Washington Heights & Inwood Online

Excerpt from The Hudson From the Wilderness to the Sea by Benson J. Lossing. New York: Virtue and Yorston, 1866.

Benson Lossing was a prolific writer and sketch artist. He traveled extensively collecting reminiscences of historical events — often from relatives and descendants far removed from the actual events. His style was easy to read, popular, even tabloid, rather than academic. This excerpt from The Hudson From the Wilderness to the Sea is about the area now known as Washington Heights, Inwood and Marble Hill.

From Chapter XIX, p. 366

Two miles and a-half below Font Hill, or Mount St. Vincent, is Spyt den Duyvel Creek, at the head of York or Manhattan Island. This is a narrow stream, winding through a little tortuous valley for a mile or more, and connecting, at Kingsbridge, with the Harlem River, the first formed by the inflowing of the tide waters of the Hudson, and the last by the waters of the East River. At ebb-tide the currents part at Kingsbridge. The view from the mouth of the Spyt den Duyvel, over which the Hudson River Railway passes, looking either across the river to the Palisades, as given in our sketch, or inland, embracing bold Berrian’s Neck on the left, and the wooded head of Manhattan Island on the right, with the winding creek, the cultivated ridge on the borders of Harlem River, and the heights of Fordham beyond, present pleasant scenes for the artist’s pencil. To these natural scenes, history and romance lend the charm of their associations.

Here, on the 2nd of October, 1608, Henry Hudson had a severe fight with the Indians, who attacked the Half-Moon with arrows from canoes and the points of land, as she lay at anchor in the sheltering mouth of the creek. Here, too, while Governor Stuyvesant was absent on the Delaware, nine hundred of the river Indians encamped, and menaced the little town of New Amsterdam, at the lower extremity of the island, with destruction. Here, according to Diedrick Knickerbocker’s “History of New York,” Anthony Van Corlear, the trumpeter of Governor Stuyvesant, lost his life in attempting to swim across the creek during a violent storm.

“The wind was high,” says the chronicler, “the elements were in an uproar, and no Charon could be found to ferry the adventurous sounder of brass across the water. For a short time he vapoured like an impatient ghost upon the brink, and then bethinking himself of the urgency of his errand (to arouse the people to arms), he took a hearty embrace of his stone bottle, swore most valorously that he would swim across in spite of the devil (en spyt den duyvel), and daringly plunged into the stream. Luckless Anthony! Scarcely had he buffeted half way over, when he was observed to struggle violently, as if battling with the Spirit of the waters.

Instinctively he put his trumpet to his mouth, and giving a vehement blast, sank for ever to the bottom! The clangour of his trumpet, like that of the ivory horn of the renowned Paladin Orlando, when expiring in the glorious field of Roncesvalles, rang far and wide through the country, alarming the neighbours round, who hurried in amazement to the spot. Here an old Dutch burgher, famed for his veracity, and who had been a witness of the fact, related to them the melancholy affair; with the fearful addition (to which I am slow in giving belief), that he saw the Duyvel, in the shape of a huge moss-bonker (a species of inferior fish) seize the sturdy Anthony by the leg, and drag him beneath the waves. Certain it is, the place, with the adjoining promontory, which projects into the Hudson, has been called Spyt den Duyvel ever since.”

During the war for independence, stirring events occurred in the vicinity of the Spyt den Duyvel Creek. Batteries were erected on promontories on each side of it, at its junction with the Hudson; and in Westchester County, in its immediate neighbourhood, many skirmishes took place between Cow Boys and Skinners, Whigs and Tories, British, Hessians, and Indians.

A picturesque road passes along the foot of the Westchester hills that skirt the Spyt den Duyvel Valley, to the mouth of Tippett’s Creek, which comes flowing down from the north through a delightful valley, at the back of Yonkers and the neighbouring settlements. This creek was called Mosh-u-la by the Indians, and the valley was the favourite residence of a warlike Mohegan tribe. Its lower portion was the scene of almost continual skirmishing during a portion of the war for independence.

Tippett’s Creek is crossed by a low bridge. A few yards beyond it is Kingsbridge, at the head of the Harlem River, which here suddenly expands into lake-like proportions. The shores on both sides are beautiful, and the view that opens towards Long Island, beyond the East River, is charming.

Kingsbridge has always been a conspicuous point. Land was granted there, in 1693, to Frederick Philipse, with power to erect a toll-bridge, it being specified that it should be called The King’s Bridge. This was the only bridge that connected Manhattan Island with the Main, and hence all travellers and troops were compelled to cross it, unless they had boats for ferrying. Here, during the war for independence, hostile forces were frequently confronted; and from its northern end to the Croton river, was the famous “Neutral Ground” during the struggle, whereon neither Whig nor Tory could live in peace or safety. Upon the heights each side of the bridge redoubts were thrown up; and here, in January, 1777, a bloody conflict occurred between the Americans, under General Heath, and a large body of Hessian mercenaries, under General Knyphausen. The place was held alternately by the Americans and British; and little more than half a mile below the bridge an ancient story-and-a-half house is yet standing, one hundred and twenty-five years old, which served as head-quarters at different times for the officers of the two armies: it is now a house of public entertainment, and is known as “Post’s Century House.”

Chapter XX, p. 371

THE Harlem River (called Mus-coo-ta by the Indians), which extends from Kingsbridge to the strait between Long Island Sound and New York Bay, known as the East River, has an average width of nine hundred feet. In most places it is bordered by narrow marshy flats, with high hills immediately behind. The scenery along its whole length, to the villages of Harlem and Mott Haven, is picturesque. The roads on both shores afford pleasant drives, and fine country seats and ornamental pleasure-grounds, add to the landscape beauties of the river. A line of small steamboats, connecting with the city, traverse its waters, the head of navigation being a few yards above Post’s Century House. The tourist will find much pleasure in a voyage from the city through the East and Harlem Rivers.

The “High Bridge,” or aqueduct over which the waters of the Croton flow from the main land to Manhattan Island, crosses the Island at One Hundred and Seventy-Third Street. It is built of granite. The aqueduct is fourteen hundred and fifty feet in length, and rests upon arches supported by fourteen piers of heavy masonry. Eight of these arches are eighty feet span, and six of them fifty feet. The height of the bridge, above tide water, is one hundred and fourteen feet. The structure originally cost about a million of dollars. Pleasant roads on both sides of the Harlem lead to the High Bridge, where full entertainment for man and horse may be had. The “High Bridge” is a place of great resort in pleasant weather for those who love the road and rural scenery.

A broad, macadamized avenue, called the “Kingsbridge Road,” leads from the upper end of York Island to Manhattanville, where it connects with and is continued by the “Bloomingdale Road,” in the direction of the city. The drive over this road is very agreeable. The winding avenue passes through a narrow valley, part of the way between rugged hills, only partially divested of the forest, and ascends to the south-eastern slope of Mount Washington (the highest land on the island), on which stands the village of Carmansville. At the upper end of this village, on the high rocky bank of the Harlem River, is a fine old mansion, known as the “Morris House,” the residence, until her death in 1865, of the widow of Aaron Burr, vice-president of the United States, but better known as Madame Jumel, the name of her first husband. The mansion is at One Hundred and Sixty-ninth Street. It is surrounded by highly ornamented grounds, and its situation is one of the most desirable on the island. It commands a fine view of the Harlem River at the High Bridge, to the village of Harlem and beyond, also of Long Island Sound, the villages of Astoria and Flushing, and the green fields of Long Island. Nearer are seen Harlem Plains, and the fine new bridge at Macomb’s Dam.

This house was built before the old war for independence, by Roger Morris, a fellow-soldier with Washington on the field of Monongohela, where Braddock fell, in the summer of 1755. Morris was also Washington’s rival in a suit for the heart and hand of Mary, the heir of the lord of Philipse’s Manor. The biographer says that in February, 1756, Colonel Washington went to Boston to confer with Governor Shirley about military affairs in Virginia. He stopped in New York on his return, and was then the guest of Beverly Robinson. Mrs. Robinson’s sister, Mary Philipse, was also a guest there, in the summer-time. Her bright eyes, blooming checks, great vivacity, perfection of person, aristocratic connexions, and prospective wealth, captivated the young Virginia soldier. He lingered in her presence as long as duty would permit, and would gladly have carried her with him to Virginia as his bridge; but his extreme diffidence kept the momentous question unspoken, and Roger Morris, his fellow aide-de-camp in Braddock’s military family, bore off the prize. Morris, like his brother-in-law, Beverly Robinson, adhered to the crown after the American colonies declared themselves independent in 1776.

When, in the autumn of that year, the American army under Washington encamped upon Harlem Heights, and occupied Fort Washington near, Morris fled for safety to Robinson’s house in the Highlands, and Washington occupied his elegant mansion as his head-quarters for a while. The house is preserved in its original form and materials, excepting where external repairs have been necessary.

At the lower extremity of Carmansville, and about a mile above Manhattanville, is a most beautiful domain, as yet almost untouched by the hand of change. It is about eight miles from the heart of the city, completely embowered, and presenting a pleasing picture at every point of view. This was the home of General Alexander Hamilton, one of the founders of the Republic, and is one of the few “undesecrated” dwelling-places of the men of the last century, to be found on York Island. Near the centre of the ground stands the house Hamilton built for his home, and which he named “The Grange,” from the residence of his grandfather, in Ayrshire, Scotland. Then it was completely in the country — now it is surrounded by the suburban residences of the great city. It is situated about half-way between the Hudson and Harlem Rivers, and is reached from the Kingsbridge road by a gravelled and shaded walk. Near the house is a group of thirteen trees, planted by Hamilton himself, the year before he was killed in a duel by Aaron Burr, and named, respectively, after the original thirteen States of the Union. All of them are straight, vigorous trees, but one, and that, tradition says, he chanced to name South Carolina. It is crooked in trunk and branches, and materially disfigures the group. It well typifies the state of South Carolina in its past history as represented by its ruling class, which was composed, to a great extent, of professional politicians, who were arrogant, narrow, opposed to simple republican institutions, and longing for an alteration in the fundamental principles of their government so as to have political power centred in few great land and slave holders. This class was always crooked, always discontented and turbulent, and finally, in the year 1860, disgraced their State and made its name a by-word for all time, by an attempt to overthrow the Republic, and establish upon its ruins the despotism of an irresponsible oligarchy, whose basis should be HUMAN SLAVERY! They kindled a civil war which cost the nation the lives of almost half a million of men, and nearly three thousand millions of dollars.

The “Grange” is upon an elevation of nearly 200 feet above the rivers, and commands, through vistas, delightful views of Harlem River and Plains, the East River and Long Island, and the fertile fields of Lower Westchester. It is just within the outer lines of the entrenchments thrown up by the Americans in 1776, and is in the midst of the theatre of the stirring events of that year.

We have now fairly entered upon Manhattan Island, in our journeyings from the Wilderness to the Sea, and are rapidly approaching the commercial metropolis of the country, seated upon its southern portion, where the waters of the Hudson, the East, and the Passaic Rivers commingle in the magnificent harbour of New York.

This island — purchased by the Dutch of the painted savages, only two centuries and a half ago, for the paltry sum of twenty-four dollars, paid in traffic at a hundred per cent profit — contains tenfold more wealth, in proportion to its size, than any other on the face of the globe. It is thirteen and a-half miles long, and two and a-half miles wide at its greatest breadth. It was originally very rough and rocky, abounding in swamps and conical hills, alternating with fertile spots.

Over the upper part of the island are many pleasant roads not yet straightened into rectangular streets, and these afford fine recreative drives for the citizens, and stirring scenes when the lovers of fast horses, who abound in the city, are abroad. The latter are seen in great numbers in these thoroughfares every pleasant afternoon, when “Young America” takes an airing.

Before making excursions over these ways, and observing their surroundings, let us turn aside from the Kingsbridge Road, in the direction of the Hudson, and, following a winding avenue, note some of the private rural residences that cover the crown and slopes of old Mount Washington, now called Washington Heights. The villas are remarkable for the taste displayed in their architecture, their commanding locations, and the beauty of the surrounding grounds derived from the mingled labour of art and nature. As we approach the river the hills become steeper, the road more sinuous, the grounds more wooded, and the general scenery on land and water more picturesque. One of the most charming of these landscapes, looking in any direction, may be found upon the road just above the Washington Heights railway station, near the delightful residence of Thomas Ingraham, Esq. It our little sketch we are looking up the road, and the slopes of the beautiful lawn in front of his house. Turning half round, we have glimpses of the Hudson, and quite extended views of the bold scenery about Fort Lee, on the opposite shore.

Following this road a few rods farther down the heights, we reach the station-house of the Hudson River Railway, which stands at the southern entrance to a deep rock excavation through a point of Mount Washington, known for a hundred years or more as Jeffrey’s Hook. This point has an interesting revolutionary history in connection with Mount Washington. At the beginning of the war, the great value, in a strategic point of view, of Manhattan Island, and of the river itself — in its entire length to Fort Edward — as a dividing line between New England and the remainder of the colonies, was fully appreciated by the contending parties. The Americans adopted measures early to secure these, by erecting fortifications. Mount Washington (so named at that time) was the most elevated land upon the island, and formidable military works of earth and stone were soon erected upon its crown and upon the heights in the vicinity from Manhattanville to Kingsbridge. The principal work was Fort Washington. The citadel was on the crown of Mount Washington, overlooking the country in every direction, and comprising within the scope of vision the Hudson from the Highlands to the harbour of New York. The citadel, with the outworks, covered several acres between One Hundred and Eighty-first and One Hundred and Eighty-sixth Streets.

On the point of the chief promontory of Mount Washington jutting into the Hudson, known as Jeffery’s Hook, a strong redoubt was constructed, as a cover to chevaux-de-frise and other obstructions placed in the river between that point and Fort Lee, to prevent the British ships going up the Hudson. The remains of this redoubt, in the form of grassy mounds covered with small cedars, are prominent upon the point, as seen in the engraving above. The ruins of Fort Washington, in similar form, were also very conspicuous until within a few years, and a flag staff marked the place of the citadel. But the ruthless hand of pride, forgetful of the past, and of all patriotic allegiance to the most cherished traditions of American citizens, has levelled the mounds, and removed the flag-staff; and that spot, consecrated to the memory of valorous deeds and courageous suffering, must now be sought for in the kitchen-garden or ornamental grounds of some wealthy citizen, whose choice celery or bed of verbenas has greater charms than the green sward of a hillock beneath which reposes the dust of a soldier of the old war for independence!

“Soldiers buried here?” inquires the startled resident. Yes; your villa, your garden, your beautiful lawn, are all spread out over the dust of soldiers, for all over these heights the blood of Americans, Englishmen, and Germans flowed freely in the autumn of 1776, when the fort was taken by the British after one of the hardest struggles of the war. More than two thousand Americans were captured, and soon filled the loathsome prisons and prison-ships of New York.

Near the river-bank, on the south-western slope of Mount Washington, is the New York Institution for the Deaf and Dumb, one of several retreats for the unfortunate, situated upon the Hudson shore of Manhattan Island. It is one of the oldest institutions of the kind in the United States, the act of the Legislature of New York incorporating it being dated on the day (April 15, 1817) when the Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb at Hartford, Connecticut, was opened. The illustrious De Witt Clinton was the first president of the association. Its progress was slow for several years, when, in 1831, Mr. Harvey P. Peet was installed executive head of the asylum, as principal: he infused life into the institution immediately. Its affairs were administered by his skilful and energetic hand during more than thirty years, and his services were marked by the most gratifying results. In 1845, the title of President was conferred upon Mr. Peet, and three or four years later he received the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws. He was at the head of instruction and of the family in the institution. Under his guidance many of both sexes, shut out from participation in the intellectual blessings which are vouchsafed to well-developed humanity, were newly created, as it were, and made to experience, in a degree, the sensations of Adam, as described by Milton:—

“Straight towards heaven my wondering eyes I turned,
And gazed a while the sample sky, till raised
By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung,
As thitherward endeavouring, and upright
Stood on my feet; about me round I saw
Hill, dale, and shady woods, and many plains,
And liquid lapse of murmuring streams; by these,
Creatures that lived, and moved, and walked, or flew;
Birds on the branches warbling; all things smiled:
With fragrance and with joy my heart o’er flowed.
Myself I then perused, and limb by limb
Surveyed, and sometimes west, and sometimes ran,
With supple joints, as lively vigour led;
But who I was, or where, or from what cause,
Knew not; to speak I tried, and forthwith spoke:
My tongue obeyed, and readily could name
Whate’er I saw.”

The situation of the Institution for the Deaf and Dumb is a delightful one. The lot comprises thirty-seven acres of land, between the Kingsbridge Road and the river, about nine miles from the New York City Hall. The buildings, five in number, form a quadrangle of two hundred and forty feet front, and more than three hundred feet in depth; they are upon a terrace one hundred and twenty-seven feet above the river, and are surrounded by fine old trees, and shrubbery. The buildings are capable of accommodating four hundred and fifty pupils, with their teachers and superintendents, and the necessary domestics.

In the midst of a delightful grove of forest trees, a short distance below the Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb, is the dwelling of the late J.J. Audubon, the eminent naturalist, where some of his family still reside. Only a few years ago it was as secluded as any rural scene fifty miles from the city; now, other dwellings are in the grove, streets have been cut through it, the suburban village of Carmansville has covered the adjacent eminence, and a station of the Hudson River Railway is almost in front of the dwelling.

Audubon was one of the most remarkable men of his age, and his work on the “Birds of America” forms one of the noblest monuments ever made in commemoration of true genius. In that great work, pictures of birds, the natural size, are given in four hundred and eighty-eight plates. It was completed in 1844, and at once commanded the highest admiration of scientific men. Baron Cuvier said of it, — “It is the most gigantic and most magnificent monument that has ever been erected to Nature.” Audubon was the son of a French admiral, who settled in Louisiana, and his whole life was devoted to his favourite pursuit. The story of that life is a record of acts of highest heroism, and presents a most remarkable illustration of the triumphs of perseverance.

A writer, who visited Mr. Audubon not long before his death, in 1851, has left the following pleasant account of him and his residence near Mount Washington: —

“My walk soon brought a secluded country house into view, — a house not entirely adapted to the nature of the scenery, yet simple and unpretending in its architecture, and beautifully embowered amid elms and oaks. Several graceful fawns, and a noble elk, were stalking in the shade of the trees, apparently unconscious of the presence of a few dogs, and not caring for the numerous turkeys, geese, and other domestic animals that gobbled and screamed around them. Nor did my own approach startle the wild, beautiful creatures that seemed as docile as any of their tame companions.

“‘Is the master at home?’ I asked of a pretty maid-servant who answered my tap at the door, and who, after informing me that he was, led me into a room on the west side of the broad hall. It was not, however, a parlour, or an ordinary reception room that I entered, but evidently a room for work. In one corner stood a painter’s easel, with a half-finished sketch of a beaver on the paper; on the other lay the skin of an American panther. The antlers of elks hung upon the walls, stuffed birds of every description of gay plumage ornamented the mantelpiece, and exquisite drawings of field-mice, orioles, and woodpeckers, were scattered promiscuously in other parts of the room, across one end of which a long rude table was stretched, to hold artist’s materials, scraps of drawing-paper, and immense folio volumes, filled with delicious paintings of birds taken in their native haunts.

“‘This,’ said I to myself, ‘is the studio of the naturalist,’ but hardly had the thought escaped me when the master himself made his appearance. He was a tall, thin man, with a high, arched, and serene forehead, and a bright, penetrating, grey eye; his white locks fell in clusters upon his shoulders, but they were the only signs of age, for his form was erect, and his step as light as that of a deer. The expression of his face was sharp, but noble and commanding, and there was something in it, partly derived from the aquiline nose, and partly from the shutting of the mouth, which made you think of the imperial eagle.

“His greeting, as he entered, was at once frank and cordial, and showed you the sincere, true man. ‘How kind it is,’ he said, with a slight French accent, and in a pensive tone, ‘to come to see me, and how wise, too, to leave that crazy city!’ He then shook me warmly by the hand. ‘Do you know,’ he continued, ‘how I wonder that men can consent to swelter and fret their lives away amid those hot bricks and pestilent vapours, when the woods and fields are all so near? It would kill me soon to be confined in such a prison-house, and when I am forced to make an occasional visit there, it fills me with loathing and sadness. Ah! how often, when I have been abroad on the mountains, has my heart risen in grateful praise to God that it was not my destiny to waste and pine among those noisome congregations of the city!’”

Audubon died at the beginning of 1851, at the age of seventy-one years. His body was laid in a modest tomb in the beautiful Trinity Cemetery, near his dwelling. This burial-place, deeply shaded by original forest trees and varieties that have been planted, affords a most delightful retreat on a warm summer’s day. It lies upon the slopes of the river bank. Foot-paths and carriage-roads wind through it in all directions, and pleasant glimpses of the Hudson may be caught through vistas at many points. In the south-western extremity of the grounds, upon a plain granite doorway to a vault, may be seen, in raised letters, the name of Audubon.

The drive from Trinity Cemetery to Manhattanville is a delightful one. The road is hard and smooth at all seasons of the year, and is shaded in summer by many ancient trees that graced the forest. From it frequent pleasant views of the river may be obtained. There are some fine residences on both sides of the way, and evidences of the sure but stealthy approach of the great city are perceptible.