New York State History

Old Buildings, Ghost and Witch.

Such dry facts as the maps and the milestones agree that it is three miles from Kingston to Hurley, but the country banishes all thought of distance, for it seemed as though once my face was set in that direction the old town was soon come up with. It was a beautiful walk through fat lands that, so long as a hundred years ago, the church was able to sell for $200 an acre, and which to day give every evidence of prosperity. It is a restful view off toward the hills which border the west, but not much is to be seen of the creek, whose crooked course makes it impossible for any well regulated road to keep it company, except in the most casual way.

To those who have not already discovered the fact, I would say that my study of history is largely confined to that which furnishes some outward and visible form that can be photographed. Such intangible things as motives or consequences are of small moment as compared with a door which still bears the marks of an Indian tomahawk, or a building which, in its wooden way, has helped to make history. So if certain seemingly important matters connected with the region to which I am attending just now are omitted, or but lightly touched on, the reason is that they do not come up to the standard of the camera.

When the trade in furs began to slow down the people naturally turned to the land for help, and the rich bottom lands at what is now Old Hurley invited early settlement. As early as 1662 preparation was made for the village of Niew Dorp, but while the farmers were in the fields reaping the fruits of their first sowing the Second Esopus War was suddenly opened in September, 1663, by the destruction of the newly founded hamlet. This was a brief set-back, however, for it sprang from its ashes into new life the moment the storm of war was hushed. By 1669 the English, who were then in power, changed the name to Hurley, after the Irish estate of the then Governor, Francis Lovelace.

Times of peace are all very well for the folks who live in them, but they do not make much of a showing on paper; hence we jump the dull times of almost one hundred years to the days when those who wrested these rich lands from the Indians were defending their own hearthstones against the invasion of a foe from across the great water in the days of '76, and the day when the refugees from burning Kingston came streaming down the long street of Hurley, asking for help and receiving it at every door. What a sight was here: Mothers with their broods of children too young to fight, for the able-bodied were away at the front; the grandfathers and grandmothers, each loaded with such treasures as had been saved from the burning, and bowed with the infirmities which come to those whose life has been spent in field and wood in fair weather and foul. Those who could not be cared for in Hurley were passed along to Marbletown, and it is safe to say that there was not one but had adequate shelter by night.
What a scene of bustle, with every nook and corner filled, and : all that multitude to feed. Then it was that the barns should have been bursting with the Summer's crops in this land of corn, but the harvest had been poor and this was to be a Winter of great scarcity. There was need for a miracle of the loaves and fishes here, but though the people had scantily received they freely gave, and for several long months sheltered the homeless with a warmhearted generosity born of the emergency.

Hurley is more nearly as it was a hundred years ago than any other town in these parts that has lain in my way-just one long street with the simple old stone houses lining its way, and every glimpse between opening to the country and the hills, all peace and sunshine, and every house with a history of its own well worth the telling could one but live with it long enough to gather the facts and the spirit.

First, of course, comes the Senate House, the Van Deusen-Krum-Ten Eyck-Nash house, for Hurley is the third capital of the state. The Council of Safety fled from Kingston through Hurley to Marbletown, but on November 17th adjourned to the house of Captain Jan Van Deusen on the north side of Hurley Street. In these parts November and rough weather are closely associated, and one of the first things done was an attempt to provide warmth for the shivering councilmen, so Cornelius Duboys was deputed to collect the remains of a stove from the burned courthouse at Kingston and set it up in the Hurley council chamber, but the experiences of that stove had so warped its judgment and nature that it was no longer the genial giver of warmth, and as the weather grew colder our refrigerated lawgivers adjourned to Poughkeepsie, and the glory of Hurley was at an end. Captain Van Deusen was paid "the sum of thirty dollars in full for the use of his room and firewood, and other services", and the old house dropped back into the routine of village humdrum. Fortunately the building is now in the hands of those who appreciate and love its history and legend, and it has every prospect of a comfortable and happy old age. The property on which the house stands was included in the De Witt grant of 1688, but who built the house or when I have not learned.

Next in historic importance is Van Sickle's tavern, 1716, which even in the days of the Revolution was catering to the wants of man. This was the headquarters of Governor Clinton, whose forces were too late to save Kingston. Immediately after the fall of Fort Montgomery Governor Clinton made his quarters at the house of Mrs. Falls, Little Britain, and here he proceeded to collect his scattered forces in an effort to reach the unprotected capital of the state before the arrival of the enemy. This was a slow operation and, although he did his best, he was just too late to be of service. It was back of this building on the outstretched bough of an old
apple tree that the spy, Daniel Taylor, was hanged, October 18, 1777.

November 16, 1782, General Washington passed through Hurley on his way to Kingston, and at the corner where the road leaves Hurley Street for Kingston he was halted while Matthew Ten Eyck read "The Humble Address of the Trustees of the Freeholders and Inhabitants of the Town of Hurley" "To His Excellency George Washington, General and Commander-in-Chief of the American Army, etc." It is said the general sat his horse bare-headed while the rain descended on his welcome, but the address was short, and doubtless the chief had been out in the rain before. The old Houghtaling house at this bend in the road is still standing with the hospitable reputation of having offered the great man a glass of wine, so that not all the dampness was without.

Next west of the Senate House stands the Elmendorf house, once a tavern, and next beyond that shine the whitewashed walls of a house that lays no claim to greatness, beyond the virtue of growing old gracefully, while still further on stands the "Guard House", where the spy was held prisoner.

Before we get too far away from the Elmendorf house it is well to note that there was a time when this house contained the visible evidence that witches did exist in Hurley. It seems that a witch got into the churn once and the butter would not come. Now the cure for this is a red-hot horseshoe dropped into the refractory cream, and this method was adopted with entire success, the horseshoe being so thoroughly heated that the cream had not entirely cooled its ardor by the time it reached the bottom of the churn, where was left its faint imprint. The churn was so well exorcised that never again did witch venture within. Witches are scarce these days, and unfortunately the old relic is gone, else could we point the unbeliever to ocular proof of their baleful being.

Most of those who write of this region mention the "Cheese Mines of Hurley" without so much as giving the reader a clue as to just what those cheese mines are, or were. The traveller naturally pitches on the many groups of cattle which dot the fields as the explanation, and so they were indirectly. There was a time, it seems, when Hurley was famous for its "Pot Cheeses" and Kingston folk came this way to buy. Thus there grew up a trade, and as time went on Pot Cheese became synonymous with Hurley, being used as a term of gentle derision by the city people, who were wont to greet the Hurleyite within their gates with, "There comes a pot cheeser", or with a jingle which ran as follows:-

"Some come from Hurley, some from the Rhine; Some pop fresh from a Pot Cheese Mine."

I had certain preconceived notions regarding the locations of the old buildings, and when, upon making inquiry along Hurley Street and receiving answers that did not fit with my view of the situation, I finally knocked at the door of the Senate House, thinking that here surely would be those who could set me straight, and, while this was all so, I was simply set in the path that others had before pointed out, and which my natural obstinacy would not permit me to at first follow. However, the warm welcome that awaited the traveller inside of that hospitable door is a thing to be dwelt on. It was raw and chill out where I was, and the sandwich which was to constitute my lunch, under the shelter of some friendly stone wall for a windbreak, was not the most alluring prospect in the world, and when it was suggested that lunch would be ready in a minute and that I must stay, no great amount of urging was needed. The wood fire on the hearth reaching out its friendly offering of comfort, the Irish setter lying in front of it with a welcoming wag, seconding the master's cheerful suggestions, would have stayed me had I been that youth who bore the banner with a strange device himself, and when the mistress came forward I capitulated on the spot. What good red-hot soup it was! and that stew and other fixings following after. The Kingstonians of a hundred years before could hardly have felt more like calling down blessings on those whose hospitable doors always swing in.

The heavy clouds which had entirely engrossed the attention of the sun during the morning hours were breaking up, and now began the wonder of a perfect day. There were clouds to be sure, enough for the picture, but more sunshine; the wind had dropped to a cool breeze that was as delicious to the eyes as a cool draught to a parched throat. The country was beautiful beyond compare. The road touched the winding shores of the Esopus, lending a gleam of water to the landscape. The stone walls ran red with bitter sweet, while clouds of fluffy milkweed, made glorious by the sun, danced to the piping of the breeze. An ecstasy!

A second visit to Hurley on Washington's Birthday, 1907, furnished an opportunity to see the Sopus country tucked in for the Winter.

The snow has an interesting way of individualizing. Whether it be a weed or a tree, each stands out boldly against the white background. The old goldenrods and other butterflies of the vegetable population are now as attractive as silhouettes as they were as color masses when life was young, and the infinite variety of branch and twig growth among the many kinds of trees is a study in ingenuity. Every tree has its own peculiar way of pushing its members up or out or down, and sticks to its own way with the obstinacy of a Dutchman. Possibly it comes from long association.

My host, the doctor, kindly gave himself up to the search for visible evidence of other days, and by dint of much inquiry we think that we found on the Hurley-Marbletown Road the old Pawling house (about 1670), the only one allowed to be built outside of Hurley and Marbletown villages when Ulster County was young. We did find the house which all neighbors agree is the oldest between the two places, and what's more, the town line runs smack through the building. When we called a mantelpiece was standing outside because the fireplace had fallen down. Town line must have run amuck.

The day! Well, it was simply the apotheosis of Winter days-frosty but kindly, sunshine but without glare. We travelled far enough beyond the Pawling place to reach that point where the road and creek meet for a brief moment, a point which attracted the camera last Fall, and now doubly so, for the snow and ice reveal beauties not seen before.

As we tramped back the wind butted in until we buttoned him out, though he still nipped at ears and fingers, and was really a bit too eager at times, but the sun smiled and we could but do likewise.

The J. P. Ten Eyck house, the mansion of the village, offered such an invitingly picturesque rear as we approached that it was futile for the camera to attempt resistance, and, as we came up Hurley Street various of its old stone edifices fell victims to that same recording angel. The Elmendorf house being possessed of a most obnoxious wooden excrescence at the rear, the house of Ellsworth kindly offered a corner to cover the unsightliness.

Right here it may be interesting to note the reason for the lack of windows in the second, or attic, stories of these old houses. It seems that in early days the folks lived downstairs and used the loft for storage of grain and other farm products. The west end of the Elmendorf house shows an upper door opening out on nothing, with a crane overhead for hoisting purposes. The room in which I slept in the Senate House was once used for storage of hog products-please note that this was long ago-and was known as the pork room. Here were hidden under mounds of meat barrels of certain delectable russet apples that were wont to tempt the children beyond endurance-russets whose vanishing qualities were only equaled by the shade of the lady which is said to haunt these upper rooms. This is a kindly ghost, one not to be feared. But the way she quietly lifts the latch of the "antiquarium", allowing the Winter wind to bustle down the stairs right into the kitchen, and this even in midday, indicates a tendency to mischief which suggests that the lady must have died young, though tradition has it otherwise.

It is a mistake to regard ghosts as fearful things; they seldom harm. On the contrary, if met half way, should prove agreeable and interesting companions. But there are those who refuse absolutely to believe in ghosts. A story of such a one has been going the rounds recently which would seem to prove that it is not worth while to be to hasty in one's conclusions, even regarding ghosts. Our friend being compelled to spend a night in a haunted house, awoke of a sudden to see a large, fleshy hand on the footboard of his bed. The thoughtful man had taken his pistol to bed with him and, not being in the least nervous, pulled his gun, remarking as he did so that he would fire if the hand was not removed by the time he had counted three. He was not in the least nervous, and calmly counted three. The hand was still there and he pulled the trigger, thereby shooting off two of his own toes. They do say that from that very moment his remarks about ghosts have not only been voluble, but highly inflammatory, and what he thinks about ghosts now he has no hesitation in saying.

The grandfathers of the village tell how as boys they danced the grave of the spy away. It seems that in their youth a considerable mound marked the last resting place of Daniel Taylor, and the boys, probably taking their cue from the talk of the "sitters", made a practice of having a bit of a fling on the grave whenever passing that way, until now nothing remains to mark the place which, we are told, is immediately in front of the front doorstep of the modern Van Sickle house. It was near the southeast corner of this same building that the apple tree gallows stood, the poor man being disposed of in much the same manner as was suggested in an old song for the taking off of Jeff Davis.

Over across the creek, and beyond the flats and under the hills stand the Brink and the Wynkoop houses, and a bit south, on the very feet of these same patient hills, the De Witt and two Newkirk homesteads, the further one of which is now occupied as the house of Stuart. Over a kitchen window of this is set a stone tablet, which, through age and many coatings of government paint (whitewash), affords the antiquarian the satisfaction of thinking what he likes, without much fear of |contradiction. To some it seems to say "B. G. NK. A. D. 1779", to others "1710". The De Witt whose nearby house bears date 1750, insists that his is the older, and was inclined to get a bit warm about it, in spite of the thermometer, which some earlier in the day had been 12 below zero.

This road follows the base of the hills, which end at the flats much as an upsidedown teacup ends at the tablecloth, and is one continuous curve of beauty. There is ever ahead a bend, with its mystery of the unknown beyond, to entice like the will-o'-the-wisp, but there is no trouble at the other end, only Kingston.

To look at from inside of the house the afternoon was quite on a par with our glorious morning, and we started the cameras for Spook Hollow, which lies on the west side of the road to Kingston shortly after one clears the village. But out in the open the wind held sway, and a good forceful wind that has been rolling over and over in the snow all day is no trifler. We went for the picture, and we got it, or thought we did, but now the doctor is inclined to think that this is one of the things he knew that was not so. Fortunately, however, there was no doubt in our minds at the time, and we wasted no time in our efforts to get back to the fireside of the Senate House, where we could more leisurely enjoy the whistling of the wind.

It seems that the spook has lost his head. What the excitement was is not explained, but the last time he was seen he was in a state of decapitation, sitting in his hollow with his arms folded, possibly hoping some belligerent spirit would come along and put a head on him, or words to that effect. These spooks appear to have been mostly founded by the negro slaves, who brought many superstitions with them to these shores and promptly proceeded to fit them to every peculiar feature of the landscape. A lonely or unusual spot where the voudoo could hold incantations would soon be peopled with folks that were of no earthly use. There is a description in "The Dutch Dominie" of a midnight raising of spirits in one of these spots which probably is reasonably true to life.

Well it is about time to get back to last Autumn and Marbletown, or we will never get home in this world.