads
whether he crowed for Congress or King George."
Some thirty-five years ago certain esthetic inhabitants of Dobbs
Ferry, having long desired to change its name, finally succeeded in
arousing enough interest to warrant the calling of a public meeting
for the purpose of discussing the question. The general sentiment was
that the new name should have a patriotic tinge. The names of Paulding
and Van Wart were favorites, with a strong leaning toward the former.
Finally one well-meaning but rather obtuse gentleman arose and said
that he knew both of these men; that he did not approve of Paulding;
that Van Wart was just as prominent in the André capture, and besides
was a Christian gentleman, and he proposed that the Van be dropped,
and the town christened Wart-on-the-Hudson. The proposal appears to
have been made in all seriousness, but the ridiculousness of the
situation killed the scheme, and that common piece of clay, Dobbs,
still reigns supreme.
The fine roads and the rush of a vanishing automobile remind one by
the very contrast of the days when the Post Road was a main artery of
travel.
Here is a description of the delights of a stage coach journey:
"A stage journey from one part of the country to another was as
comfortless as could well be imagined. The coach was without springs,
and the seats were hard and often backless. The horses were jaded and
worn, and the roads were rough with boulders and stumps of trees, or
furrowed with ruts and quagmires. The journey was usually begun at 3
o'clock in the morning, and after eighteen hours of jogging over the
rough roads the weary traveler was put down at a country inn whose bed
and board were such as few horny-handed laborers of to-day would
endure. Long before daybreak the next morning a blast from the
driver's horn summoned him to the renewal of his journey. If the coach
stuck fast in a mire, as it often did, the passengers must alight and
help lift it out." No wonder a man made his will and had prayers
offered in church for his safe return before he ventured forth. But
even such a conveyance was a luxury. As a rule people traveled on
foot, carrying their packs on their backs. The well-to-do rode on
horseback, and in some places post chaises with relays of horses every
ten or twenty miles could be obtained. What would the ghosts of such
travelers say to-day, should they stumble on a Pullman car or a
dust-compelling devil wagon? Our very expressions of speech are
modeled on the common, every-day things of life. Fifty or a hundred
years ago the man who was a "slow coach" to-day would be "geared low."
[Sidenote: _COL. JOHN ODELL._]
At least two of the many interesting buildings hereabouts are worth
noting. Standing back from the road a quarter of a mile or so, and
within the compass of the Ardsley Club grounds, is a plain little
cottage whose clapboards show no mark of the planing mill. Here once
lived the redoubtable Col. John Odell, whose father, Jonathan,
languished in a British prison in New York because his son was
fighting under the flag of freedom. At the time of his capture
Jonathan Odell was living on the Odell Estate, which was later sold to
a son of Alexander Hamilton. It is told that the Hessians hanged a
negro slave of Odell's three separate times in an effort to make him
disclose the hiding place of certain hogs with which the said Hessians
were anxious to fraternise.
[Sidenote: _CYRUS W. FIELD._]
A step further on stands the former residence of Cyrus W. Field, whose
place, known as Ardsley, at one time covered some five hundred or more
acres extending from the Post Road over the ridge to the Sawmill
River. The house was built in the day of the mansard roof, and is not
a particularly picturesque creation, but every American is interested
in the man who succeeded in linking his country with the outside world
as did Cyrus W. Field.
[Sidenote: _SUNNYSIDE._]
As we proceed toward the land of enchantment the surroundings seem to
take on a more mysterious air. Sounds that awhile before meant nothing
more than the wind in the trees now begin to make one think of the
rush of galloping cowboys or Hessians on mischief bent; or, if
perchance we catch through the gathering dusk a glint of white on the
river below, may it not be that Flying Dutchman who, tired of the
narrow bounds of the Tappan Zee, is trying to steal out to the open
ocean while the constable sleeps, but the cause of such speculation is
gone almost before the speculation itself takes shape. However, the
abode wherein so many of these marvels were clothed in becoming
language is close at hand--Sunnyside. No better description of the
place can be had than the artist's own: "About five-and-twenty miles
from the ancient and renowned city of Manhattan ... stands a little,
old-fashioned stone mansion, all made up of gable-ends, and as full of
angles and corners as an old cocked hat.... Though but of small
dimensions, yet, like many small people, it is of mighty spirit and
values itself greatly on its antiquity.... Its origin in truth dates
back in that remote region commonly called the fabulous age, in which
vulgar fact becomes mystified and tinted up with delectable
fiction.... The seat of empire now came into the possession of Wolfert
Acker, one of the privy counsellors of Peter Stuyvesant.... During the
dark and troublous times of the Revolutionary War it was the keep or
stronghold of Jacob Van Tassel, a valiant Dutchman.... Years and years
passed over the time honored little mansion. The honeysuckle and the
sweet briar crept up its walls; the wren and the phoebe bird built
under its eaves.... Such was the state of the Roost many years since,
at the time when Diedrich Knickerbocker came into this neighborhood....
Mementoes of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker are still
cherished at the Roost. His elbow chair and antique writing desk
maintain their place in the room he occupied, and his old cocked hat
still hangs on a peg against the wall."
[Sidenote: _TARRYTOWN._]
From here to Tarrytown is but a little way. Tarwetown, "wheat-town."
It is odd that two names so dissimilar in sound as this and
Greenburgh, and both of Dutch origin, should mean the same thing. The
Indian village here was Alipconck, "the place of elms." Like all this
region the place is full of the romance which Irving created, and of
stirring incidents of Colonial and Revolutionary days. Chief among
these are the remains of the Philipse domain, the capture of André and
the legend of Sleepy Hollow, into which the old Dutch Church has been
woven. The church yard contains some beautiful monuments to the dead.
It is an odd coincidence that the Whitewood tree known as Major
André's tree, near which the capture was effected, was struck by
lightning the day that news was received at Tarrytown of Arnold's
death. A monument now standing on the edge of the road has taken the
place of the tree. We all know how the Skinners, Paulding, Van Wart
and Williams made this capture which disclosed the treachery of
Arnold. It was indeed a fortunate combination of circumstances that
led these three incorruptible men to the right spot at the right
moment.
How many times did the death knell of independence seem on the point
of being tolled, and how many times did the god of chance throw his
weight into the ascending scale of the Colonists. But for a lapse of
memory, the attempt of the British in the Summer of 1777 to capture
the Hudson Valley and separate New England from her sisters might have
been as successful as it proved disastrous. Lord George Germain sent
Burgoyne peremptory instructions to proceed down the Hudson, and the
instructions to Howe to move north to meet him were equally
peremptory, but the latter were pigeonholed and forgotten for several
weeks, and when remembered it was too late. Washington had decoyed
Howe to Pennsylvania, and Burgoyne, lacking the expected support from
the south, was defeated by the farmers.
Pocantico, "a run between two hills," the Dutch called it Sleepy Haven
Kill, hence Sleepy Hollow. "Far in the foldings of the hills winds
this wizard stream," writes the grand sachem of all the wizards, who
wove the romance of the headless horseman and the luckless
schoolmaster so tightly about the spot that they are to-day part and
parcel of it. The bridge over which the scared pedagogue scurried was
some rods further up the stream than is the present crossing, for in
those days the Post Road ran along the north side of the church, and
the entrance was originally on that side of the building, while now it
is on the western end which faces the present road.
The name Frederick Philipse was originally written Vreedryk, or
Vrederyck, Felypsen, the former meaning "rich in peace," indicating,
we presume, the difference between his peaceful occupation of breaking
into the new wilderness and that of his ancestors in Bohemia who,
being persecuted for their religious opinions, fled to Holland, from
whence Frederick emigrated to New Amsterdam, some time before 1653,
becoming a successful merchant, and later a patroon. Sen, meaning son
in Dutch, Felypsen meant the son of Felyp, Frederick the son of
Philip. On the west bank of the Pocantico Philipse built his first
manorial residence, called Castle Philipse on account of its strength
and armament, it not only being loopholed for musketry, as was common
in those days, but was also defended by several small cannon. All
these evidences of the strenuous days of old have been covered by
unsightly clapboards, and the place as it stands now looks as though
it might have seen better days, but gives no hint of its former
important station. It is related that in 1756 a Virginia colonel named
Washington called here to pay his respects to the beautiful Mary
Philipse, but the lady saw nothing attractive in the tall, ungainly
countryman. In 1784, when the state parcelled out the confiscated
lands of Philipse, this part fell into the hands of Gerard C. Beekman,
whose wife was Cornelia Van Cortlandt, a connection of the Philipse
family. An interesting incident connects this place with the André
matter. Some time before his capture, John Webb, one of Washington's
aides, left a valise containing a new uniform with Mrs. Beekman,
asking that it be delivered only on a written order. Some two weeks
later Joshua Het Smith, whose loyalty was at that time regarded
doubtful, called and asked for Lieutenant Webb's valise. Mrs. Beekman
disliked the man, and refused to deliver it without the order, which
Smith could not produce, and he rode away much disappointed. André was
concealed in his house at this very time, and the uniform was wanted
to help him through the American lines. Thus Mrs. Beekman forged the
second link in the chain leading to the André capture.
The little old Dutch church is believed to be the oldest church
edifice now standing in the State. It was built in 1699 by Frederick
Philipse. Irving says of it: "The sequestered situation of this church
seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It
stands on a knoll surrounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from
among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth like
Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement."
"To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep
so quietly, one would think that there, at least, the dead might rest
in peace," and there Irving himself rests in peace with a plain white
stone at his head which modestly tells that
WASHINGTON
SON OF WILLIAM AND SARAH S. IRVING
DIED
NOV. 28, 1859
AGED 76 YEARS, 7 MO. AND 25 DAYS
[Illustration: Old Dutch Church. Tarrytown. 1699.]
North of the church and on both sides of the Post Road are the remains
of the one-time Beekman forest, whose thickets once served the deer
for a cover. So long ago as 1705 it was necessary to enact game
laws for the protection of these animals, which were even then in a
fair way to being exterminated.
[Sidenote: _ST. MARY'S CHURCH._]
The six miles to Ossining are largely made up of handsome estates
lining both sides of the road. Here and there nature still litters the
earth with weeds and bushes, or the farmer tends his crops, leaving a
fringe of wild things to border his domains, but as a general thing
such inelegancies are suppressed, and the roadside is ordered with the
same precision as are the lands on the other side of the wall. Those
pleasant little friendships with unkempt nature are not so frequent as
we find them further on. However, while there is little "delight in
disorder" there are many beautiful places belonging to those favored
with an abundance of this world's goods. Such names as Gen. John C.
Fremont, Anson G. Phelps, Gen. James Watson Webb, Aspinwall and others
are or have been of this region. Some two miles before we come to the
village of Ossining stands St. Mary's Church, erected in 1850.
Surrounded by tall trees, the little edifice looks as though it might
be some mysterious "church in the wood" of a medieval romance, and one
almost expects to see a little bridal party dash up on horseback with
no time to lose, in the belief that the grim old father is close on
their heels. We naturally think of a church as a centre of
population, but here is a quaint little building which the traveler
comes on unexpectedly in a patch of woods by a rather lonely stretch
of road. The temptation to turn aside and investigate is strong until,
the wind rubbing one tree trunk against another, a long groan is heard
that sends a cold shiver down the inquisitive's back and damps his
ardor for discovery. After all it's best out in the bright open road
where the birds sing and the sun dispels all thought of gloom.
[Sidenote: _OSSINING._]
Ossining, "a stony place," was variously written Sin-sing, Sing Sing,
Sin Sinck and Sink Sink. Spelling was an incident in those days, not
an art. Here again we must fall back on Irving for our facts. He says:
"A corruption of the old Indian name O-sin-sing. Some have rendered it
O-sin-sing, or O-sing-song, in token of its being a great market town,
where anything may be had for a mere song. Its present melodious
alteration to Sing Sing is said to have been made in compliment to a
Yankee singing master who taught the inhabitants the art of singing
through the nose." The Indian village here bore the same name before
the Dutch appropriated the country.
No very important events of Colonial or Revolutionary history are
recorded in immediate connection with the town, though it is related
that here is still preserved a small cannon known as "Old White," said
to be the one which, at Teller's Point, compelled the British Vulture
to slip her moorings and so leave André in the lurch. At one time
mining operations were conducted at this point, but they came to
naught, and now the town is noted as a resort for guests of the state.
[Sidenote: _BLACK HORSE TAVERN._]
As we approach the Croton River the road takes a right-angled turn,
down which a fingerboard points, indicating that Peekskill lies that
way, but the old Post Road kept straight ahead, following the banks of
the Croton until a favorable place for crossing occurred, when it took
advantage of the opportunity and started back for the Hudson, in order
to get around Hessian Hill. The marshy breadth of the Croton's mouth
was probably too much for the bridge builders of early days. Along
this road a short half mile is the one-time celebrated Black Horse
Tavern. It was not only a house of refuge for travel-worn humanity,
but was also a popular meeting place for the neighboring farmers, and
a place of political gatherings.
[Sidenote: _VAN CORTLANDT MANOR._]
We stick to the more modern road which crosses the Croton by means of
two bridges landing one at the door yard of the old Van Cortlandt
manor house. The view up the river from the bridge is a beautifully
soft landscape. On the left stands the old "ferry house," so important
a means of communication between the two sides of the stream that
Washington, during the Revolution, stationed a guard here for its
protection. The manor house, a modest two-story building, hidden in
vines, built of the rough brown sandstone of the region, gives no
indication of decrepit age. It so happened that just before my visit
its stucco covering had been removed, disclosing to view the portholes
for musketry intended to discourage the too enthusiastic approaches of
its Indian neighbors. This stucco was spread over the building when
the grandfather of the present generation of Van Cortlandts brought
his bride home.
The father of the first "Lord of the Manor" was a landholder in the
City of New Amsterdam, owning a tract along Broadway where now is
Cortlandt St. The son was the first mayor of New York born in America;
this was Stephanus Van Cortlandt. He advanced large sums of money to
the government, and as compensation obtained, in 1697, a Royal charter
for "Lordship and Manor of Cortlandt." The present building is thought
to have been started by Gov. Thos. Dongan, about 1683, as a hunting
lodge, an ideal situation on the bank of the Kitchawar, as the Croton
River was then known, protected alike from the north and east winds.
Irving says of the family at the time of the Revolutionary War:--
"Two members of this old and honorable family were conspicuous
patriots throughout the Revolution. Pierre Van Cortlandt, the father,
at this time about fifty-six years of age, was a member of the first
Provincial Congress, and President of the Committee of Public Safety.
Governor Tryon had visited him in his old manor house at the mouth of
the Croton, in 1774, and made him offers of royal favors, honors,
grants of land, etc., if he would abandon the popular cause. His
offers were nobly rejected. The Van Cortlandt family suffered in
consequence, being at one time obliged to abandon their manorial
residence; but the head remained true to the cause, and subsequently
filled the office of Lieutenant-Governor with great dignity."
The history of the house records other interesting events besides
those of war: From its high veranda the great Whitefield preached to
crowds who were seated on benches on the lawn. The memory of this time
has been kept green by a small brass plate, recording the fact, which
is attached to a post of the veranda.
The whole air of the place is so homelike and comfortable that the
traveler could easily pass it by never dreaming that the career of
this vine-clad nest is one that many a more pretentious dwelling would
be proud to own to.
The old Van Cortlandt family cemetery is situated on a hill west of
the house and west of the road. Here lie the remains of that Mrs.
Beekman whose distrust of Joshua Smith prevented him from securing a
disguise for André. Along the southern foot of this hill lies the
Haunted Hollow.
[Sidenote: _TELLER'S POINT._]
For-years "the walking sachems of Teller's Point" held nightly
councils here, the ghosts of departed Indians, whose last resting
place on this Point was disturbed by the white man's plough and spade,
but their clay has long since been burned into bricks and their shades
have scattered in all directions; some of them no doubt looking down
on us to-day from Manhattan's lofty skyscrapers.
An Indian castle or fort defended Teller's or Croton Point from
up-river tribes, and it was here that old Chief Croton died while
defending the firesides of his people, he being the last warrior to
go down before the invaders. But though dead he yet walked, much to
the inconvenience of belated travelers, more especially those who,
having passed a friendly evening with hospitable neighbors, found it
somewhat difficult to lay a straight course for home. However, nothing
has been heard of his ghostship of late, and it may be that the
materialistic spirit of the present age, which does not know a ghost
when it sees one, has sent him off to some more happy haunting ground.
[Sidenote: _HESSIAN HILL._]
[Sidenote: _ARNOLD-ANDRÉ MEETING._]
As the road winds up and over the western slope of Hessian Hill, just
north of Croton Landing, three panoramas follow each other in rapid
succession, all strikingly beautiful. The first two are different
views of Teller's or Croton Point, with Hook Mountain and the
Palisades in the distance, that Teller's Point from whose banks
Colonel Livingston bombarded the Vulture, thereby leading to the
capture of André, by this one action saving, possibly, the collapse of
the War for Independence. From a further spur of the same hill comes
into view the broad expanse of Haverstraw Bay with its background of
jagged hills known as Clove Mountain and High Tor, under whose shadow
Arnold and André met. Elson's concise and graphic description of this
event is worth quoting as it stands: "On a dark night in September,
1780, Benedict Arnold lay crouching beneath the trees on the bank of
the Hudson a few miles below Stony Point, just outside the American
lines. Presently the plash of oars from the dark, silent river broke
the stillness, and a little boat bearing four men came to the shore.
Two were ignorant oarsmen, who knew not what they did, the third was
the steersman, one Joshua Smith, who lived in the neighborhood, while
the fourth was a young and handsome man who concealed beneath his
great overcoat the brilliant uniform of a British officer. The young
man, Major John André, adjutant-general of the British army, was put
ashore, and he and Arnold, who had long been secret correspondents,
spent the night in the dense darkness beneath the trees. Here the plot
to place West Point into British hands was consummated, and at the
coming of dawn André did not return, as at first intended, to the
English sloop of war, the Vulture, which was lying in the river
waiting for him, but accompanied Arnold to the house of Smith, the
steersman, a few miles away. Arnold returned to West Point, and André
waited his opportunity to reach the Vulture; but shore batteries began
firing on her, and Smith refused to venture out in his little boat."
[Sidenote: _VERPLANCK'S POINT._]
Beyond Hessian Hill the road keeps inland along the high ground that
slopes down to Verplanck's Point, named after the son-in-law of
Stephanus Van Cortlandt, to whose wife this part of the estate fell.
It is worth while to walk out to the brow of the hill for the sake of
the view and the historic memories it brings up. The "Kings Ferry" so
often mentioned in the annals of the Revolution connected this with a
sandy cove on the north shore of Stony Point opposite--Stony Point, "a
lasting monument of the daring courage of Mad Anthony." The ferry made
Verplanck's Point an important spot, and naturally it was fortified as
well as was Stony Point. Here Colonel Livingston was in command in
September, 1780, and it was he who, building better than he knew,
hurried the small cannon down to Teller's Point which, at break of
day, drove the Vulture down the river, the first link in the chain of
events leading to the capture of André, for Smith, his guide, becoming
frightened, refused to put the Englishman on board the waiting sloop
of war, as agreed, and instead brought him across the King's Ferry to
start him on his way to New York on foot.
On October 5, 1777, Sir Henry Clinton landed three thousand men on
Verplanck's Point, apparently for the purpose of attacking Peekskill,
but really with intent to deceive General Putnam, who was in command
of the town, and for once this Connecticut Yankee was fooled into
doing just what the enemy wished, for he drew his troops back to the
hills and did not know until too late that the English forces, under
cover of a friendly fog, had been ferried across to the west shore for
the purpose of attacking Fort Montgomery. Clinton was on his way north
with all the troops that could be spared to help Burgoyne, and Putnam,
who had the general command of the Highlands, with only fifteen
hundred men, could not hope to cope with the superior forces advancing
from the south, so he retired along the Post Road through
Cortlandtville to Continental Village, the main entrance by land to
the Highlands, where the public stores and workshops were located, and
from which he was compelled to again fall back as Sir Henry Clinton,
having captured the river forts and burned Peekskill, advanced.
[Sidenote: _PEEKSKILL._]
Peekskill on the one side of the river and Dunderberg on the other
guard the lower end of the Highlands. The town is named after the
first settler, one Jan Peek, whose earliest mention in history is as
the builder of an inn in New York City, on Broadway near Exchange
Place, in sixteen hundred and something. It seems that Peek was
something of an explorer and, when navigating these waters, he
mistook the present Peekskill Creek for the passage up the Hudson,
entered the creek and promptly ran aground, and, being aground,
concluded to stay.
John Paulding, one of the three who captured André, received for his
distinguished services, as was meet, a fine farm situated in Peekskill
that had been confiscated from its royalist owner; thus we see that
virtue is rewarded, treason punished and the state plays the generous
role without any expense to itself. Mr. Andrew Carnegie himself could
not have managed the affair better.
In September, 1777, the village was sacked and burned by the British
and the neighboring country was pillaged. The chapel of St. Peter's
was erected on the site of the military magazine destroyed at this
time. The one historically interesting building that was left in the
town, the old Birdsall residence, has gone the way of all flesh. It
was Washington's headquarters whenever he was in this neighborhood,
Lafayette dwelt under its roof, one of its parlors was used by the
Rev. George Whitefield in which to hold services, but the building
protruded into the street and the good people concluded that rather
than walk around it any longer they would tramp over its grave.
[Sidenote: _CORTLANDTVILLE._]
In Cortlandtville is located the former residence of Gen. Pierre Van
Cortlandt, erected in 1773. A tablet placed on the building says:
"General George Washington with his aides slept in this house many
nights while making Peekskill their headquarters in 1776, 1777 and
1778. It was the house of Pierre Van Cortlandt, member of Colonial
Assembly, member of the 2d, 3d and 4th Provincial Congress, President
of the Committee of Public Safety, a framer of the State Constitution,
First Lieutenant-Governor of the State of New York, Colonel of manor
of Cortlandt Regiment." The building is rather modern in appearance,
suggesting comfort rather than strenuosity.
Here the Van Cortlandt family found a safe asylum when the manor house
on the Croton was no longer tenable. In March, 1777, General McDougal
posted his advance guard here when the British took possession of
Peekskill. Eighty of his men, under Lieutenant-Colonel Willet,
receiving permission to attack some two hundred of the British that
had taken possession of a height a little south of Cortlandt's, did so
with such success that the enemy retreated, and the entire command,
some one thousand strong, becoming panic stricken, betook themselves
to their shipping under cover of the night and sailed down stream.
A great oak which served the purpose of a military whipping post,
still stands just east of the Van Cortlandt house.
The old parochial church of St. Peter's stands on the summit of a
little hill near by, a simple frame building erected in 1766 by
Beverly Robinson and others as the result of a visit of Mr. Dibble, of
Stamford, Conn., in 1761. With him came St. George Talbot, who says:
"The state of religion I truly found deplorable enough. They were as
sheep without a shepherd, a prey to various sectaries, and
enthusiastic lay teachers; there are many well wishers and professors
of the church among them, who doth not hear the liturgy in several
years." In the church yard stands the monument to John Paulding, one
of the André captors, who was born in Peekskill.
Just east of the Van Cortlandt house the Post Road turns toward the
north, where one of the old mile-stones marks "50 m. from N. York." In
the angle stands one of the inns of stagecoach days which was standing
as long ago as 1789, as in "A Survey of the Roads of the United States
of America," published by Christopher Colles in that year, the inn is
put down as Dusenbury's Tavern. The author of this old-time road book
may have been something of a joker, or he may have had a small grudge
against the Presbyterians, as among the symbols he used, the one
indicating a church of that denomination is so noticeably like a
windmill as to call forth a gentle smile. The inn is now the dwelling
of Mr. Gardiner Hollman, himself a relic of earlier days, who carries
his eighty years with an ease that bespeaks a life of steady habits.
He is quite ready to show the building to the curious and explain its
interesting features. The front room on the right is said to have held
the prisoner André for a short time when he was being taken from North
Castle by way of Continental Village to the Beverly Robinson house,
Arnold's former headquarters, and used as such by Washington after the
traitor fled. Aside from one or two old pieces of furniture, and an
open Franklin stove, the only interesting relic the room contains is a
small work-box which was given by Theodosia Burr to her friend Mrs.
McDonald, of Alabama, who in turn gave it to a sister of the present
owner.
[Sidenote: _GALLOWS HILL._]
From now on the Post Road is all that a country road should be. It
plunges immediately into a thicket of tall weeds, Joe Pie and
goldenrod mostly, which shoot up in many instances six feet above the
ground. After crossing the creek the road begins the steep ascent of
Gallows Hill, where Putnam hanged a British spy in spite of Sir Henry
Clinton's attempts to prevent it. This summary action seems to have
tempered the Red-coats' curiosity, as "Old Put" was not bothered
afterward. One of a small bunch of chestnut trees west of the road
where it tops the hill is pointed out as the gallows tree, although
early accounts speak of a rough gallows having been erected. There is
a story to the effect that one Hans Anderson, a farmer of the
neighborhood, was the hangman, and that he was finally worried into
his grave by the ghost of this same spy, who would not leave him in
peace; but no mention is made of the tough old General having been so
bothered.
[Sidenote: _CONTINENTAL VILLAGE._]
Continental Village lies at the northern foot of Gallows Hill. The
British destroyed the stores the Americans were unable to take with
them and burned the village, leaving, it is said, only one house
standing, the property of a Tory. Whether this building is still
standing is somewhat uncertain, though one is pointed out as such.
General Sir William Howe, in his dispatches to Sir Henry Clinton,
dated at Fort Montgomery, October 9, 1777, says: "Major-Gen. Tryon,
who was detached this morning with Emmerick's chasseurs, fifty yagers
and royal fusiliers and regiment of Trumback, with a three-pounder,
to destroy the rebel settlement called the Continental village, has
just returned and reported to me, that he has burned the barrack for
fifteen hundred men, several store-houses and loaded wagons. I need
not point out to your excellency the consequence of destroying this
post, as it was the only establishment of the rebels on that part of
the Highlands, and the place from whence any body of troops drew their
supplies."
The place was soon reoccupied by the Americans as a point at which to
collect stores, and various military encampments were strung along
both sides of the road from here north.
[Sidenote: _POST ROAD._]
For the space of some two or three miles the road is a grass-grown
track through a rough country. As one proceeds he can appreciate the
difficulties that beset the retreating soldiers, laden with such
stores from the village as they could carry with them on the retreat.
Now and then an unkept farmhouse appears, but there is little life; it
is possible to walk as far as Nelson's Mill, some eight miles, without
passing a team of any sort, and hardly any one on foot, but, like
Goldsmith's village street the wayside is
"With blossomed furze unprofitably gay."
Joe Pie weed, as heavy-headed as a sleepy child, alternating with the
straight stemmed goldenrod, while every wall is adorned with
snapdragon or Virginia creeper, the scarlet product of the deadly
nightshade, or the silvery remains of the clematis--this in August or
September. If one goes this way in the Spring there is the wild azalea
against the edge of the woods, and the woodland flowers come trooping
down even to the wheel tracks.
It is forty years since the telegraph abandoned this abandoned
highway, and the tramps left with the telegraph poles. One old
inhabitant says it used to take a considerable part of her time each
day to feed the gentry who applied, for she, being afraid of them,
never refused. To-day, over this part of the road, the tramp is as
scarce as the stage coach. To be sure the law may have something to do
with it, for any one who lodges information against a tramp gets $15,
and the gentleman of leisure presumably suffers accordingly, as the
farmer is not likely to assess himself merely for the pleasure of
housing lazy humanity.
Just beyond the fifty-fourth mile-stone stands one of the old inns
which is put down by Christopher Colles as Travers's Tavern. It still
offers shelter to him who will seek, as I discovered when caught by a
sudden shower.
From the last hilltop, before Nelson's Mill is reached, is a glorious
view of the "Golden Gate," the notch between Storm King and Breakneck,
through which the Hudson flows, and, in summer floods of gold from the
setting sun. On all sides are hills and valleys. It seems as though
the whole world is on edge.
Here stands sentinel a tall old mile-stone by the road side demanding
of every one that passes the countersign--Wonderful!
Down the steep hillside the road now lunges to Nelson's Mill or
Corner, once a relay station for the stage coach horses, and a mill
site for many generations, and now we are looking up at the mountains
instead of down on them. The road floats up and down the gentle swells
of the valley's floor, each bend bringing into line another view of
the Fishkill Mountain with a new foreground or a different framing of
leaves and branches, and each calling aloud to the camera which gorges
itself on trees and rocks and mountains.
[Sidenote: _CLOVE CREEK VALLEY._]
We are in the valley of the Clove Creek, under the shadow of the
Fishkill Mountain, in a hollow where the dusk of evening comes early,
and the gloom and solitude of the shortened day make one readily
understand why travelers of old halted at this north entrance to the
Highlands, rather than run the chance of being overtaken by the dark
in the depths of its loneliness. Cooper could hardly have hit on a
more fitting place for the adventures of the Spy than these woods and
mountains offered.
[Sidenote: _WICCOPEE PASS._]
About four miles south of Fishkill, in Wiccopee Pass, a bronze tablet
by the roadside announces that:--
ON THE HILLS BACK OF THIS STONE STOOD THREE
BATTERIES GUARDING THIS PASS, 1776-1783.
The hills referred to and others in the neighborhood are fifty to one
hundred feet high, and as smoothly rounded and regular as though
moulded in a large-sized tea cup and turned out in little groups,
making one wonder what sort of giant children could have been playing
here. Legend relates that long, long ago, even before the mighty
Manitou ruled, this region was peopled by a great race as tall as the
tall forest trees. They lived on roots and leaves and hunted the great
water rats that dwelt in houses built of mud and sticks in the lake
that filled all the country north of the Highlands. These animals were
fierce fighters, and dangerous even to their giant foes when the
latter were caught at a disadvantage in the water, whither the great
men repaired for frequent bathing.
It was a give-and-take world in those days. The giants would square
accounts at the first opportunity by turning the next rat caught into
funeral baked meat in remembrance of the departed brother, and there
the matter, as well as the rat, ended. But there came a time when a
swarm of the rats surprised a group of bathers, and there were many
desolate firesides that night. Then a great council was called to
decide on a means of revenge, but as they could not swim and boats
were unknown, the concourse was like to break up with nothing
accomplished when a daughter of the tribe arose and suggested breaking
down the barrier which held back the water, thus putting the enemy on
dry land, where he would be helpless. The plan was approved, and soon
all were at work at the narrowest spot with trees torn from the hill
sides and such rough tools as they could command, and now a small
stream begins to work through which, washing out the earth and smaller
stones, becomes a flood thundering down the lower valley. In a few
days the region was drained and the enemy exterminated, but their
houses remain even unto the present time. The present Fishkill
Mountain was the "long house" of the watery tribe gradually solidified
through the ages into the hardest of hard trap rock, and the little
conical hills that we see in the Wiccopee Pass were the play houses of
the baby rats. But alas the giants, having no longer any place to
bathe, began to be troubled by a hardening of the skin and joints, and
their great bodies would at last fall to rise no more; but, as if in
very mockery, whenever a giant fell a spring of water would bubble
from the ground and a rivulet would soon be searching out a path for
itself among the rocks and woods.
The traveler knowing nothing of the legend might suppose that sometime
the waters swirled and eddied over this region, and that our
symmetrical little hills are deposits made at that time.
[Sidenote: _REVOLUTIONARY BURIAL GROUND._]
[Sidenote: _WHARTON HOUSE._]
The Post Road now passes through a fearsome piece of woods, coming out
into the open again where the mountain drops quickly to the plain, and
we are in the sunshine once more. Looking back at this time of day,
about 7 o'clock of an early June evening, one sees a curious effect of
sunlight and shadow, against the dark mountain background, the sun
outlines with vivid distinctness every tree and bush or stone wall or
weed with a silvery halo, and seems to intensify the fresh verdure
until all nature swims in green. Soon another of the old mile-stones
appears, as usual on the west side of the road, and opposite is a
small granite monument which commemorates the graveyard of the soldier
dead in the adjoining field, where there are probably more
revolutionary dead buried than in any other spot in the State. This
neighborhood was a headquarters for part of the army between 1776 and
1783. A step further on is the Wharton House, known to both history
and romance. The building was used as army headquarters during the
seven years that war raged up and down the Hudson Valley. The names of
both Washington and Lafayette are closely associated with its history,
and it is also the house referred to in Cooper's "Spy," from which
Harvey Birch helps Henry Wharton to escape. Here Enoch Crosby, the
real spy, was subjected to a mock trial by the Committee of Safety.
Crosby had given information of a band of Tories and allowed himself
to be captured with them, was tried with them and, in order to keep up
the deception and preserve his usefulness, was remanded to the
church-prison with the rest. The Wharton House was erected by the Van
Wyck family, and is still in its possession. In a wheat field across
the road lies the fallen stump of the "Whipping Post," a monument to
the methods of correction used in the Continental army. The next house
to the north is said to be constructed of timber taken from one of the
old barracks.
The road over which we have been traveling was once an Indian trail.
Shortly before the French and Indian wars Lord Louden passed through
this country, and in order to get his baggage train through, the trail
became a road under his direction.
[Sidenote: _FISHKILL._]
The Fishkill Creek, which scuttles across the level floor of the
valley just before one enters the village seems in too much of a hurry
to get away from its peaceful surroundings, which are attractive
enough to make mortals wish to linger, but which do not stay the
brawling stream. Both the mountains and the brook were the Indian
Matteawan, the "Council of Good Fur," but the Dutch christened it Vis
Kill or Fish Creek, and the more musical native name had to give way.
The first house on the right after crossing the stream is one of the
Colonial relics of the place, but the principal buildings of interest
are the Episcopal and Dutch churches. The first, being frame, was used
as a hospital during the Revolution. The Provincial Congress, when it
was compelled to leave White Plains, removed to Fishkill, and at first
attempted to use this church for its sessions, but the place had been
so befouled by flocks of pigeons that a move was made to the Dutch
Church. It was during this time that Washington crossed the Delaware,
and he sent to the Congress sitting here for reinforcements, but no
troops could be spared from the defense of this region. The church
bears a tablet which relates history, as follows:
"Trinity Church, organized in communion with the Church of England by
the Rev. Samuel Seabury, 1756. The first rector Rev. John Beardsley,
Oct. 26, 1766. Reincorporated Oct. 13, 1785, and Oct. 16, 1796. This
building was erected about 1760. Occupied by the New York Provincial
Convention, which removed from White Plains Sept. 3, 1776. Used for a
military hospital by the army of General Washington until disbanded
June 2, 1783."
The Dutch Church was stone, and was soon used as a prison by the
Americans. Probably the most famous prisoner it contained was Enoch
Crosby, the spy, the hero of Cooper's novel, who escaped with the help
of the Committee of Safety, the only ones who knew his true character.
The second time he was captured the officer in charge being nettled at
his previous escape, had him guarded with extra care, but again the
Committee of Safety lent a helping hand and Crosby was free once more.
Fishkill, settled in 1683, is one of the old towns. It was the largest
town in the county during the Revolution, and in 1789 was one of the
seven postoffices in the state; but its glory has departed and it is
now a pleasant village living in its memories of the past. Here lived
and worked the blacksmith, J. Bailey, who forged General Washington's
sword. Joshua Het Smith was arrested here for his participation in the
Arnold treason plot. The Dutch Church was built about 1725, its roof
then sloping up from all four sides to a cupola, holding a bell. The
window lights were small, set in iron frame (a good prison), and the
upper story was pierced for muskets. This was all changed soon after
the Revolution, but the stout walls still remain.
[Sidenote: _WAPPINGER FALLS._]
Beyond Fishkill the Post Road traverses a high plateau whose fertile
soil is well cultivated, a country beautiful after its kind, but to
one fresh from the grandeur of the Highlands the stretch of six miles
to Wappinger Falls seems but a tame affair, with only one of the old
mile-stones left to tell the tale of long ago. This seemed to read "71
M. to N. York."
A country school was having recess as I went by, the master sitting in
the shade outside reading, while the boys were playing the national
game and the one little girl stood by admiring their prowess.
Wappinger Falls preserves the name of the Indian tribe that once held
sway over these uplands. The falls around which the village has grown
up are lined with factories and factory ruins, which latter lend an
added charm to the natural beauty of the scene, for even in a dry time
water enough tumbles down these rocks to make the place a delight. The
village contains an interesting relic of the past in the old homestead
of Peter Mesier, a New York merchant, who settled here about the close
of the Revolution.
Between here and Poughkeepsie the trolley plies. Its tracks run
through the grass by the roadside, the poles blend with the trees, and
this usually unsightly modern convenience hardly mars the beauty of
the landscape.
Not a mile-stone was to be seen on this piece of road, but down by the
river, at a corner of the Livingstone Mansion, evidently taken from
its original station on the old road nearby, and marked "80 M. from N.
York," reposes one of the lost guardians of the highway. The stones
appear to have all been set along the west side of the road, so that
they were compass on a cloudy day as well as distance markers, and a
man had but to know his right hand from his left to be sure of his
direction.
[Sidenote: _LIVINGSTONE HOUSE._]
The Livingstone house, built about 1714, stood on a point on the
river bank on what is now the southern edge of Poughkeepsie. Facing
the south it overlooks the river for miles, while in front was a
sheltered little harbor for river craft, but this has been filled in
by the manufacturing concern that now owns the property, and nothing
is as it was, except the house. During the Revolution the place was
the home of Henry Livingstone, whose well-known patriotism led the
British, when ascending the river in October, 1777, to bombard the
building, as they did so many others. One of its shingles, pierced by
a shot at that time, has been left in place as a reminder of the
incident. It also draws attention to the difference between the
hand-split shingles of those days and the machine-sawed ones of the
present.
[Sidenote: _POUGHKEEPSIE._]
Poughkeepsie is the Apo-keep-sinck of the Indians, the "pleasant and
safe harbor" where canoes were safe from wind and wave. The name is
said to be spelled some forty-two different ways in the old town
records. The "safe harbor" was made so by rocky bluffs projecting into
the river; that on the south being known to the Dutch as Call Rock,
though it did not sound like that in the vernacular. From this rock
old Baltus Van Kleeck and his neighbors were wont to hail passing
sloops for news or passage.
An Indian legend associated with the little cove here has the same
comfortable and satisfying outcome as the old-fashioned romance, when
it was not so necessary to be realistic as in the present day. A war
party of the Delawares, after a successful raid on their neighbors,
the Pequods, reached this spot on the return journey, laden with
spoils and captives, among the latter a young chief who, after the
manner of most Indian tribes, was offered the choice of joining the
tribe of his foes or suffering death by torture. Being a Pequod
Patrick Henry he chose the latter, and preparations were made for his
demise, when a beautiful maiden interfered. She was also a captive
from the same tribe, and much in love with her doomed tribesman.
During the delay thus caused the party was unexpectedly attacked by a
band of Hurons, and the maiden fell prize to the latter. The chief
escaped, and disguising himself as a wizard, visited the Huron camp
where, strange to say, the maiden promptly fell ill upon the arrival
of the strange medicine man, who was employed to effect a cure. They
fled under cover of the dark, appropriating a handy canoe for the
purpose, and the Hurons followed in the next boat, but the Pequod,
landing his beloved at the mouth of the Minnakee Creek, turned on his
pursuers and, like the true hero of legend, drove them off single
handed. The lovers returned home, married, and lived happily ever
after.
Poughkeepsie, on account of its central position, was early chosen as
the county seat, and became the scene of many stirring incidents
during the stirring times of '76. But few mementoes of those days are
left, however. The Van Kleeck house, at one time a tavern, used by the
Dutchess County Committee as a meeting place in 1774 to elect
delegates to the first Continental Congress, has disappeared. The
Legislature in its migrations around the state met here in January,
1778, at the call of Governor Clinton. Clinton himself, during this
time, occupied the Clear Everett House, which is still standing on
Main Street, and is open to the public as a museum.
The great struggle which was to decide whether New York should join
the newly formed National Government was fought out in Poughkeepsie.
On June 17, 1788, the Convention of the People of the State met to
deliberate on the new Constitution. Alexander Hamilton, John Jay and
Chancellor Livingston, a magnificent trio of pleaders, were the
principal speakers in favor of the Union, while Governor George
Clinton and others, whose names are not familiar except to students of
history, headed the opposition. New York separated New England from
the South, and was necessary to the Union, but there was a powerful
party headed by Governor Clinton which opposed the plan. The Governor,
in fact, had the majority with him, and when Hamilton and the others
carried the convention by only one vote, it was a greater victory than
the narrow margin would indicate. Poughkeepsie was a "safe harbor" in
which to build ships, and it was here, in 1775-6, that the frigates
Congress and Montgomery of the Continental navy were built under the
supervision of Captains Lawrence and Tudor.
[Sidenote: _HYDE PARK._]
Leaving Poughkeepsie the intervening six miles to Hyde Park are so
park-like that the place seems to come naturally by its name. The road
is of the best, the bordering fields are under a high state of
cultivation, interspersed with groves of beautiful trees, through
whose aisles are to be seen occasional glimpses of the Hudson and, on
a clear day, the distant Catskills that, like low-lying clouds, top
the nearer hills of the middle distance. The place is named for Edward
Hyde, Lord Cornbury, Governor of the Province at the beginning of the
Eighteenth Century. Jacobus Stoutenburg, the first settler, built a
stone house which still stands on the east side of the road in the
southern edge of the village. It has the reputation of having been a
Washington headquarters, and is a fine example of a Colonial farm
house. Only once during the Revolution was there anything approaching
a battle in Dutchess County, and that occurred here during Vaughan's
raid up the river, when he burned the landing and a shop or two. He
was opposed by a small body of Americans whom he bombarded from the
river with no serious results.
James K. Paulding, author, and Morgan Lewis, Revolutionary general and
chief justice of the state, once lived in Hyde Park, as did Dr. Samuel
Bard, Washington's physician, whose dwelling is placed in Christopher
Colles's road book, previously mentioned, as situated on the east side
of the Post Road, between the eighty-eighth and eighty-ninth
mile-stones.
The next ten miles to Rhinebeck through Staatsburg covers a
picturesque country, sometimes too rough for much cultivation, but all
the more attractive to the eye on that very account.
[Sidenote: _STAATSBURG._]
Staatsburg or Pawlings Purchase: The earliest owner of this region
that I find mentioned in local histories was Henry Pawling, who died
in 1695. His heirs sold the property in May, 1701, to Dr. Samuel
Staats, of New York City, and another. This was the son of Major Abram
Staats, of Albany, who figured largely in the early history of
Columbia County. The only man of note living here during Revolutionary
days was Major John Pawling, a friend of Washington and an active
patriot. His stone house, built in 1761, still stands on the Post
Road.
[Sidenote: _RHINEBECK._]
Ryn Beck, Rein Beck, Rhynbeek, Reinebaik, Rhinebeck, was the name at
first applied to that region back from the river and located on the
property of William Beekman, which was occupied by the "High
Dutchers," while in Kipsbergen, on the river bank, lived the "Low
Dutchers."
In 1710 Colonel Robert Hunter, Governor of the Province, came over
with a considerable colony of Palatines from the Rhine country, some
of whom settled on the Beekman property as above, and are said to have
given the place its name, which first appears in a deed of 1714.
[Sidenote: _KIPSBERGEN._]
Kipsbergen: There is no evidence to show that any one settled here
before 1700, though the region was purchased from the Esopus Indians
as early as 1686 by Jacobus and Hendrick Kip. The Kips are said to
have been great believers in large families, but, in spite of this,
the local chronicler states that a few years ago there was but one of
the name left in the territory of ancient Kipsbergen, and it is said
that some of the land he possessed had never known any owner but a
Kip or an Indian. To-day Kipsbergen is only found on the older maps.
Landsman Kill may have been the boundary line between the High and Low
Dutchers, Rhinebeck and Kipsbergen. The name obtains either because
its water power was reserved for the "Landsman" or landlord, or
because one Caspar Landsman, whose name appears in the early records
may have lived along its banks. The stream once ran a grist mill for
Gen. Richard Montgomery.
A very interesting side excursion here, of some six or seven miles,
starts toward the river from the hotel corner in Rhinebeck, and comes
out on the Post Road again a half mile or so south of the starting
point. It affords wonderful views of the Catskills and the Hudson, the
Shawungunk and lesser mountains toward the south. The property owners
do not welcome the stranger within their gates, but he is allowed to
look over the fence to the views beyond.
Where the road turns south on the river bluff is the entrance to the
Kip place, Anckany, named for the Indian chief with whom the original
Kip bartered for this property. An attractive old stone house stands
on the roadside here, but a quarter of a mile further on is the place
that, of all others, along the Post Road, retains the old-time
atmosphere, the "Heermance" place, built on Hendrick Kip's south lot
in 1700. This is the house that Lossing says was erected by William
Beekman. The place soon (1716) passed into the possession of Hendricus
Heermance, and in due course to Henry Beekman, whose daughter became
the mother of Chancellor Livingston.
A distinct line on the east end of the present building seems to
indicate that the original house was very small; the heavy sashes and
the distorted little window panes of this old part read a clear title
back to the early days, which is duly confirmed by the iridescent
condition of the glass. Under the eaves, looking toward the river,
were once two portholes; no indications remain of one, but the other
is a round opening large enough for the muzzle of a small cannon, but
so close to the roof as to make it seem improbable that it was ever
intended for purposes of defense. The present tenant remembers when
this was a jagged hole without form or comeliness, though at present
it is a clean, round opening, and this suggests that there may be
something in Lossing's story that the hole was made by a cannon ball
from one of General Vaughan's sloops of war in 1777, though local
authorities do not appear to place much credence in this theory.
[Sidenote: _RHINECLIFF._]
The road continues south for some two miles through and beyond
Rhinecliff, traversing beautiful woods bordering Ex-Governor Morton's
grounds, but before entering the woods comes a delightful outlook
toward Kingston and its mountain background that is all the more
pleasing for its unexpectedness. Still further, and opposite a
schoolhouse, a road strikes off toward the south, and here is the
entrance to Wildercliff.
The Rev. Freeborn Garrettson, being invited to Rhinebeck to preach,
met Catherine Livingston while there, and in 1793 they were married.
Six years later they purchased a place on the banks of the Hudson,
calling it Wildercliff--Wilder Klipp, a Dutch word meaning wild man's
cliff, from the fact that early settlers found on a smooth rock on the
river shore a rough tracing of two Indians with tomahawk and calumet.
Garrettson was educated in the Church of England, but left it to
become a Methodist; a man of strong personality, he soon rose to a
prominent place in the church. Being a native of Maryland, he was
naturally a slave owner, but becoming convinced that slavery was bad,
he set his blacks free. Wildercliff was the most noted gathering place
in the country for Methodists, and the house was always full. His
daughter, Mary, kept up the traditions of the place, and it is said
such entertainment kept her poor.
The view down the river from here is something never to be forgotten;
the dazzling effect of the sun on the water, the hills of the further
shore, and the grand expanse of the picture which is only limited by
the condition of the atmosphere, must be seen to be appreciated.
Returning toward the Post Road the highway passes through the Camp
Meeting Woods, where the Rev. Mr. Garrettson inaugurated those camp
meetings which have made this spot as sacred to the Methodist heart as
is Wildercliff itself.
In the angle formed by the return road and the Post Road is an
extensive estate--Grasmere--which was planned and begun by Gen.
Richard Montgomery who, however, did not live to enjoy the fruits of
his labor. His widow finished the house, but dwelt here for a short
time only. The house was burned in 1828 and rebuilt and enlarged in
1861-2. The Montgomerys originally lived in a small cottage situated
on the Post Road near the northern end of the village. The house has
disappeared, but the fact is commemorated in the present name of that
portion of the highway.
A pleasant little story is told of General Montgomery's last days in
Rhinebeck. His last Sunday at home was spent with his brother-in-law,
Livingston. When the General and his wife were about to leave he
thrust into the ground a willow stick he had been carrying, remarking
with a laugh that they could let it grow as a reminder of him until he
came back. The General never returned, but the stick grew to a great
tree which has ever since been known as the Montgomery Willow.
[Sidenote: _PINK'S CORNER._]
At Pink's Corner, in the northern edge of Rhinebeck, stands the "Stone
Church" of the Lutherans, built some time during the Revolution, but
the church site is much older, as there are grave stones in the burial
ground dated as far back as 1733. The Post Road sweeps around the
church, and as one approaches from the south it looks as though he
must needs go to church or take to the fields.
[Sidenote: _RED HOOK._]
It was thick weather when I traveled the country between Rhinebeck and
Race Place, and the mist hid the distant hills and dulled the nearby
Autumn tints, with now and then a shower to make the roads the better
for the sprinkling. All nature had taken the veil, and there was
little to see beyond the adjoining fields, and these, lacking the
magic touch of the sun, were but dull companions. The towns, however,
kept jogging past at frequent intervals, Red Hook being first on the
list, the first mention of which is in 1751, when certain baptisms are
recorded as occurring in Roode Hoek. The place is said to have its
name from the fact that a marsh covered with ripe cranberries was the
first thing that caught the Dutch eye in this spot. As one passes
through the town he sees a guide-board pointing to Barrytown on the
river, some three or four miles away, where that Gen. John Armstrong
once lived, the author of those celebrated addresses published to the
army at Newburg, which might have resulted in trouble among the troops
had it not been for Washington's level head.
There are some old buildings in Red Hook, but none of historic
interest. It was here that I passed the last of the old brown
sandstone mile-stones; above here they are of some white stone that
looks like coarse marble, and from their general illegibility are
evidently not as well fitted to stand the rigorous northern climate as
are their brown brothers from the south.
Upper Red Hook: The recorded history of most of these towns begins
with the early church records. When the population grew dense enough
to warrant it, a new church organization would be formed to
accommodate those living in a neighborhood distant from the nearest
house of worship, and as soon as this happened the good dominie or the
scribe of the church would begin to record history; so of Upper Red
Hook--all we know of its early beginnings, starting with a record of
baptisms in December, 1785, comes from this source.
The road now passes into Columbia County, where everything is, was,
and ever shall be, Livingston. The family manor is on the river bank,
six miles away, but the family, like the locusts for number, has
spread up and down the river for a hundred miles or more.
In this county the Township of Livingston contains the villages of
Claremont, after the manor on the river; Johnstown, after John
Livingston; and Linlithgow, after the old home in Scotland. Dutchess
County knows them and knows them well, likewise Westchester, while
Rensselaer, on the north, counts them among her prominent citizens.
[Sidenote: _ROBERT LIVINGSTON._]
It appears that human nature was much the same two hundred years ago
as at present. It is said of Robert Livingston, first lord of the
manor, that he "was shrewd, persistent and very acquisitive; his zeal
in this direction leading him sometimes to adopt questionable methods
to advance his interests. He always exerted himself to obtain riches
and strove continually to promote his family." But we have scripture
for it that "men will praise thee when thou doest well to thyself." In
March, 1711, Lord Clarendon wrote: "I think it unhappy that Colonel
Hunter (Governor of the Province) at his first arrival fell into so
ill hands, for this Levingston has been known many years in that
province for a very ill man.... I am of opinion that if the substance
proposed be allowed, the consequences will be that Levingston and some
others will get estates, the Palatines will not be the richer."
[Sidenote: _ANTI-RENT TROUBLES._]
The anti-rent troubles which occupied the attention of the state for
one hundred and one years began on the Livingston Estate in the Fall
of 1751. The tenants first neglected, then refused to pay rent. The
boundary line between New York and Massachusetts was in dispute, both
Provinces claiming this territory; and the malcontents, taking
advantage of this to get some sort of title to their farms from the
"Committee of the General Court of the Province of Massachusetts Bay,"
defied Robert Livingston Jr., the then proprietor, and a hard time he
had of it to deal with both the discontented farmers and the
government of the adjoining Province, New York being slow to take up
the cudgels in his behalf.
From here the trouble spread to the Van Rensselaer and other manors,
resulting in riots and small-sized warfare, with now and then the
murder of a sheriff on the one side or an anti-renter on the other.
The matter got into state politics and finally, in 1846, the tenants
elected their Governor, and in 1852 the Court of Appeals decided in
favor of the tenants, and the trouble was laid to rest.
Among the notables of Columbia County was Samuel J. Tilden, who was
born and raised here, but who early gravitated to New York City. The
local historian also sets great store by the Hon. Elisha Williams who,
during the first quarter of the Nineteenth Century, was the bright
particular star of the Columbia County Bar.
[Sidenote: _FIRST "STAGE-WAGGONS"._]
In 1786 the first systematic attempt to run stages over the Post Road
appears to have been made by three Columbia County men, Isaac Van
Wyck, Talmage Hall and John Kinney, as in that year the state granted
to these men the exclusive right "to erect, set up, carry on and drive
stage-waggons" between New York and Albany on the east side of
Hudson's River, etc., fare limited to 4 pence per mile, trips once a
week. Right here it is interesting to note that in 1866 Lossing wrote
of the Hudson River Railway that "more than a dozen trains each way
pass over portions of the road in the course of twenty-four hours."
[Sidenote: _NEVIS--CLAREMONT--BLUE STORE._]
Nevis is little more than a cross-roads. Claremont a straggling
village of no moment; further on the road crosses the Roeloff Jansen
Kill over a bridge that looks as though it must have heard the rumble
of many a stage coach.
Some newspaper antiquarian says:--
"Kill seems to be a Low Dutch word of American coinage. I have never
found the word kill for brook in Low Dutch or Low German writings. I
think they originally pronounced it 'küll' (cool), and to a people
transplanted from a low country to a mountainous one, where the water
of the brooks was cool even in midsummer, the suggestion may be
plausible. The Low Dutch have 'vliet' (fleet) for stream. The German
for streaming is 'strömen.' Hamburg has its numerous fleets or canals.
The Low German of the Lünenburger Helde calls a brook a streak or a
'beek.' Note the word 'Beekman.'"
A hundred years or more ago, when they were naming things in these
parts, Blue Store was blue store, and they keep up the tradition
faithfully to-day. Everything except what nature tints is the favorite
color. This was one of the principal stopping places on the Post Road,
but it has sadly dwindled since the old days.
[Sidenote: _JOHNSTOWN--RACE PLACE._]
Johnstown contains three Livingston houses, built by various members
of this omnipresent family. The one north of the village stands on a
commanding hill, and looks from the road like a handsome place. In
1805 there were twenty public houses in this place, even members of
the reigning family consenting to take in the sheckels over the bar.
It has been interesting to see the chickens scurry for cover whenever
a noisy flock of blackbirds passes overhead on its way to the
southland. They seemed to think, if chickens think, that all the hawks
in christendom were swooping down on their devoted heads, and stood
not on the order of their going.
[Sidenote: _COLD NIGHT._]
Race Place is a half mile off the road, but being garnished with a
hotel I went there for the night. The village centre consists of two
dwellings, two blacksmith shops and the hotel, which carries the
legend "Race Place Hotel, 1700," and its interior bears out the aged
suggestion. The parlor floor has sagged a foot or so, due to the
crowds that have assembled here during past country balls. The
ballroom is on the second floor, where one would naturally expect to
find bedrooms, and the proprietor proudly announced that as many as
sixty couples had danced here at once; there must have been some
hearty bumps during the process. There are three bedrooms tucked away
in recesses at the rear. It was my lot to sleep in a feather bed under
a mountain of patchwork quilts with never a care for Jack Frost
sitting on the window ledge outside. But, oh! what a difference in the
morning, when I must climb out of that nice, warm nest to shut the
window, catching a scrap of conversation in doing so, the burden of
which was, "ice an inch thick." Think of shaving and washing in water
that has spent the night in such company!
The proprietor of the hotel thinks walking through the country is all
right and perfectly safe provided the traveler keeps away from those
large hotels where they burn gas. Gas is dangerous. Two of his friends
and neighbors went on a visit to Albany and, as he put it, came home
in pine boxes. Keep away from gas-lit hotels and you are all right.
The kitchen was the only place in the house where an overcoat was not
de rigeur, and there the evening was passed with the family. There was
much edifying conversation and considerable speculation over a
stuffed olive which the daughter of the house had brought home from
school; the housewife feared to taste it and the good man had no
curiosity to gratify.
[Sidenote: _STONE MILL--CLAVERACK._]
Stone Mill, on Claverack Creek, so named because of the old stone mill
built in 1766, is a postoffice, but why, in these days of rural free
delivery, is not quite clear, as the miller has but two or three
neighbors who live in sight.
[Sidenote: _CLAVERACK._]
Claverack, Clover-reach--the town is one of the oldest--was once the
county seat, until Hudson captured the prize. With what scorn must the
staid Dutchmen have looked on the hustling Yankees who almost built
the greatest city of the region over night.
As early as 1629 the Hollanders looked on this land and found it good.
It was part of the Van Rensselaer grants, this region in time coming
to be known as the Lower Manor. The settlers here appear to have come
with money and servants, and to have been better provided for than
most of those who broke into the wilderness. Early descriptions
suggest a land flowing with milk and honey. Deer were so plenty that
one could be had from the Indians for a loaf of bread; turkeys,
pheasants, quail, hares and squirrels were everywhere; forest trees
were festooned with grape vines; blackberries, strawberries, wild
plums and nut trees abounded, and the streams were full of most
excellent fish.
The soil was fertile, and the community soon became a flourishing one,
and the centre of interest and the county seat. The fine courthouse,
erected in 1786 and still standing, was the scene of some notable
legal contests, the most memorable being the trial of Harry Croswell,
editor of the Hudson Balance, in 1804, charged with libel upon
President Jefferson. The prosecution was handled by Ambrose Spencer,
Attorney-General, and the newspaper man was defended by William H. Van
Ness and Alexander Hamilton, whose eloquence failed to save the
accused. In 1805 Hudson became the county seat, and the courthouse was
abandoned to private use.
The village still contains a number of notably fine specimens of
Colonial architecture, one of which is the Ludlow house, built in
1786. The present Ludlow, a grandson of Robert Fulton, having some
money and much leisure, has turned the old place into a Fulton museum.
The Miller house, formerly Muldor, an interesting relic of the year
1767, is known as the Court Martial House, it having been used for the
trial and its cellar for the imprisonment of delinquents during the
Revolution, the owner himself being among those who suffered, he
being given the choice of paying $1,000 or serving two months. This
appears to have been because the gentleman shirked his military
duties. His thoughts on the subject of being haled a prisoner to his
own cellar do not appear to have been recorded; possibly they would
not look well in print, as it was written by an early traveler through
this region that the inhabitants were much "addicted to misusing the
blessed name of God." Mr. Miller, if inclined that way, certainly was
afforded every opportunity. Other attractive places are the Webb
house, erected about 1790; the Old Stone House, on the Post Road,
formerly an inn, said to be haunted by the ghost of a murdered pedler,
and the Dutch Church, 1767, in the northern edge of the village. In
fact, buildings a hundred years old are too frequent to excite remark.
Gen. James Watson Webb, whose father, Gen. Samuel B. Webb, was wounded
on Bunker Hill, was born here, as was Judge William P. Van Ness, Aaron
Burr's second in the Hamilton duel, and many another man known to
fame.
[Sidenote: _HUDSON._]
It is but a short distance to Hudson, whose history is so
interestingly different from that of the other towns of the region
that a few words concerning it may not be out of place, even if the
Post Road does pass by on the other side. Here, in 1783, came certain
Quakers from Providence and Newport, Nantucket and Edgartown. It seems
that the British cruisers had crippled the whaling industry and other
marine ventures in which these enterprising gentlemen were engaged,
and they sought a more secluded haven from which to transact their
business. Some of them brought, on the brig "Comet," houses framed and
ready for immediate erection, but before placing them these methodical
Quakers first laid out the town in regular form, establishing
highways, and not allowing them to develop from cow paths, as was the
honest Dutch fashion. A committee was appointed "to survey and plot
the city," and another to see that the streets were given suitable
names.
The settlers promptly opened clay pits, burned bricks, built a
first-class wharf, and were regularly trading with New York within a
year after they landed. A canoe ferry satisfied the earlier settlers,
but "a gunwaled scow" was none too good for the new comers.
In 1785 it was the second port in the state; two ship yards were
established, and a large ship, the Hudson, was nearly ready for
launching. The fame of its hustle was attracting people from every
side. March 31, 1785, the first newspaper was issued; April 22, 1785,
a legislative act incorporated the place into a city; and by January,
1786, they had finished an aqueduct to bring in an abundant supply of
pure water from two miles back in the country.
In 1790 it was made a port of entry. In 1793 the Bank of Columbia was
chartered; in 1796-7 the city issued small bills and copper coins.
Hudson was incorporated the third city in the State, was the third
port of entry, and had one of the three banks in the State. Once it
started on the down grade, however, its "decline and fall off" was
equally rapid.
[Sidenote: _POST ROAD._]
Now to get back to the Post Road, where the pace is not quite so
hot-foot. As the next town is Kinderhook, some fourteen miles away,
there is plenty of time to view the beauties of nature and fill one's
nostrils with its rich perfumes. Most of the year's work in the fields
is finished; here and there the shocks are being overhauled for the
corn, which is shucked as gathered, while the pumpkins are still
accumulating sunshine for the golden Thanksgiving pie. From the barn
yards come the pounding of the steam thresher or the creak of a
windlass, suggesting that the hay crop is being baled. Everything is
busy but the cows, who evidently do not like frosting on their cake
and, having the day before them, can afford to wait till the good sun
comes along to undo the work which has kept Jack Frost so busy all
night.
The Catskills or Blue Mountains, as they are known from this distance,
fill the western horizon, while the beautiful landscapes sloping down
toward the river are so exquisite that the traveler involuntarily
pauses to take it all in. For a goodly portion of the time the road
keeps well up along a side hill, giving an extensive view over the
valley beneath and to the mountains beyond--the autumn colors and
softness are like the fairy dreams of childhood. With the blood
dancing under the influence of the brisk morning air, walking is a
luxury, and the glow that comes with the exercise, as well as every
sight and sound, a new found joy.
The people hereabouts, while used to all sorts of freaks, can hardly
understand how one can idly walk through the country with no higher
ambition than the taking of a picture here and there, and many are the
questions to be answered as to the whyness of the whichness, the old
farmer generally going on with a dubious shake of the head, convinced
that there is a screw loose somewhere.
[Sidenote: _FARMER FOLK._]
A farmer, on whose load of potatoes I rode into Kinderhook, thinks
farming doesn't pay--would have been better off if he had worked at
days' work all this time. He was cheerful, however, and wholly free
from care; his horses were not matched, one doing all the pulling, the
other all the sojering, and they went their own gait without
interference from him. "Apples! Why apples aren't worth picking this
year." It happened that I fell in with the other kind near Stone Mill.
He made $1,000 from apples alone last year; would not make so much
this season, but they were well worth the gathering; there was money
in the ground for him. The individual seems to count in farming, same
as in everything else.
Just out of Claremont a young fellow was thrown from his runabout, his
horse being frightened at an automobile, and it was only the quickness
of the chauffeur that saved him from being run over. Did he curse the
rich man's machine? Not he! His only idea was to find another and show
his "new animal" who was master! Aside from this irritating feature,
the whole affair was a huge joke on him. He was as handsome and
wholesome looking as good health and an outdoor life could make a
man.
[Sidenote: _LINDENWALD--JESSE MERWIN._]
Some two miles out of Kinderhook stands Lindenwald, to which
Ex-President Van Buren retired. The house was built by Judge William
P. Van Ness, previously mentioned. Washington Irving was a welcome and
frequent guest in the Van Ness household, and it was in this
neighborhood that he became acquainted with Jesse Merwin, school
teacher, prototype of Ichabod Crane in the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow."
The two men were the best of friends, and the caricature does not seem
to have cooled their pleasant relations. The schoolhouse stands on the
roadside, somewhat nearer the village; at least the building pointed
out as such is there, but in a letter to Merwin, Irving regrets that
the old schoolhouse is torn down "where, after my morning's literary
task was over, I used to come and wait for you, occasionally, until
school was dismissed. You would promise to keep back the punishment of
some little tough, broad-bottomed Dutch boy, until I could come, for
my amusement--but never kept your promise."
The following notice of the death of "Ichabod Crane" appeared in the
Westchester Herald for November 30, 1852:
"Jesse Merwin died at Kinderhook on the 8th instant, at the age of
seventy years. Mr. Merwin was well known in this community as an
upright, honorable man, in whom there was no guile. He was for many
years a Justice of the Peace, the duties of which office he discharged
with scrupulous fidelity and conscientious regard to the just claims
of suitors, ever frowning upon those whose vocation it is to "foment
discord and perplex right." At an early period of his life, and while
engaged in school teaching, he passed much of his time in the society
of Washington Irving, then a preceptor in the family of the late Judge
Van Ness, of this town.
"Both were engaged in congenial pursuits and, their residences being
only a short distance apart, the author of the 'Sketch Book'
frequently visited the 'Old Schoolhouse,' in which 'Squire Merwin' was
employed in teaching the young idea how to shoot, and subsequently
immortalized his name by making him the hero of one of his inimitable
tales, 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.'"
[Sidenote: _KATRINA VAN TASSEL HOUSE._]
A step further on, and across the highway, stands the Katrina Van
Tassel house, on whose blooming young mistress the Yankee pedagogue
was wont to cast longing eyes; this is the old Van Allen house, built
in 1717, says one, in 1735 according to another--a plain building
whose Holland bricks are still good, though somewhat the worse for
wear.
Soon the road crosses the Kinderhook Creek into the village by an
ancient covered bridge which has echoed to the thunder of many an old
"stage-wagon." The crossing is rather a long one, resulting in two
bridges with an interval of open between them. Down below the stream
rolls lazily along while the cattle, standing at ease, seem to catch
its indolent spirit. These streams, affording opportunity for water
power, appear to have drawn the settlers away from the banks of the
great river, and thus the towns grew up well inland from its shores.
Between Staatsburg and Greenbush, a matter of fifty-six miles, we find
only five towns on the river's edge, while back, along the Post Road,
or in its immediate vicinity, are some twenty villages both great and
small.
[Sidenote: _KINDERHOOK._]
Kinderhook--Children's Corner--as musical and attractive a name as one
could ask. It is said that a Dutchman once lived hereabouts whose
progeny was so numerous as to attract attention, even in the days of
large families, and so the place came by its name as a matter of
course.
Being a stranger in a strange land, I early sought out the good Dr.
C., who did not at first seem as genial as anticipation had pictured,
but finding, as the purpose of the call was explained, how truly
harmless was the intent, he suggested a tour of the village in his
company, confiding as we reached the outer air that he was so glad it
was not a book agent who had called; that he was delighted to do all
he could, and so it proved, for he could do and did all and more than
most would feel called upon to do for the casual stranger.
[Sidenote: _MARTIN VAN BUREN._]
Abraham Van Buren, father of Martin, was one of the early tavern
keepers of Kinderhook, and here the son was born and educated to the
law. His dwelling place is pointed out, and it is truly the site but
not the substance, as the old building has fallen victim to the march
of improvement.
Elson says of Martin Van Buren:--
"He was a man of greater individuality and ability than is generally
put to his credit by historians.... In the Cabinet of Jackson he was
by no means a figurehead even there, for it was largely due to his
skill that Jackson made the two brilliant strokes in his foreign
policy.... Van Buren has been pronounced the cleverest political
manager in American history, and no other man has held so many high
political offices. He was small of stature, had a round, red face and
quick, searching eyes. He was subtle, courteous and smooth in
conversation."
[Sidenote: _PARSONAGE-FORT._]
As early as 1670 Hollanders settled here. The first interesting house
one meets on entering the village from the south is the old Dutch
parsonage which, being of brick, was a tower of strength against the
Indians as well as the Devil. The Indians raided this region in 1755
and visited the neighborhood of Kinderhook at a time when the men were
away, but their stout-hearted wives and daughters were equal to the
occasion; for, donning such male attire as they could find and
shouldering the family arms, they made such a brave show in and about
the fort that the Indians retired without attempting its capture. A
short distance east of this stands another old parsonage-fort, but
little or nothing seems to be known concerning its history, though
legend mentions its cellar door as bearing the marks of Indian
tomahawks. It is said to be a fact that the heavy timbers in some of
these old houses were imported from Holland to these heavily wooded
banks of the Hudson.
[Sidenote: _CENTENNIAL MANSION._]
On the pleasantest street of the village stands the Centennial
Mansion, opposite the Dutch Church, erected in 1774 by Daniel Van
Schaack. The house has been the social centre of the town for more
than a hundred years. One of its earliest associations concerns the
visit of General Richard Montgomery, when on his way to take command
of the army against Canada. Henry Van Schaack, a brother of Daniel,
was an intimate friend of the General, they having been thrown
together while in the Seventeenth Regiment in the war of 1755.
In October, 1777, General Burgoyne, a prisoner of war, was quartered
here for a short time, and during the following years a long list of
prominent men passed through its hospitable portals: John Jay,
Alexander Hamilton, Philip Schuyler, Chancellor Kent and others.
After the Van Schaack régime had passed came the Hon. Cornelius P. Van
Ness, who in due time became chief justice of the Supreme Court of
Vermont, then its Governor, and later was minister to Spain.
Washington Irving arouses the ire of the local historian by stating
that the Van Ness ancestors came by their name because they were
"valiant robbers of birds' nests." The next owner was a merry
gentleman whose ghost is said to still haunt the sideboard.
Then came Dr. John P. Beekman, whose first wife was a Van Schaack. He
added the two wings which adorn either end of the building; and again
its doors are opened wide, sharing, with Lindenwald, the honor of
entertaining the nation's notables, many of them introduced by Van
Buren. Such names as Henry Clay, Washington Irving, Thomas H. Benton,
David Wilmot and Charles Sumner head the list. David Wilmot was a
notably corpulent gentleman; his introduction by Van Buren to the lady
of the house is said to have been put thus wise: "Mrs. Beekman, you
have heard of the Wilmot Proviso--Here he is in the body."
The house is now occupied by the widow of Aaron J. Vanderpoel, a Van
Schaack grand-daughter.
From the "Reminiscences" of a Kinderhooker we learn that there were
two or three stage lines whose coaches passed through the village
daily, and that the merits of their various steeds were the cause of
much local controversy around the tavern stove. The drivers "were
mainly farmers' sons, many of them well to do, selected with special
reference to sobriety as well as in handling the ribbons;" and the
heart of every lad in the village was fired with the hope that some
day he might be selected to fill that high office.
Starting again on the Post Road toward the north, we come to the
one-time Kinderhook Academy, celebrated in its day, but its day has
passed, and on the outskirts of the town pass the old cemetery where
Martin Van Buren and Jesse Merwin lie with the forefathers of the
neighborhood.
[Sidenote: _WE LEAVE THE POST ROAD._]
Here we part from the old Post Road, which continues on through
Valatie, Niverville and South Schodack to Schodack Centre, where it
joins company with the Boston Road, and together they travel through
East Greenbush to Greenbush where once was the ferry at Crawlier.
The way I took through Muitzeskill and Castleton to Greenbush, is
marked with New York and Albany guide posts, but none of the old
mile-stones adorn its path.
Ever since Rhinebeck the Catskills have been marching along the
western horizon, and while generally the river is too far away to be a
part of the picture, the country, the beautiful country, makes one
continually wonder, not that the painters of a past generation grew to
love the region and to revel in its seductive delights, but rather
that they could ever stop its delineation. The effect of the changing
light and shade and varying atmospheric conditions lend the same
enchantment that lies in the ever-changing sea.
[Sidenote: _THE DISTANT HILLS._]
About where that mystery, the county line, crosses the road, one
stands on a gentle ridge that extends the view both east and west.
Toward the latter, on this Indian Summer day were the ghosts of
mountains that in brighter times are the Catskills, while to the east
are the low-lying hills of the Taghkanic range, whose far slopes roll
down to meet the advances of the Berkshires. Beautiful undulating farm
lands lead the eye up to the distant hills on either hand, fields of
every warm tint with sentinel oaks or walnuts, and here and there the
wood-lot of the farmer. The soft browns and greens of the distant corn
stubble, or the winter barley fields with the blaze of the Frost
King's robes mellowed by the golden sun complete a picture common
enough in this wonderful valley of the Hudson, but always a
well-spring of delight for the traveler.
[Sidenote: _MUITZESKILL._]
After crossing into Rensselaer County the first village one comes in
contact with is Muitzeskill, whose burial ground is old enough to be
interesting to the searcher for curious epitaphs. All country places
have their odd characters, and this region is no exception. Among the
elegant extracts quoted as dropping from the lips of its citizens is
the remark of a certain Michael Younghans, hotel keeper, who
declaiming about certain improvements he was thinking of, said that he
was "A-going to get carpenters to impair his house, firiquelly it in
front, open pizarro all round, up-an-dicular posts on a new
destruction." What was to happen after that no man knoweth.
[Sidenote: _FIREPLACE OF THE NATION._]
This rolling country was once the council seat of the Mohicans, this
fact being commemorated in the name of Schodack, a Dutch rendering of
the Indian word Esquatak, "the fireplace of the nation." The Mohicans
had been pretty thoroughly "pacified" by the Mohawks about the time
that Hudson ascended the river, and this region is full of legends of
fights and ambuscades.
It seems that Burgoyne's captured army was marched south over this
road, and some three miles out of Castleton, so the story goes, one
Jacob Jahn, a Hessian prisoner, escaped to the woods and later,
building a log house on the exact spot where he effected his escape,
he settled down, after taking unto himself a wife, and became a good
citizen.
The road follows the level table land almost to the Hudson, when it
dips down a steep incline, crosses the Muitzes Kill and joins the
river road. Once upon a time, as history records, as an excitable
Dutch vrouw was wending her way along the banks of this brook, a
sudden gust of wind caught up her cap, the pride of her heart, and
whisked it into the water beyond reach, whereupon she set up an
outcry, "Die muts is in die kill! Die muts is in die kill!" and so it
is even unto this day. What kind of a name the stream might now be
murmuring under, had this adventure befallen her good man is fearful
to think on.
[Sidenote: _CASTLETON._]
It is Castleton because the Indians once had a castle on the crest of
the hill back of the village. The town is comparatively new, having
been incorporated as late as 1827, and appears to have taken no
important or interesting part in the days when history was making; but
there was a ship yard here, and home-built sloops competed for the New
York trade before the railroad changed things.
It is told of a certain foolish citizen, a passenger on one of the
village sloops anchored for the night somewhere in the Highlands,
that, being requested by the wag of the party to steer the stationary
boat while the others took needed rest, he faithfully performed his
task until relieved the next morning. When asked by his shipmates how
they had got on during the night he replied that they had got along a
good ways by the water, but not far by the land.
Castleton is one long street which wanders out into the open country
at either end, and lonely country it is if one proceeds north as the
early twilight of a cool November evening is closing around. The
wayfarer, if he be of a fearful temperament and has read the story of
the Murder Place, is apt to quicken his steps as he passes into the
shadows of the trees that gloom the crossing of the stream marking
the northern boundary of the village, and known as the Hell Hole. On
the right are abrupt little hills, wooded and awesome, while off
toward the west stretch the flats left by the river, with now and then
a silent pool to reflect the dying embers of the burned-out day. No
light gleams from a friendly window, only the shadowy form of a hay
rake left out by some farmer suggests human companionship. With eight
miles of such traveling ahead, it is small wonder if the wayfarer
hastens.
[Sidenote: _"CITIZEN" GENET._]
About half-way, where one passes a schoolhouse overlooking the flats
and the guide board says 3-1/2 miles to Castleton, once lived
"Citizen" Genet, and his house still stands a quarter of a mile back
on Prospect Hill, facing the cross road to East Greenbush. Edmond
Charles Genet was sent out to this country in the Spring of 1793 by
the new French Republic. Things moved rapidly in France in those days,
and Genet's friends were soon removed and he, fearing the guillotine,
became an American citizen, "a scientific farmer and an ornament to
New York society." In 1810 he moved to Greenbush, where he died in
1834. His tombstone in the burial ground of the Dutch Church in East
Greenbush tells us that "His heart was love and friendship's sun."
His house was once the home of Gen. Hendrick K. Van Rensselaer, whose
bravery at Fort Ann saved the American army in 1777.
Part of the flat lands we have been skirting go to make up the long
island of Paps Knee, which was early selected as a place of refuge.
Here a fort was built and farms were laid out, but in 1666 a flood
swept away houses and cattle, and since then the farmers have lived on
the higher main land; only one brick house, the fort, escaped and that
still stands, bearing its two hundred and seventy-five years with the
grace of long practice.
Where the road works down to meet the river comes Douw's Point, once
the head of steamboat navigation; passengers for Albany and beyond
going forward in stages after crossing the river in a horse ferryboat.
It is whispered that a few rods below the point Captain Kidd buried
treasures. Old Volkert P. Douw was so staunch a patriot that he
refused to hold office under the English, and gave his money and his
time to the American cause.
[Sidenote: _FORT CRALO._]
[Sidenote: _YANKEE DOODLE._]
In the lower edge of the village of Greenbush and on the River Road
which we are following stands the most interesting building of the
region, old Fort Cralo, built in 1642 for protection against the
Indians. Its white oak beams are said to be eighteen inches square
and its walls two to three feet thick. Some of its portholes still
remain as reminders of the times of the war whoop and scalp dance. It
is said there were once secret passages to the river, which is just
across the road. During the last of the French and Indian wars
Major-General James Abercrombie had his headquarters here--1758; and
it was here that Yankee Doodle came into being. Among the Colonial
regiments which joined the regulars at this point were some from
Connecticut whose appearance became a by-word among the well-kept
British troops. The song was composed by a surgeon attached to the
army, as a satire on these ragged provincials; less than twenty years
later the captured soldiers of Burgoyne marched between the lines of
the victorious Yankees to the same tune.
It is but a step to the trolley, and in a brief five minutes we are
across "The Great River of the Mountains" as Hudson called it, and at
our journey's end.
[Sidenote: _SCHUYLER--VAN RENSSELAER._]
The man who can rise superior to feelings of personal grievance, or
even just anger, is the man we all admire. Such, history says, was
Gen. Philip Schuyler who, when Burgoyne had wantonly burned his
country seat near Saratoga, entertained that same Burgoyne after his
capture in his town house, which still stands at the head of Schuyler
Street, Albany, in so hospitable a fashion that the British General,
struck with the American's generosity, said to him: "You show me great
kindness though I have done you much injury," whereupon Schuyler
returned: "That was the fate of war; let us say no more about it."
This house was erected about 1765, and General Schuyler lived here
with his family for nearly forty years, dispensing such notable
hospitality as to call down the blessings of many a traveler to and
from Canada or the West.
The Van Rensselaer Manor House stood on the river bank, but nothing is
now left of it but the little old brick office, which stands
disconsolate along the street, watching through half-closed blinds the
great woodworking plant which occupies the site of the old home of the
Patroon.
One other reminder of the days gone by still survives in the Peter
Schuyler house in the northern limits of Albany, at the Flats. Lossing
says of this: "It is famous in Colonial history as the residence of
Col. Peter Schuyler, of the Flats, the first mayor of Albany, and who,
as Indian Commissioner in after years took four kings or sachems of
the Mohawks to England and presented them at the court of Queen
Anne."
[Sidenote: _IT IS FINISHED._]
And now we have finished, and there is naught to do but return home,
and various are the ways of doing it. If time is of no moment there is
the west bank of the Hudson to explore all the way down to Paulus
Hook, from whence the ferry will easily land one once more on the
Island of Manhattan. If time counts, the night boat is a simple
solution of the problem.
[Illustration]
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