New York State History

Van Vechten Notes, Aaron Burr, Austin's Glen, Caves, Leeds Bridge, Kauterskill, A Tory Nest.

We have mentioned the view of the mountains from the edge of the Jefferson bank that Thomas Cole used in one of his pictures. If on our way back we take the road under this hill, instead of over it, as the trolley flies, we will in due time come to the Van Vechten house and mill. The road twists and turns, as country roads which try to keep on the level will when there are hills and ravines to be circumvented. There are chestnuts to be gathered if the season is right, and a spring of water to entice the thirsty, but at the end of it stands one of the typical one-story and attic stone houses bearing in large iron letters the date 1690. This was built by Divide Teunise Van Vechten and rebuilt by his nephew Teunis in 1750, who made it longer and higher, and as he finished it the house stands today.

Like most of the old houses, this one has seen its stirring moments. One of these, which had a rather more satisfactory outcome than most of such, occurred during Vaughan's raid up the river when Kingston was burned. This house was attacked by Tories and Indians, who found the old mother sitting on a chair where, hidden beneath her ample skirts, was the family silver. The raiders were after her son Jacob, who had hidden in the garret behind the chimney. When they asked the old lady where he was she responded that he had "gone above", telling the literal truth, but they, taking her remark to mean that he had gone to Albany, in which direction the entire country was pouring men for the battle with Burgoyne, left the house without making a search.

Peter Van Vechten, Jr., who has been writing a series of interesting articles on "The Good Old Days of Long Ago" for the Catskill Examiner, tells how the red brick came which adorn the gable ends of the house. It seems that when Peter was a small boy a whirlwind came down, like a wolf on the fold, and took the roof along with it. It was an exciting moment that evidently made a deep impression on the boy's mind; the repairs were made with brick. Now, having disposed of this important matter, we will cross the railroad track to the mill, the one now standing having been built in 1830, and being the third to bear the Van Vechten name. It seems that John, one of the builders, drove to Montreal in the Winter of 1829 in order to secure the bolting cloth necessary for the new mill, that being the nearest place at which it could be obtained. The first mill on Catskill Creek was built about 1765. Before this the Van Vechtens had a mill on the Hans Vosen Kill on the other side of the flats.

Standing near the gate of the Van Vechten place is a stone which bears the following inscription: "18th & 19th Century Fording Place Here. Old King's Road. New York to Canada on Indian Trail." Here it was that the red men forded the Catskill Creek, and here the white men found the ford accessible for their teams. There is many a road in this country which was once an Indian trail. Both ends of the most interesting and varied street in the world, Broadway on Manhattan Island, follow closely the track originally broken by the moccasin of the aborigines.

The present road to the high ground of Jefferson follows quite closely the old King's Road, crossing the Susquehanna turnpike in the centre of the village. A little beyond stands the Schuneman house, built by the dominie during the last years of his life, and now the property of Mr. Franklin Salisbury, who has the blood of pretty much all the old families in his veins, and a room full of treasures consisting of paintings by Cole and Church, Schuneman china, old books and papers, etc., etc., enough to stock a small museum.

Doctor Orcutt, who died about 1875, at the age of seventy-four, was a frequent visitor in the Salisbury family. He was full of reminiscences of the early days, among them one concerning Aaron Burr, with whom the doctor was acquainted in his youth. Burr visited in Jefferson, and was in the habit of spending a portion of each day in a certain chestnut woods, where, selecting a particularly large tree to which to address his remarks, he would proceed to declaim some speech with which he was preparing to startle his fellow-legislators, making all the gesticulations that he would make before an audience, like Demosthenes on the seashore, preparing for more appreciative hearers, and putting forth all his powers of oratory. How the leaves must have clapped their hands for very joy.

In former times herds of cattle and sheep were driven down from the north and west for the New York market, and Jefferson was then a busy place, for here the animals were slaughtered and shipped down the river in sloops. In those days the father of Frank Salisbury kept the Bull's Head tavern, and for his sign had a bull's head painted by Thomas Cole himself. The hotel is gone, and the droves of cattle are no more. The trolley goes roaring all the day long, but beyond that there is little to break the quiet of the countryside.

Here was the renbaan, or race grounds, where those races were run which so depleted Dominie Schuneman's flock. The old Dutchmen loved good horses, even some of the dominies were noted for a love of horseflesh and a strong dislike to taking anybody's dust.

There is a low frame house tucked away across the fields that once held a man of great local renown, Henry Oothoudt, a member of the convention at which the first constitution of the state of New York was framed, one of the commissioners of forfeited estates, and Senator from Albany County in the days before Greene County ever was.

Instead of returning through Leeds by the beaten track we will side-step to Austin's Glen, which furnishes a mile of attractive glimpses of tumbling water and rock ledges. The
glen is named after the man who once used the water-power for the making of paper. As we entered its beautiful precincts a spring which bubbles from the bank offered a cup of cold water which was not refused; the overflow from this glides down a wooden trough so long in place that it is now a moss-grown bit of nature. The limestone ledges of this region are, like the walk of that good man in the New Gospel of Peace, slantindicular, the result being an occasional ledge in the bed of the creek which forms a natural dam that in times of flood must make some very beautiful falls.

Mr. Salisbury accompanied me on this part of the pilgrimage, and as we passed along pointed out two holes in the rock which, as a boy, he was wont to explore. These lead to caves some hundreds of feet in length, at times widening into roomy chambers, and eventually opening in the top of the cliff. In the "Dutch Dominie of the Catskills" we read of such a cave near the home of Martin Schuyler, which was used by his family in its escape from the Indians.

The Catskill Packet for August 6, 1792, has this to say for the Leeds bridge: "On Thursday, the 26th ult., was completed the erecting a bridge over Catskill Creek, about five miles from this landing, on the great road to the back settlements. This bridge for magnitude and elegance of structure is inferior to none in the state." It has since then been surpassed in magnitude by more modern structures, but it can at least lay claim to being the most picturesque in the state. The graceful pencil of Harry Fenn once transferred it to the pages of Harpers' Magazine, with one of those old-time droves of sheep on their way to Jefferson and mutton. It has been in use one hundred and fourteen years, and looks good for as many more.

No sooner has our picturesque old friend carried us across the creek than we immediately turn south toward Kauterskill by a road which is probably over two hundred years old. Here was located Dominie Schuneman's old church, and across the swale, toward the east, the parsonage. Not so much as a stone wall remains to mark the site of the church, and as for the poor parsonage, as unattractive a modern frame house stands in its shoes as could well be constructed.

About the only relic of the past hereabouts are the everlasting hills, though there is still preserved in the Mower house, which stands on the site of the old hotel, a board some seven feet Ipng, on which is painted in black, red and ochre the whole scene: church, hotel and outhouses, Martin Van Bergen and his ample vrouw, Indians, prancing horses and pretty much everything that could be worked into a country panorama with, of course, the hills in the background. This board once adorned the fireplace in the hotel.

About 1761 a settler named Planck built a small stone house some distance west of this road; it was in a secluded little valley in a forest clearing. Planck must have been a good patriot for his house appears to have been an object of attack by Indian and Tory alike, and wars and rumors of wars frequently sent the women and children to the Van Bergen house, while the men lay out in the woods all night, gun in hand, with intent to surprise the surprisers. Legend has not been careful to preserve particulars, but those of us who as boys reveled in the delights to be found in those simple nature studies published by the good Mr. Beadle, which were within reach of all who were possessed of a dime, can readily imagine shadowy forms slipping from tree to tree, the war whoop and the death cry as the unerring rifle of the forest ranger sent one of the red devils to the happy hunting grounds, etc., etc.

It is civilized and dull enough these days, for this stretch of road, some two miles and a half from Catskill to Kauters-kill Creeks, contains not a single relic of those old days, in spite of the fact that it was once the centre of things. The landscape is diverting enough, to be sure, but one needs his imagination with him if he must hark back to the good old days of raid and foray. About half a mile toward the east, where the Kauterskill runs into the Catskill, stood the fort where the river Indians made their first stand against the fierce Mohawks, and from which they retreated to an island in the Hudson. Being at the junction of these two streams I am reminded that while cat means just a plain, ordinary cat, kauter means a tomcat. This was news to me; possibly some one else is equally ignorant.

A rainy spell which preceded my advent to these regions did much for the waterfalls and little brooks. The falls of the Kauterskill were exceptionally fine. The rock down which the water foams makes a natural dam which has been taken advantage of for the grinding of grist and sawing of logs. The mill itself is not much to look at, but the old covered bridge, which crosses just at the head of the tumbling water, tops a most attractive picture.

The road I am following continues up stream along its south bank, past the Salomon Du Bois house of 1751, the road here following the trail by which the Indians made their way up the Kauterskill and over the mountains to the Schoharie Kill. We will follow on, along the Palenville Road, a bit out of our way, to where stands the old Abeel house. The road crosses the creek again on a high stone arch, and we look down for a moment on the old Webber place, haunt of the Tory.

David Abeel, himself a jealous Whig, lived in an exposed position near the mountains, and surrounded by a number of Tory neighbors: Webbers, Fieros, Rowes and others. During Brandt's raid the house was attacked by Indians, and Tories disguised as Indians, and its master was captured and carried into captivity, first to Fort Niagara, and then to Montreal, from whence he eventually escaped. His trials and hardships during this period are dreadful to dwell upon. The old house still stands, though shorn of all such excrescences as porches et al. What was once the front door now opens into space, and the slave quarters below furnish the main entrance, unless one would follow the family custom and use the kitchen door. The building appears to be in good condition, but the inhabitants thereof are not much given to outer adornment, leaving the picturesque features of the place to the chickens and the litter.

Another house of the olden time which still remains to these parts is the Fiero place, back toward Catskill, which formerly stood on the King's Highway, but just here the ancient way has been lost in the Palenville Road, down which the old Tory stronghold gazes with all the frankness of innocence in its white paint. The passer-by of to-day would never suspect that back of those closed blinds used to gather assemblies who sat in absolute darkness while scheming for their king, who they firmly believed was a much injured individual and entitled to their most loyal support.

The King's Highway now climbs a stiff little hill, near whose top is a fairy waterfall that dances down over the limestone ledge in a way to make one stop and smile in sympathy with the gay time the waters are having. It flashes and gurgles such an abandon of invitation that there was nothing to do but climb the fence, slip off my pack and sit down under the shelter of the ledge to discuss certain sandwiches which had come thus far with the benevolent purpose of helping the traveller on his way. The lullaby of the falling water and the beautiful valley below were a great enticement to linger, but Saugerties was eight miles away, it was nearly 3 o'clock, and October days are all too brief.

Now we enter on quite a different sort of country from that which has gone before, rocky and wild, with houses few and far between, and of a rather primitive order when they do occur-a bit of back-woods region. If only the haze could have lifted, the views of the mountains would have been reward enough; butf as it was, near-by objects were quite satisfying. This stretch impresses one as having seen little change during the past hundred years. There are no wildcats or large game, but an occasional partridge whirred off into the woods when my footfall broke in on his sweet dream of peace. Those singular vertical limestone ledges which are one of the curiosities of this country were frequent; in one case the ledge had in some prehistoric time been broken down at regular intervals, leaving a series of stone sentinels standing in a straight line across the fields. Between two of these the road passed-great square blocks that look as though they were the rough gate posts of some giant stronghold.

This must be a great wild flower emporium during the earlier months of the year

"Where wastes that bear no harvest yield their bloom,
Rude crofts of flowering nettle, bents of yellow broom.
The very reeds and sedges of the fen
Open their hearts and blossom to the sky!
The wild thyme on the mountain's knees
Unrolls its purple market to the bees!
Unharvested of men
The Traveller's Joy can only smile and die!"

And so we come to Asbury, a crossroads that has little significance for this traveller. In the days of the stage coach the place was known as Trumpbour's Corners. This King's Road over which we have been footing it was not always thus, for it was once the "ffoot-path leading to Albany". In June, 1703, an act was passed for laying out public highways which directed that a road be laid out between the New Jersey state line and Albany. This ran through Goshen, Shawangunk, New Paltz, Rosendale, Kingston, Fox Hall, Pine Bush, to the fording place across the Esopus at the mouth of the Saw Kill, thence along the western side of Esopus Creek and on north to Albany. When first laid out this was known as the Queen's Highway.