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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 Andre 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 Andre. 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 Andre 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 Andre 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
Andre'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 Andre
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. Andre 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 Andre 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 Andre 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 Andre. 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-ANDRE 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 Andre, 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 Andre 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 Andre, 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 Andre 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 Andre
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 Andre, 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 Andre, 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.