Chapter II: Part 2

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 'kuell' (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 'stroemen.' Hamburg has its numerous fleets or canals. The Low German of the Luenenburger 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._]