Legends of the Shawangunk - Pages 149-168



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Finally, as Zephaniah was about giving up for lost, the bear, by some
means not now known, was killed; but the hero of this bear fight ever
afterward exhibited a crooked finger.

CASUALTY ON BLUE MOUNTAIN

ONE method adopted by the early settlers in clearing up timber lands was
by "jamming." This consisted in partially cutting through the trunks of a
number of trees, and by felling some of the outside ones against the
others, all would be brought down, and a considerable saving of labor
effected. In a few months the interlaced limbs would be sufficiently dry,
when fire would be applied, and usually nothing but the charred stumps and
prostrate trunks would remain.

Other farmers would first cut the brushwood and small trees, while the
larger ones were girdled and left standing. The latter, particularly the
hemlocks and other evergreens, the foliage of which would remain green too
long after girdling, were sometimes trimmed from the top downward. This
method was adopted to save the labor of gathering the trunks into heaps
for burning, a very laborious undertaking where the timber is large. When
the limbs and brushwood had became thoroughly dried, and no rain had
fallen for several days, the refuse was set on fire. If the result was "a
good black burn," the ground was ready for planting. When the standing
trunks began to decay, fire was again applied, and in a few years all was
thus consumed. Sometimes, however, the burning was not good, when the
fallow would be abandoned, and allowed to be overrun with briers and other
rubbish. These "fallow fires, gleaming in the spring time," are still a
feature of Sullivan county.

Years ago, in the town of Liberty, there occurred an incident that is
still fresh in the minds of the people residing in the locality. One of
these abandoned fallows was on Blue mountain, near the residence of Nathan
Stanton. This fallow had come to be a famous spot for blackberries, and
the children were in the habit of visiting the place to fill their baskets
and pails with the fruit. It was near the middle of August, and the day
mild and pleasant, that the four children of Nathan Stanton went thither
to gather berries. While there one of the trees toppled and fell, and, in
its fall, struck against another, until a number of the immense trunks
were brought to the ground. When the children heard the first sound of
warning, they ran for a place of safety, only to be caught under the wide-
spreading branches of the trunks that were falling all around them. Two of
the three boys were killed outright, and the sister was injured badly. The
children had gone forth happy and joyous, and before the hour set for
their return, two had met a violent death, and a third was dangerously if
not fatally injured, by a casualty so remarkable and unprecedented as to
appear like a dispensation of Providence. The dead bodies were

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extricated, and taken to the house of mourning, where soon the neighbors
gathered to witness the sad occasion of bereavement, and to bestow such
aid and consolation as it was in their power to give. It was an affecting
burial scene at the little rural grave-yard on Blue mountain, when the
settlers assembled about the open graves of the Stanton children and
participated in the last sad rites of their sepulture.

What added to the impressiveness of the occasion, was the superstitious
awe with which the early settlers regarded the mysterious phenomenon which
led to the children's death. Those trees had withstood the blasts of the
previous winter and spring, and on a bright day in midsummer, when scarce
a breath of air was stirring, they were laid prostrate. What unseen hand
caused them to fall? What unknown agency in nature made those forest
giants to quiver and reel and then come rushing headlong to the ground,
when to mortals there seemed to be no cause? Is it the result of some
chemical change in the atmosphere, or are we to await a solution of the
problem until the supernatural is unveiled to our understanding?

Though no one has yet explained away the mystery, it is a well-attested
fact that trees do thus fall. When the sun is shining brightly, and all
nature seems to repose in the beams of the morning; when not a zephyr fans
the cheek and no unwonted sound disturbs the ear, lo! a monarch of the
forest suddenly begins to tremble, and totter, and then falls crashing to
the earth. Now, far away, a dull heavy roar will arise; and again nearer
at hand, comes the rushing sound of the bushy top of some lofty pine, as
one patriarch after another yields to its fate. It seems as if the direct
agency of God produced these effects; and the hunter, untutored though he
may be, as he beholds these evidences of the power and incomprehensibleness
of the Infinite, breathes a silent prayer of adoration.

NELSON CROCKER AND THE PANTHERS

NELSON CROCKER was a noted hunter, of whose adventures in the woods many
interesting stories are told. It is said that when he accompanied a
hunting expedition his companions felt certain of bagging their game. The
following narrative, which is given by Quinlan, is highly illustrative of
early life in the wilds of Sullivan.

Northwest of Big pond in the town of Bethel, there is a tract of low, wet
land known as Painter's swamp. In former times this ground was as good for
deer hunting as any in the country; and where deer were found, panthers
generally abounded. This was, consequently, a favorite hunting-ground for
Crocker; but on one occasion he found more panthers than he wished to see.
While rambling one day with his dog on the outskirts of the swamp, he
counted the tracks of no less than seven of these ferocious animals. As
they

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are generally found singly, or at most in pairs, Crocker could not
conjecture why so many were together. He followed the tracks until he was
hungry, and then sat down to eat his luncheon. Dividing this into two
parcels, he proffered one to his dog; but the latter instead of sharing
the tempting meal, showed his teeth, and seemed bristling for a fight with
an unseen enemy. Just as the hunter swallowed his last mouthful, a large
panther sprang by him, almost grazing his shoulder as it passed. Crocker
caught up his rifle, fired at the beast at random, and saw it disappear
unharmed. An instant afterward his dog was fighting another of the
monsters at a little distance; but the dog was soon glad to get out of
reach of the claws of his antagonist and run to his master for protection.

As Crocker was reloading, he saw a third panther corning toward him. He
shouted at the top of his voice, and it ran up a tree. This one he shot
and killed. As soon as he could reload he caught sight of another, which
he also shot and brought down from its perch in a tree. Here the fright of
the dog, which seemed to feel safe nowhere but between his master's feet,
and the screaming of the panthers in every direction, caused Crocker to
lose heart. To get out of that swamp without delay he believed to be his
first and supreme duty. He ran with all his might for safe ground, and did
not stop until he believed himself out of the reach of danger.

The next day Crocker returned to the scene of this adventure for the
purpose of skinning his game. While thus engaged he discovered a large
male panther in the crotch of a tree. He fired at the beast and it fell;
but it immediately ran up a sapling until the top was reached, when the
sapling bent with the weight of the beast until its branches reached the
ground. As the panther came down, the dog, forgetting the rough usage of
the previous day, stood ready for battle. A rough-and-tumble fight ensued,
in which the dog was speedily whipped, when he fled yelping toward his
master, closely pursued by the panther. Crocker's rifle was unloaded; and
as he had no relish for a hand-to-claw encounter he concluded to run too.

A race ensued in which the dog was ahead, the hunter next, with the
panther in the rear, driving all before it. Crocker expected every moment
to feel the weight of his pursuer's claws on his shoulders, and
consequently made excellent time. Finding his rifle an encumbrance, he
dropped it as he ran. This proved his salvation; for the beast stopped a
moment to smell at it, and decide whether it should be torn in pieces.
This enabled Crocker to get out of the swamp before the panther could
overtake him, and the beast did not seem inclined to follow him to the
upland.

After waiting some hours, Crocker, armed with nothing but his hatchet and
hunting knife, started once more for the swamp from which he had twice
been driven ingloriously. Recovering his gun, he reloaded it carefully,
and endeavored to induce his dog to follow the panther's track; but he
declined, having had enough of panther hunting. As they were leaving the
swamp the dog commenced to howl. The panther answered with a loud squall,
and started towards the hunter, repeating the challenge as it came,
evidently bent on a

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fight. The dog crouched close to the feet of the hunter, while the latter
coolly awaited the approach of the ferocious monster. When it was within
one bound of him, and about to spring, Crocker sent a ball crashing into
its brain. Without further adventure he skinned the game he had shot
during his two days' hunt, and returned home.

THE DISAPPOINTED GROOM

WALTER MANNING was a native of Ulster county. At the age of twenty he fell
heir to a property of several thousand dollars. Disregarding the advice of
his friends to let his inheritance remain in real estate, he converted most
of it into cash, and started for the west to make a more colossal fortune.
In due time he arrived in California. His talkativeness soon apprised the
people of the town that he was a young man of property, which he proposed
to invest when a desirable occasion offered. It was not long before a
speculator, who had landed property on his hands that was quite slow of
dividends, by dint of much flattery and persuasion, convinced young Manning
that his was just the property he required, and that it was certain to
bring rich returns in the near future. The result was that Walter paid a
large portion of his patrimony for the estate, and set up his pretensions
as a landed proprietor. The next essential for house-keeping was a
house-keeper, and Walter cast about him for a wife. A young man of reputed
wealth, with a large estate and money in bank, good looking and
accomplished, ought to be in no lack of young ladies willing to share his
fortunes. And so it proved in the case of young Walter.

Mothers with marriageable daughters vied with each other in their
attentions to the young landholder; he was invited to teas, plied with
calls, and in short was lionized by the female world generally.

But Walter Manning, with all his wealth, his devotion to the sex, and the
largeness of his philanthropic soul, could not marry them all. He must
needs single out one of the number of the number of his admirers, and
content himself with the love and adoration of her alone, so unreasonable
and circumscribing are the marital regulations of modern society. Among
the most beautiful and accomplished of those damsels, he thought Virginia
Green the most to his liking. She was a blonde, possessed a petite figure,
bore the reputation of a superb dancer, and withal was an excellent
conversationalist. As soon as Walter's preference became known, he was no
longer invited to afternoon tea-parties. The mothers of marriageable
daughters were fain to pass him unrecognized. But if he had lost caste in
the eyes of the feminine public, he was more than compensated by the
smiles and caresses of Virginia Green. Not a day passed but he was found
in her society; and what his passion overabounded in intensity,

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her affection counterbalanced in devotion. In short they became engaged.
And now that the matter was settled, why delay the day of nuptials? When
love was so fervent, the mansion in want of a mistress, and a bachelor
heart so much distressed for lack of a ministering angel, procrastination
was a loss to all concerned. Walter pressed his suit for an early wedding,
and the young lady, after a show of reluctance which amounted to nothing,
appeared to bend to his desires.

"But," said the young lady, "you know that fortune is fickle, more
inconstant even than affection. Why not bestow upon your future wife a
marriage portion! It will be yours to enjoy as though held in your own
name, and should fortune fail you, you will have something saved from the
wreck, to fall back upon. Besides, it will be a slight token of the
sincerity of your professions of love to me." "That I will readily do,"
said Walter. "I'll give you the deed to this estate, to be given you at
the altar on the day of your nuptials, to be celebrated at the parish
church next Thanksgiving Day, two months hence;" to which she assented in
tones of never-dying affection.

Now followed the busy note of preparation. Numerous journeys to the
metropolis, a half score of milliners, dressmakers, hair-dressers, and
assistants were found necessary to bring out a trousseau suitable for the
future mistress of Redwood Hall. The coming wedding absorbed the talk of
the town; and Walter thought himself fortunate in that he could now
revenge himself for the slights of his former admirers, by leading the
most beautiful of them all to the altar. Every body received cards of
invitation; and no less than three clergymen were invited to be present,
that there might be no hitch in the ceremony.

Thanksgiving Day arrived at length, and a most auspicious day it proved.
The air was bland, the sun shone brightly, and nature seamed to don a
holiday attire in keeping with the occasion. The church was gaily trimmed;
carpets were spread from the doors to the carriage-way, and the pews were
literally crammed with people clad in fashionable attire. The organ pealed
forth its most joyous wedding march, and presently aflutter in the
audience showed that the contracting parties had arrived. As the bride
swept up the aisle, a bewilderment of feathers, lace and white satin, a
murmur of admiration ran through the entire assembly. And, too, the manly
bearing of Walter was such as to cause a perceptible flutter in the hearts
of more than one damsel present.

As they took their places in front of the altar, and just as the highest
flourish of the Wedding March was reached, Walter took a package from his
pocket and gave it to the woman at his side. It was the deed of Redwood
Hall, made over to Virginia Green, made to her before she was his bride,
as a husband may not transfer real estate to his wife.

The last notes of the organ died away in semiquavers among the arches of
the ceiling when the minister stepped forward and in solemn tones said,
"Let the parties join hands," and in a moment continued, "If any one have
reasonable objection to the marriage of Walter Manning and Virginia Green,
let him now make it known, or forever hold his peace."

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A pause ensued in which the silence became oppressive. Presently a voice
was heard. It was that of a young man in the rear of the audience. "I
object to the bans." All eyes were turned in the direction of the
speaker. "State the grounds of your objection," said the officiating
clergyman with forced composure. "On the ground that the lady at the altar
is already my wife," was the calm reply. And then all present knew a wrong
had been done that robbed Walter Manning, in one moment, of a bride and an
estate. In one hour's time, the disappointed groom had arranged his
pecuniary affairs, and was on his way with the remains of his fortune to
his home in the east.

The statements in the foregoing narrative are based on facts. The names
only, for obvious reasons, are fictitious.

NEW PALTZ

ON the 26th of May, 1677, an agreement with the Esopus Indians was made,
pursuant to a license from the Hon. Governor Edmund Andros, dated 28th of
April, 1677, concerning the purchase of land "on the other side of the
Rondout kill," known in history as the "Paltz Patent."

Matsayay, Wachtonk, Senerakan, Mayakahoos and Wawawanis acknowledged to
have sold Lewis Du Bois and his associates the land within the following
boundaries: Beginning at the high hill called Moggoneck [Mohonk], thence
southeast toward the Great river to the point called Juffrow's hook in the
Long beach, by the Indians called Magaat Ramis [point on Hudson river on
line between the towns of Loyd and Marlborough]; thence north along the
river to the island lying in the Crum Elbow at the beginning of the Long
Reach, by the Indians called Raphoos [Pell's island]; thence west to the
high hill at a place called Waraches and Tawaeretaque [Tower a Tawk, a
point of white rocks in the Shawangunk mountain]; thence along the high
hill southwest to Maggoneck, including between these boundaries, etc."
This tract the Indians agreed to sell for the goods specified in the
following list:
40 kettles, 40 axes, 40 addices, 40 shirts, 100 fathoms of white wampum,
100 bars of lead, 1 keg of powder, 60 pairs of socks, 100 knives, 4 ankers
of wine, 40 guns, 60 duffel coats, 60 blankets, 1 schepel of pipes, etc.
Having thus extinguished the Indian title to this tract by the present of
articles valued by the red man, the settlers of New Paltz enjoyed a
comparative immunity from savage outbreak during the early wars. In order
to arrive, however, at a more complete understanding of the history of
this settlement, reference will be made, in brief, to an event in the
chronicles of the old world.

The French Protestant Huguenots were celebrated for their love of liberty
and zeal for their chosen religion. Persecutions against them were
temporarily abandoned during the deign of Henry IV, King of Navarre, from
1589 to 1610,

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especially after he proclaimed the celebrated Edict of Nantes in 1598.
Louis XIII repeatedly violated its stipulations; and a formal revocation
of the Edict was made in 1685, which cost the lives of 10,000 of the
Huguenot people, who perished at the stake, gibbet, or wheel. Thousands
fled to other lands for refuge, especially to the Lower Palatinate, or
Pfaltz, along the river Rhine. Some of the persecuted Hollanders likewise
fled to the Lower Palatinate, and when they subsequently returned to
Holland the Huguenots accompanied them, and both finally emigrated to
America. These two peoples were attracted to each other by reason of their
adoption of the same religion, and this fellowship was rendered still more
firm in consequence of the free intermarriage among them. This accounts
for the presence of Dutch physiognomies with French names, observable,
even at the present day, among the congregations in localities where are
found the posterity of the once persecuted Huguenots.

There seems to be no definite information as to the course the Huguenots
took in coaxing to America. They were hospitably received by the Dutch at
Wiltwyck, or Wildwyck, the modern Holland for wild retreat, or wild
parish, from its primitive and rough appearance. Soon after the granting
of the New Paltz patent the Huguenots set out for their new home in the
wilderness. Their weary way lay through the trackless forests; and their
families and household goods were conveyed in wagons so constructed as to
answer the double purpose of transportation and shelter. Arriving at a
broad meadow on the banks of a limpid stream they named the place "Tri-
Cors," Three Cars, in allusion to the three primitive vehicles in which
the possessions of the exiles were transported. The river itself they
named Walkill, probably from Wael, one of the branches into which the
Rhine divides itself before emptying into the North Sea, and Kill, the
Dutch for river; while to the settlement was given the appellation of New
Paltz, in remembrance of their ever dear Pfaltz-their ancient home on the
Rhine. Here, in the midst of the beautiful alluvial valley, the crystal
waters of the river at their feet, the blue dome o£ heaven above them, and
the towering hills a gallery of attendant witnesses, the Huguenot refugee
opened the Bible brought from their old homes, read a lesson from the holy
book, and with faces turned toward France, joined in a hearty and joyous
thanksgiving to the God that had led them safely thus far, and had
permitted them once more to breathe the air of religious freedom.
The first conventional act having been that of public worship, it was
resolved that their first building should be a church. This was built of
logs, and was also used as a school-house. Temporary residences were at
first put up an the west bank; but the Indians advised their removal to
the higher ground on the opposite side, as the place first chosen was
subject to overflow during the spring freshets.

From a minute in French, still in possession of the church, we find that
on January 22, 1863, M. Pierre Daillé, Minister of the Word of God,
arrived and preached twice at New Paltz. He proposed that the people
choose, by a vote of the fathers of families, an elder and a deacon, to
aid the minister in the

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management of the church. They chose Lewis Du Bois, elder, and Hugh Frere,
deacon. Thus was organized the Walloon Protestant Church of New Paltz, and
for fifty years service was held in the French language. But the Holland
tongue had become the vernacular in Ulster and adjacent counties, and
gradually became adopted by the Huguenot settlers of New Paltz. The first
Dutch entry in the church bears date of the 6th of July, 1718. During the
period intervening between 1709 and 1730, there was no stated supply at
New Paltz; the earnest Christians were obliged to go to Kingston to attend
preaching-whither they often went on pious pilgrimage.

Rev. Stephen Goetschius accepted a call from the congregation, at New
Paltz and New Hurley. His ministry healed the breach that threatened to
disrupt the church at New Paltz. He is described as small in stature, and
bent in form. He boarded at the home of Lewis Du Bois, and married his
daughter. He was a sound preacher, and occupied a high place in the
estimation of his people. His vacant sabbaths were spent at Wawarsing. At
that time the Indians were visiting the defenseless inhabitants with fire
and slaughter. Goetschius writes of preaching in a pulpit cut and
disfigured by the tomahawks of the savages; the church itself showing
evidences of having been set on fire by the same agency, but which
providentially went out. He further writes: "At the close of the war I
perceived there were places where new congregations might be gathered. I
did undertake to collect the people together, and under the blessing of
God organized nine churches." At that time Goetschius was the only
minister in the Dutch church in Ulster.

The log church was soon found to be unequal to the demands of the
growing colony. A new church was built of stone, "of small dimensions,"
the records say, "and finished with brick brought from Holland. Its form
was square, each of the three sides having a large window, and the fourth
a door inclosed by a portico. In the centre of the steep and pointed roof
was a little steeple, from which a horn was sounded for religious
services." This was dedicated December 29, 1720. October 25th, 1771, it
was resolved to erect a third house of worship. The site of this edifice
corresponds nearly with the location of the present church, and is
described as having been a "substantial, well proportioned stone building,
with a kipped roof, surmounted with a cupola, and a bell." The building
was dedicated in 1773. The old square church was broken down, and the
material used in the construction of a school-house, which was afterward
converted into a residence. It is worthy of note that both churches were
built while the people were without a pastor.

It was during the ministry of Rev. Douw Van Olinda, a gentleman of marked
executive ability, that the New Paltz academy was erected and put into
active operation; and he was largely instrumental in carrying forward the
project to a successful termination. During his pastorate the third church
was taken down and a new brick church erected on its site, which
constitutes the eastern extension of the present house of worship.

There were twelve original proprietors of the New Paltz patent. These

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twelve patentees exercised the governmental control of the colony, one of
their number presiding, constituting what was known as the "Dusine," a
primitive form of civil administration, out of which sprang the Town
Meeting of New England. Most of them constructed substantial stone
dwellings along one street, now known as Huguenot street. Six of these
stone edifices are yet standing, and are shown in the accompanying
illustrations. The Holland bricks, the quaint little Dutch windows with
glass set in lead, and the ancient portholes in the walls of the houses,
are yet shown to curious visitors, and yearly attract scores of
antiquarians to the locality.

NEEDDERDUYTSE TAAL TE SCHAWANKONK
LOW DUTCH CHURCH OF SHAWANGUNK

THE Reformed Church of Shawangunk was organized in 1750, and the present
church edifice-the oldest in the consistory-was built the same year. The
society first worshipped in the "Owl house," a temporary structure near
the kill. Johannis Mauritius Goetschius came over from Switzerland and
organized the infant church in the wilderness. Barent Frooman, a native of
Schenectady, was called to the pastorate at Shawangunk, New Paltz and
Walkill [Montgomery], February 4th, 1751. He was sent that same year to
the University of Utrecht, where he remained two years. He started home in
company with Jacobus and Ferdinandus Frelinghuysen, and Johannis
Schuneman. The first two died on shipboard of small-pox. Frooman preached
at New Paltz August 26, 1753, at Shawangunk September 2, and at Walkill
[Montgomery] September 9. No record is given of any installation. His
salary was fixed at £90, one-third to be raised by either church. He lived
at Shawangunk, now Bruynswick, a house and one hundred acres of land
having been set apart there for his use. He married Alida, daughter of
David Vanderhyken, of Albany. He was called to Schenectady in 1754, and
died at that place in 1784, in the sixtieth year of his age.

Rev. Johannis Mauritius Goetschius was born in the Canton of Thorgan,
Switzerland, in 1724. He studied and practiced medicine before he entered
the ministry, but was drawn to the study of theology and began to preach
without due authority in 1754. He was a warm advocate of the Coetus
principles, and three years later was called to the pastorate at Scoharie
at a salary of £60, parsonage house, one farm, and 40 schepels of wheat.
Goetschius was called to Shawangunk and New Paltz in 1760. He lived in the
Shawangunk parsonage, then one story high, and was paid a salary of £80,
one-half borne by each church. He died at the parsonage March 17, 1771, of
dropsy. He was long sick, and was a great sufferer. He preached the last
time at New Paltz September 9, 1770. During the ten years of his ministry
he

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baptized 320 persons at Shawangunk, and married 75 couples; at New Paltz
he baptized 212 persons, and performed 41 marriage ceremonies. He was
buried under the pulpit of the Shawangunk church, in accordance with the
ancient custom of the society, where his ashes still repose. His widow,
Catherine Hager, continued to live at Shawangunk, and married her
husband's successor, Rev. Rynier Van Nest.

Van Nest, the third minister, was early converted, but studied late in
life for the ministry. He was for several years clerk in a country store
at Bound Brook. He was licensed by the Synod of Kingston October 7, 1773,
receiving his call to preach at Shawangunk and New Paltz April 16, 1774.
His stipulated salary was £60 and parsonage; New Paltz was to pay £20, and
the service was to be divided accordingly. The records say he baptized 384
persons at Shawangunk, and 45 at New Paltz. His labors seem to have
extended to Montgomery, where he performed 307 baptisms. His pastoral
connections were dissolved by the Classis in April, 1785. His personal
appearance is described as follows: height, five feet, ten inches; fleshy
as he advanced in age; wore a wig, and was very neat and particular in
dress; possessed regular features, with a somewhat prominent nose; he
spoke with a loud voice, and was considered a good preacher when speaking
in Dutch, but never succeeded well in English. He was held in high
estimation. The fourth minister was Rev. Moses Freligh, who was licensed
to preach in 1787 by the Synod of New York city, called to preach at
Shawangunk and Montgomery February 20, 1788, and was ordained in the
Shawangunk church the same year by Rev. Blauvelt Rysdyk, Steven Goetschius
and De Witt. First baptism at that place was a child of George Upright and
Maria Rhinehart; first baptism at Montgomery, a child of William Christ
and Elizabeth Decker. Freligh married Sarah Varick, of New York, in 1788,
and died at Montgomery February 10, 1807, at the age of 54 years.

Rev. Henry Polhemus next succeeded to the ministry. He was born at
Harlingen, N. J., was licensed by the Classis of New York in April, 1798;
called to Shawangunk January 23, 1813; installation service June 13th of
that year, Rev. Moses Freligh preaching the sermon. Polhemus died in
November, 1815. He had been to New Jersey, and on his way home was
attacked with bilious fever. His remains were deposited under the pulpit,
along with those of Goetschius.

The next in succession was Rev. G. B. Wilson, who was licensed by the
Classis of New Brunswick, and was called to Shawangunk and
Paughcaughnaughsink [New Prospect] in January, 1816. He was dismissed in
1829 on account of feeble health. The following is a list of ministers up
to the present time, with the date of settlement; Henry Mandeville, 1831;
John H. Bevier, 1833; John B. Alliger, 1845; Charles Scott, 1851; Cyril
Spaulding, 1868; P. K. Hageman, 1882.

The stone edifice of this church has been subjected to changes suggested
by modern taste. The ancient pulpit, beneath which the remains of the two
faithful pastors, Goetschius and Polhemus, were deposited, was located on
the

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north side of the building, and the entrance was opposite the pulpit. An
extension, surmounted by a spire, and partially enclosing the present
entrance to the building and a stairway to the gallery, has more recently
been added to the west end, and the pulpit moved to the east side of the
structure.

THE TRAPS

THERE is a singular and romantic formation on the top of the Shawangunk
mountain known as The Traps. Quite a village has sprung up within its
sheltering bosom, and boasts of a hotel, store and chapel. Benj. Burger
and his wife Helena, were among the first settlers. They put up a log
cabin and commenced housekeeping in a primitive way. At first the wild
animals were so fierce that fires had to be kept at night as a protection
to their cattle. A colt was killed by the blood-letting brutes, and the
mare was badly bitten and torn. Burger sometimes worked for the farmers in
the valley, and when he returned home at nightfall he was obliged to carry
a torch to keep off the wolves. He used to tell of seeing their teeth as
they gathered about him in the darkness and followed him up the mountain,
growling and snarling, yet keeping at a safe distance through fear of his
blazing pine knots.

On the east side, near to the highway leading over the mountain, there
still stands a straggling building known as The Traps Tavern. Many years
ago, a number of young men from the vicinity of High Falls were at this
tavern, and were having a grand frolic. Their visit was protracted far
into the night; and as the company seemed in no humor to depart, one of
their number named Hill determined to go home. So, mounting his horse, he
set out alone over the mountain road. While passing leisurely down on the
opposite side, his horse began to prick up his ears, and exhibit other
symptoms of alarm; and presently young Hill detected the stealthy tread of
some animal that was moving in the underbrush by the roadside. He at last
awoke to the fact that wolves were on his track; and, giving the reins to
his horse, the frightened animal went galloping down the rugged mountain
road at a breakneck speed. The iron shoes of his horse sent the sparks
flying at every step; and the clatter of hoofs, the shouts of the rider,
and the sharp quick cries of the wolves in close pursuit, startled the
night air and awoke the sleeping echoes among the mountains. A false step,
or a failure to retain his seat, and all would have been over for young
Hill. In this way the cavalcade went dashing down the defiles, and finally
brought up before another hotel at the foot of the mountain. Here the pack
turned off into the forest, and the panting horse and terrified rider
sought the friendly shelter of the hostelry until morning.

Some thirty years since the neighborhood of The Traps was the scene of a
startling tragedy. Ben. Gosline, a man of middle age and married, became

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intimate with a young mulatto girl by the name of Maria Cross. One Sabbath
afternoon he invited her to take a walk, and their rambles led them along
the brink of one of the dizzy precipices with which the locality abounds.
Arrived at a point of the rocks where the crag juts out three hundred feet
in perpendicular height over the base, Ben remarked to his companion that
he knew where was an eagles' nest, and asked if she would not like to see
it. Stepping aside he went to the brink, and, holding by a small sapling,
leaned forward over the frightful chasm until he could see the face of the
precipice. Presently he called out that he could see the nest, and that
there were some young eagles in it. Unsuspicious of treachery, Maria took
his place, and leaned over the edge as far as she dared, but failed to see
the nest. "Stand a little nearer," said Ben, "I will not let you fall."
So, taking his hand, she took a step forward until her head and shoulders
hung over the beetling crag; at this moment Ben loosened his hold, gave
her a gentle push, and, with a piercing shriek, the girl went over the
precipice.

Providentially a hemlock tree grew out of the face of the rock, near to
the bottom. into the thick branches of which the girl chanced to fall. The
momentum of her descent was thus broken, so that she was not killed by the
shock when she struck at the foot of the precipice. She managed to drag
herself the distance of a few yards, where she lay in her agony until
morning.

During the night she observed a light moving among the rocks where she
fell, as though a lantern were being borne in the hand of some person
there. Maria came to the conclusion it was her seducer and would-be
murderer, searching for her mangled body. In the belief that Ben would yet
kill her if he found her alive, she lay very quiet; and her visitor, after
clambering a long time among the rocks, went away. In all probability it
was Ben Gosline, who had come to remove all traces of his double crime. He
doubtless concluded that she had escaped alive, or that some one had
discovered and removed the body; in either case his only safety lay in
immediate flight. Ben was never seen in the vicinity afterward.

The next morning, by dint of great exertion, Maria crawled over the broken
ground towards the nearest house, when her cries of distress were
fortunately heard. When found she was nearly exhausted, and her bowels
trailed upon the ground as she urged her way along. Strange to say, she
recovered from the effects of her fall; and it is believed is yet living
in comfortable circumstances. Her child, born not long after the above
adventure, lived to grow to maturity. The incidents of the attempted
murder, and her miraculous escape from instant death, form themes yet
fresh in the minds of the residents of the locality.

One day, late in autumn, the wife of Calvin Burger thought she heard the
whir of a rattlesnake under the floor of their log cabin. She told her
husband of the circumstance on his return, but he affected to believe she
must have been mistaken. The snake continued to sound his rattle every day
during the winter, whenever the heat from the stove warmed his snakeship
into something like life; still the husband maintained at least an outward
show of in-

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credulity, knowing that any other course on his part would necessitate the
taking up of the floor to search for the snake, or removing from the
cabin. At length there came a mild day in spring. It chanced that Burger
was obliged to be away from home on that day, but he directed his wife to
watch for the snake, as he would most likely come out into the sunshine.

Mrs. Burger kept a close watch, and was rewarded by seeing a large
rattlesnake crawl out, through a chink in the foundation of her cabin. She
found means to dispatch it, and proudly exhibited the remains of her late
unwelcome guest to her husband on his return. The shake proved to be one
of the largest of its species.

In the vicinity of The Traps are vast crevasses in the rocky ledges, some
of them of unknown depth. These fissures vary in width from a few inches
to as many feet, and constitute a feature of the natural scenery of the
region. Table Rock is a cliff that apparently has been partially detached
from the parent mountain by some convulsion of the past, but still
maintaining its position, and rearing its head high among the surrounding
elevations. At an early day an active and intrepid hunter by the name of
Decker chased three deer to the edge of the precipice, two of which leaped
from the rocks and were dashed in pieces at the bottom. The third, a huge
buck, took up a position on Table Rock, and facing about, boldly defied
his pursuer. Decker had thrown down his rifle in the haste of his pursuit,
and had nothing but his hunting knife. Undaunted, be closed in with the
buck, and a desperate conflict began. Grasping the deer by the horns,
Decker essayed to cut the animal's throat. The latter attempted to throw
off his assailant, repeatedly lifting the hunter from his feet, at times
suspending him over the brink of the precipice, so that he hung dangling
by the buck's horns. Again the hunter was obliged to exert his strength to
prevent the deer from falling over. Long and uncertain the battle waged;
at length the courage and agility of the hunter prevailed, and the life-
blood of the buck reddened the face of the rock.

At the foot of the mountain, near The Traps, many years ago, lived a man
by the name of Evans. In his employ was a negro boy named Jed, some nine
or ten years of age. One afternoon Jed was sent up in the back lots to
bring home the cows. Not returning after the usual absence, Evans went to
look for the lad, and was horrified to find him bound to a bar post in a
standing position by a huge black snake, and stone dead. The snake had
probably attached himself to the post, and, as the boy attempted to pass
through, it had taken a turn around the lad and squeezed him to death.

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SHANKS BEN

JOHN MACK was an old resident of Wawarsing. John Mentz, his son-in-law,
lived on the east side of the mountain. The only communication between the
two families was by an Indian trail leading over the mountain, known as
the Wawarsing path. Some time during the Revolution Mack started on a
visit to his daughter, Mrs. John Mentz, accompanied by his younger
daughter, Elsie. On their way they called at the house of a neighbor.

While there, Elsie, who was dressed in white, catching a view of herself
in the glass, declared that she "looked like a corpse." As she was of a
vivacious temperament, the remark impressed itself on the minds of her
friends, some regarding it as a premonition of some evil that was to
befall her. Without further incident they accomplished their journey, and
made the contemplated visit.

On their return, John Mentz accompanied them as far as the top of the
mountain, with two horses for the old man and his daughter to ride. Mentz
proposed taking along his rifle, but was dissuaded from so doing by Mack,
who thought it was not necessary. On arriving at the summit where they
were to separate, the father and daughter dismounted, the former seating
himself upon a log and lighting his pipe. Presently strange movements of
the horses indicated they saw something unusual; and looking down the path
over which they had just come, Mentz saw two Indians advancing, while a
third, whom he recognized as the notorious Shanks Ben, was taking a
circuitous route through the woods, so as to get in advance of them.

Mentz understood the significance of this movement, and realized the
danger of their situation. He bitterly regretted he had not followed his
own counsel, and brought along his rifle. He might easily have killed the
two Indians in the path at a single shot. He had formerly been on intimate
terms with Shanks Ben. They had hunted in company, and together had
engaged in the labors of the farm; but a quarrel about a dog, and the
bitter feeling engendered by the war, had contributed to destroy their
friendship, and they were now sworn enemies. The old man, knowing it would
be vain for him to attempt escape, sat still, resigned to his inevitable
fate. Mentz started with Elsie in a direction designed to elude pursuit;
coming to a precipice, he was obliged to leave the girl, in spite of her
earnest entreaties that he would not abandon her, and save himself by
jumping off the ledge some twenty feet in height. In his leap he injured
his ankle badly, but succeeded in making good his escape. Mentz said he
might have saved the girl had it not been for a little dog that followed
them and kept constantly barking.

When Mentz came in sight of Colonel Jansen's, he saw a number of men
collected there. A relief party was immediately made up and dispatched to

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the mountain, where they found the bodies of the old man and blooming
maiden, side by side, covered with purple gore, and mutilated by the
tomahawk and scalping knife-their immortal spirits gone forever! The scene
was solemn beyond description; and it was with difficulty that, in after
years, Mentz could be induced to speak of it; and he never related the
story without shedding a flood of tears.

At the time of the murder of John Mack and his daughter Elsie, Shanks Ben
and his associates were returning from Col. Johannes Jansen's. Lured by
the prize offered by the British for the scalp or person of the doughty
Colonel, the wily savages had attempted to ambush Jansen as he was leaving
the house in the morning. The Indians were discovered by some of the
family, and the alarm given. The Colonel ran with all his might for the
house, hotly pursued by Shanks Ben, and closed the door just as the latter
hurled a tomahawk at his head. This door is still preserved as a relic of
the past, bearing the prints of the Indian's weapon. Failing to enter the
main building, the assailants plundered the kitchen; and hearing Mrs.
Jansen call out as if the neighbors were coming, they hastily left the
place.

A young white girl, named Hannah Grunenwalden, daughter of a neighbor, was
that morning coming to spin for Mrs. Jansen, and was approaching the house
as the Indians were engaged in their plunder. Mrs. Jansen called to her to
go back, but Hannah misunderstood the warning, and fell an easy captive.
The Indians also took with them two negro boys, that were never heard of
afterwards. Fearing her screams would guide pursuers, Shanks Ben and his
companions soon killed and scalped the girl.

A red spot on the top of a large rock on a farm belonging to Brundage Peck
is still shown as the place where Hannah met her fate-a stain which the
storms of a century have not effaced. When the remains of Hannah, together
with those of John Mack and his daughter Elsie, were deposited in their
last resting-place, the whole community, on either side of the mountain,
mingled their tears in the common sorrow.

There is a tradition in Shawangunk that some time after the close of the
war, John Mentz went off into the woods with his rifle, and for more than
a year he was not heard of by his family or friends; that he would never
give a satisfactory account of his absence; that he shook his head
mysteriously when Shanks Ben was mentioned, and that the latter individual
was never again seen.

Shanks Ben, at this time, was about forty years of age. He was tall and
athletic; hair jet black, and clubbed behind; forehead wrinkled, and brown
eyes deeply sunk in their sockets, and his cheeks hollow and furrowed. The
natural frightfulness of his visage was heightened by an accident; and
when arrayed for war, he was one of the most hideous specimens of humanity
the eye could rest upon.

One day Shanks Ben and two other savages came upon a log cabin in the town
of Shawangunk. The man was not at home; but his wife saw them approaching,
and escaped to the woods, leaving an infant sleeping in its cradle.

164

One of the Indians raised his tomahawk, and was about to slay the child,
when it looked up into his face and smiled; even his savage heart was
touched and he restored the tomahawk to his belt. With a fierce oath
Shanks Ben thrust his bayonet through the innocent babe, and ran about the
place holding up the child impaled on the cruel instrument, in the hope
that its screams would entice the mother from her concealment. Failing in
this, Ben dashed out the little one's brains against the door-post; and
the marauders departed, first appropriating what they could conveniently
carry away.

During the Revolution, Cornelius Decker was one day at work in a field
near the present village of Bruynswick, when he felt a strange oppression,
as though some great personal danger were impending. He could not shake
off the feeling and presently returned to the house, where he was laughed
at for his caprice. After the war was over, Shanks Ben came through the
neighborhood. In an interview with Decker and others, Ben pointed to a log
in the field above mentioned, and remarked than he one day lay behind that
log with the intention of shooting Decker when he came to his work; but
that the latter, having always deported himself as a friend, he could not
find it in his heart to take his life. On comparing the day and hour of
Ben's concealment behind the log, it was found the time coincided
precisely with that of Decker's feeling of presentiment.

In 1784, Shanks Ben and two other Indians visited their old camping
grounds on the Delaware to fish and hunt. They were first seen at
Cochecton, where they were advised to go no further, as there were some
dangerous characters below-Tom Quick among the number. They did not heed
the advice, however, but went as far down as Shohola, where a hunter named
Haines discovered them. Haines urged them to visit his cabin, setting
apart a day for the purpose. In the meantime Haines communicated with Tom
Quick and a man named Chambers, and a plan was arranged by which Shanks
Ben and his companions were to be killed while they were his guests.

Accordingly Haines proposed to Ben and his companions to fish at the Eddy,
taking up their position on a rock near which Quick and Chambers, by
previous agreement, had secreted themselves. Presently two rifle shots
were heard. One of the balls wounded Ben's companion, who ran to Haines
and claimed his protection; but Haines seized a pine knot, exclaiming
"Tink, tink! how you ust to kill white folks! 'Pent, 'pent! I'll send your
soul to hell'n a moment!" and dispatched him by beating out his brains.
Even Tom Quick was shocked at the perfidy of Haines and shouted as he came
up, "D-- a man that will promise an Indian protection, and then knock him
on the head!" Shanks Ben; who was unharmed, jumped into the river, and
made good his escape.

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FACTS AND FANCIES

THE Rondout Freeman is responsible for first giving publicity to the
following story. Some slight changes are here made to conform more closely
to the facts. Up back of Lackawaxen lived Farmer Cole. While at work in
his field one day, with his man Olmstead, word came that a bear had raided
his pig-pen, and was carrying off a pig: and presently the Babel of sounds
in the direction of the house announced that something unusual was
transpiring. Cole and his man made a dash for the scene of the
disturbance. The former caught up a hay-knife which happened to be lying
near, while Olmstead had secured a stout hickory club from the wood-pile.
On reaching the house, the bear was seen crossing the orchard back of the
sty, walking upright on his hind feet, and carrying a pig in his fore paws.
The pig was squealing lustily; and struggling to get away. Close upon the
heels of the bear came the sow and the rest of the litter, which seemed to
know all was not right and made a great uproar. Next followed Mrs. Cole and
her three daughters, armed with brooms and such other weapons as they in
their haste could secure. Farmer Cole, his two sons and the hired man
joined in the pursuit, and a formidable force was presented. At the back of
the orchard was a fence. The bear climbed over with his pig, but the fence
prevented the sow and her litter from following; the rest, however,
followed on, and carried the war into the adjoining field. Farmer Cole gave
the hay-knife into the hands of his son James, caught a rail from the
fence, and running ahead of the bear, he and the

166

hired man by taking hold of either end tripped Bruin up. The bear did not
lose his hold of the pig, but gathered himself up and made off towards the
woods. The rail was held as before, and a second time was he tripped up.
This enraged the bear, and he dropped the pig, which was now dead, and
made a dash for Farmer Cole. A third time was the animal thrown to the
ground, and the men, by holding with all their united strength against the
rail, held the bear down until James came up with the hay-knife and cut
his throat.

In Southern Ulster there is a burial-ground that in times gone by was set
apart for the internment of slaves. The headstones were selected from the
fields; and though partially hidden from the casual observer by grass and
shrubbery, the mounds and rude monuments can yet be located. Some of the
older inhabitants say that apparitions are sometimes seen loitering among
the graves; and that on very dark and stormy nights a figure is seen to
rise and soar away into space. In former years, it is said, the ghostly
visitant used to frequent a house in the vicinity, and disturb the quiet
of its occupants. Sometimes steps could be heard ascending the stairs.

Then there would follow the creaking of a door on its hinges, though no
door could be seen to move, and a figure in white would advance to the
centre of the room, and pause as if intently looking for some object, and
then vanish out of sight. The more knowing ones shake their heads when the
subject is mentioned, and aver that if the dead could speak, some great
wrong would be exposed; that by reason of this great wrong the spirits are
not allowed to rest in their graves, but are forced to do penance as
punishment for the acts committed during life. It is related that the good
dame who once lived there used to punish her diminutive but somewhat
refractory husband by doubling him up into a bucket, and letting him

167

down into a deep well, until his spirit was reduced to something like
submission. Be that as it may, there are those living in the vicinity who,
when they have occasion to pass the graveyard in the night-time, keep an
eye over their shoulder until they get well beyond the ghost-haunted spot.

Yannaker Rosecrans, a domestic in the family of Col. Jansen, was a
character in her way. She had a wen growing on her neck half as large as a
man's head. She frequently stood sentry at the house of her employer. One
night she detected a number of Indians lurking in the currant bushes near
the house. She fired two or three shots in the direction of the sound, and
declared some of them were hit, as she presently heard the noise of
tomahawks, and supposed the Indians were cutting poles to carry the
wounded away. Old people claim she could hold up a barrel of cider and
drink out of the "gunnel." She boasted that no two men could take her
alive. It is said that Shanks Ben once lay in ambush for the purpose of
taking her prisoner as she came to fodder cattle; but at the sight of her,
armed as she was with a huge pitchfork, he declared his heart went "pitty-
patty," until she was out of reach. At another time, while the Colonel had
taken refuge in the chimney, she kept the Indians away from the fire-place
by throwing hot suppawn at them with a spoon.

It was one of the most melancholy features of the battle of Minisink, that
the friends of many of the patriots engaged in that sanguinary conflict
were left in painful solicitude as to their fate. Whether killed in the
heat of the strife, massacred in cold blood by the marauding savages, left
to perish in the wilderness, or carried away captive,-to many of the
kinsfolk about Goshen these were questions of conjecture, which only the
judgment day will reveal. Major Wood was among the number who failed to
return home with the remnant of the little army, and of whom the survivors
were able to give little or no account. It could not be determined whether
he was among the slain, or of the number taken prisoner. As years went by,
and one by one a few returned from their captivity, the wife eagerly
sought for tidings of her husband. Her inquires were all in vain, and she
finally felt constrained to give him up as lost. After the lapse of
several years the widow had a favorable offer of marriage. Though she had
no positive proof of the death of her husband, there was little
probability of his being yet alive; so acting under the advice of friends,
she accepted the offer. The second marriage proved a happy one, and two
children blessed the union. Twelve years after the battle of Minisink,
Major Wood returned to his home. He had been kept a close prisoner during
all that time, and had not once heard of his family. He embraced the first
opportunity to escape from captivity; and returned to find that he had
long been mourned as dead; that his wife had married again, and had
another family growing up around her. Much as it pained him to break the
ties that bound the new family together, she was still his wife, for the
law would not recognize the second marriage, now that the legal husband
was known to be

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alive. But the way out of the difficulty was reached in an unexpected
manner. The second husband went from home, ostensibly on business, and a
few days afterward his hat and some of his clothing were found on the
banks of the Delaware. Whether he really committed himself to the mercy of
the water with suicidal intent, or only sought to convey the impression
that he was dead, while he left for parts unknown, has never been told.
Those who knew him best incline to the view that, from motives of
compassion for the feelings of his family, he chose the latter alternative.
Major Wood lived many years after his return, and his descendants are held
in high estimation at the present time.

One of the greatest curiosities, in point of the mysteriousness of its
origin in the county of Ulster, is that bit of ancient masonry in the town
of Plattekill known as the "Indian Dam." It is located on what is known as
the Levi Bodine farm, now occupied by J. S. Terwilliger, jr. The dam in
question consists of two stone walls joined at an obtuse angle, and is
about one hundred and fifty yards in length, eight or ten feet in height
at the highest part, and four feet in width at the top. It is built across
a stream at the outlet of a heavily timbered swamp, and would submerge
about one hundred acres. As there is scarcely any perceptible fall, the
dam could hardly have been built to furnish water power, hence the
question as to the purpose of its construction has never been
satisfactorily answered. What is stranger still, when the first settlers
came into the vicinity, more than a century ago, the dam was there in the
same condition in which it is now found; nor could they ascertain when, by
whom, or for what purpose it was built. Though called the Indian Dam, it
is not probable the Indians had anything to do with its construction, as
they were not given to wall building. Its origin may have been coeval with
that of the ancient roads in the vicinity of the Shawangunk mountain,
called the "Mine Roads," indications of which may yet he seen at various
points at the foot of the declivities on either side, of which neither
history nor tradition can give a satisfactory account.