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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

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.

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.

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."

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.

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 , 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Andr? 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 Andr?. 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 Andr? 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."

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.

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.

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."

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 Andr? 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 Andr?'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.

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