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 (a brother of Stephanus Van Cortlandt of Cortlandt), and the mansion was erected by Frederick Van Cortlandt in 1748. Northeast of it is situated Indian Field, memorable as the scene of an engagement between the British and the Stockbridge Indians, resulting in the practical annihilation of the latter.

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.

The road winds along the sides of the hills, sometimes fifty, sometimes one hundred and fifty feet above the water, and many are the beautiful vistas through the trees and across the well-kept lawns. By this time the solid wall of the Palisades is beginning to break and the outline of the Jersey hills becomes more varied. But we are just now interested nearer home, for as one approaches Dobbs Ferry he steps on almost holy ground. Here is the Livingston house, where, after the fighting was all over, Washington and Governor Clinton met the British commander, General Sir Guy Carlton, to make the final arrangements for peace; here the papers were signed which permitted of the disbanding of the American Army, and in which the British gave up all claim upon the allegiance and control of the country.

So far back as 1698 a Dob was located here. On account of the ferry the place was an important one during the Revolution and many interesting incidents happened in the neighborhood. It was here that Arnold and André 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 André. 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 André 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 phœbe 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 André 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 André's tree, near which the capture was effected, was struck by lightning the day that news was received at Tarrytown of Arnold's death. A monument now standing on the edge of the road has taken the place of the tree. We all know how the Skinners, Paulding, Van Wart and Williams made this capture which disclosed the treachery of Arnold. It was indeed a fortunate combination of circumstances that led these three incorruptible men to the right spot at the right moment.

How many times did the death knell of independence seem on the point of being tolled, and how many times did the god of chance throw his weight into the ascending scale of the Colonists. But for a lapse of memory, the attempt of the British in the Summer of 1777 to capture the Hudson Valley and separate New England from her sisters might have been as successful as it proved disastrous. Lord George Germain sent Burgoyne peremptory instructions to proceed down the Hudson, and the instructions to Howe to move north to meet him were equally peremptory, but the latter were pigeonholed and forgotten for several weeks, and when remembered it was too late. Washington had decoyed Howe to Pennsylvania, and Burgoyne, lacking the expected support from the south, was defeated by the farmers.

Pocantico, "a run between two hills," the Dutch called it Sleepy Haven Kill, hence Sleepy Hollow. "Far in the foldings of the hills winds this wizard stream," writes the grand sachem of all the wizards, who wove the romance of the headless horseman and the luckless schoolmaster so tightly about the spot that they are to-day part and parcel of it. The bridge over which the scared pedagogue scurried was some rods further up the stream than is the present crossing, for in those days the Post Road ran along the north side of the church, and the entrance was originally on that side of the building, while now it is on the western end which faces the present road.

The name Frederick Philipse was originally written Vreedryk, or Vrederyck, Felypsen, the former meaning "rich in peace," indicating, we presume, the difference between his peaceful occupation of breaking into the new wilderness and that of his ancestors in Bohemia who, being persecuted for their religious opinions, fled to Holland, from whence Frederick emigrated to New Amsterdam, some time before 1653, becoming a successful merchant, and later a patroon. Sen, meaning son in Dutch, Felypsen meant the son of Felyp, Frederick the son of Philip. On the west bank of the Pocantico Philipse built his first manorial residence, called Castle Philipse on account of its strength and armament, it not only being loopholed for musketry, as was common in those days, but was also defended by several small cannon. All these evidences of the strenuous days of old have been covered by unsightly clapboards, and the place as it stands now looks as though it might have seen better days, but gives no hint of its former important station. It is related that in 1756 a Virginia colonel named Washington called here to pay his respects to the beautiful Mary Philipse, but the lady saw nothing attractive in the tall, ungainly countryman. In 1784, when the state parcelled out the confiscated lands of Philipse, this part fell into the hands of Gerard C. Beekman, whose wife was Cornelia Van Cortlandt, a connection of the Philipse family. An interesting incident connects this place with the André matter. Some time before his capture, John Webb, one of Washington's aides, left a valise containing a new uniform with Mrs. Beekman, asking that it be delivered only on a written order. Some two weeks later Joshua Het Smith, whose loyalty was at that time regarded doubtful, called and asked for Lieutenant Webb's valise. Mrs. Beekman disliked the man, and refused to deliver it without the order, which Smith could not produce, and he rode away much disappointed. André was concealed in his house at this very time, and the uniform was wanted to help him through the American lines. Thus Mrs. Beekman forged the second link in the chain leading to the André capture.

The little old Dutch church is believed to be the oldest church edifice now standing in the State. It was built in 1699 by Frederick Philipse. Irving says of it: "The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll surrounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement."

"To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there, at least, the dead might rest in peace," and there Irving himself rests in peace with a plain white stone at his head which modestly tells that

WASHINGTON

SON OF WILLIAM AND SARAH S. IRVING

DIED

NOV. 28, 1859

AGED 76 YEARS, 7 MO. AND 25 DAYS

Old Dutch Church. Tarrytown. 1699.

North of the church and on both sides of the Post Road are the remains of the one-time Beekman forest, whose thickets once served the deer for a cover. So long ago as 1705 it was necessary to enact game laws for the protection of these animals, which were even then in a fair way to being exterminated.

The six miles to Ossining are largely made up of handsome estates lining both sides of the road. Here and there nature still litters the earth with weeds and bushes, or the farmer tends his crops, leaving a fringe of wild things to border his domains, but as a general thing such inelegancies are suppressed, and the roadside is ordered with the same precision as are the lands on the other side of the wall. Those pleasant little friendships with unkempt nature are not so frequent as we find them further on. However, while there is little "delight in disorder" there are many beautiful places belonging to those favored with an abundance of this world's goods. Such names as Gen. John C. Fremont, Anson G. Phelps, Gen. James Watson Webb, Aspinwall and others are or have been of this region. Some two miles before we come to the village of Ossining stands St. Mary's Church, erected in 1850. Surrounded by tall trees, the little edifice looks as though it might be some mysterious "church in the wood" of a medieval romance, and one almost expects to see a little bridal party dash up on horseback with no time to lose, in the belief that the grim old father is close on their heels. We naturally think of a church as a centre of population, but here is a quaint little building which the traveler comes on unexpectedly in a patch of woods by a rather lonely stretch of road. The temptation to turn aside and investigate is strong until, the wind rubbing one tree trunk against another, a long groan is heard that sends a cold shiver down the inquisitive's back and damps his ardor for discovery. After all it's best out in the bright open road where the birds sing and the sun dispels all thought of gloom.

Ossining, "a stony place," was variously written Sin-sing, Sing Sing, Sin Sinck and Sink Sink. Spelling was an incident in those days, not an art. Here again we must fall back on Irving for our facts. He says: "A corruption of the old Indian name O-sin-sing. Some have rendered it O-sin-sing, or O-sing-song, in token of its being a great market town, where anything may be had for a mere song. Its present melodious alteration to Sing Sing is said to have been made in compliment to a Yankee singing master who taught the inhabitants the art of singing through the nose." The Indian village here bore the same name before the Dutch appropriated the country.

No very important events of Colonial or Revolutionary history are recorded in immediate connection with the town, though it is related that here is still preserved a small cannon known as "Old White," said to be the one which, at Teller's Point, compelled the British Vulture to slip her moorings and so leave André in the lurch. At one time mining operations were conducted at this point, but they came to naught, and now the town is noted as a resort for guests of the state.

As we approach the Croton River the road takes a right-angled turn, down which a fingerboard points, indicating that Peekskill lies that way, but the old Post Road kept straight ahead, following the banks of the Croton until a favorable place for crossing occurred, when it took advantage of the opportunity and started back for the Hudson, in order to get around Hessian Hill. The marshy breadth of the Croton's mouth was probably too much for the bridge builders of early days. Along this road a short half mile is the one-time celebrated Black Horse Tavern. It was not only a house of refuge for travel-worn humanity, but was also a popular meeting place for the neighboring farmers, and a place of political gatherings.

We stick to the more modern road which crosses the Croton by means of two bridges landing one at the door yard of the old Van Cortlandt manor house. The view up the river from the bridge is a beautifully soft landscape. On the left stands the old "ferry house," so important a means of communication between the two sides of the stream that Washington, during the Revolution, stationed a guard here for its protection. The manor house, a modest two-story building, hidden in vines, built of the rough brown sandstone of the region, gives no indication of decrepit age. It so happened that just before my visit its stucco covering had been removed, disclosing to view the portholes for musketry intended to discourage the too enthusiastic approaches of its Indian neighbors. This stucco was spread over the building when the grandfather of the present generation of Van Cortlandts brought his bride home.

The father of the first "Lord of the Manor" was a landholder in the City of New Amsterdam, owning a tract along Broadway where now is Cortlandt St. The son was the first mayor of New York born in America; this was Stephanus Van Cortlandt. He advanced large sums of money to the government, and as compensation obtained, in 1697, a Royal charter for "Lordship and Manor of Cortlandt." The present building is thought to have been started by Gov. Thos. Dongan, about 1683, as a hunting lodge, an ideal situation on the bank of the Kitchawar, as the Croton River was then known, protected alike from the north and east winds.

Irving says of the family at the time of the Revolutionary War:—

"Two members of this old and honorable family were conspicuous patriots throughout the Revolution. Pierre Van Cortlandt, the father, at this time about fifty-six years of age, was a member of the first Provincial Congress, and President of the Committee of Public Safety. Governor Tryon had visited him in his old manor house at the mouth of the Croton, in 1774, and made him offers of royal favors, honors, grants of land, etc., if he would abandon the popular cause. His offers were nobly rejected. The Van Cortlandt family suffered in consequence, being at one time obliged to abandon their manorial residence; but the head remained true to the cause, and subsequently filled the office of Lieutenant-Governor with great dignity."

The history of the house records other interesting events besides those of war: From its high veranda the great Whitefield preached to crowds who were seated on benches on the lawn. The memory of this time has been kept green by a small brass plate, recording the fact, which is attached to a post of the veranda.

The whole air of the place is so homelike and comfortable that the traveler could easily pass it by never dreaming that the career of this vine-clad nest is one that many a more pretentious dwelling would be proud to own to.

The old Van Cortlandt family cemetery is situated on a hill west of the house and west of the road. Here lie the remains of that Mrs. Beekman whose distrust of Joshua Smith prevented him from securing a disguise for André. Along the southern foot of this hill lies the Haunted Hollow.

For-years "the walking sachems of Teller's Point" held nightly councils here, the ghosts of departed Indians, whose last resting place on this Point was disturbed by the white man's plough and spade, but their clay has long since been burned into bricks and their shades have scattered in all directions; some of them no doubt looking down on us to-day from Manhattan's lofty skyscrapers.

An Indian castle or fort defended Teller's or Croton Point from up-river tribes, and it was here that old Chief Croton died while defending the firesides of his people, he being the last warrior to go down before the invaders. But though dead he yet walked, much to the inconvenience of belated travelers, more especially those who, having passed a friendly evening with hospitable neighbors, found it somewhat difficult to lay a straight course for home. However, nothing has been heard of his ghostship of late, and it may be that the materialistic spirit of the present age, which does not know a ghost when it sees one, has sent him off to some more happy haunting ground.