University of Virginia Library

PASSAGE UP THE HUDSON.

“This magnificent river,[5] which taking it in all its
combinations of magnitude and beauty, is scarcely
equalled in the new, and not even approached in the
old world, was discovered by Hendrick Hudson in the
month of September, 1609, by accident, as almost every
other discovery has been made. He was searching for
a northwest passage to India, when he first entered the
bay of New York, and imagined the possibility that he
had here found it, until on exploring the river upwards,
he came to fresh water, ran aground, and abandoned
his hopes.

“Of this man, whose name is thus identified with the
discovery, the growth, and the future prospects of a
mighty state, little is known; and of that little the end
is indescribably melancholy. He made four voyages in
search of this imaginary northwest passage, and the
termination of the last is in the highest degree affecting,
as related in the following extract from his Journal,
as published in the collections of the New York Historical
Society.”

“You shall understand,” says Master Abacuk Pricket,
from whose Journal this is taken, “that our master
kept in his house in London, a young man named Henrie
Greene, borne in Kent, of worshipfull parents, but by
his lewd life and conversation hee lost the good will of
all his friends, and spent all that hee had. This man our
master (Hudson) would have to sea with him, because
hee could write well: our master gave him meate, and

drinke and lodgeing, and by means of one Master
Venson, with much ado got four pounds of his mother
to buy him clothes, wherewith Master Venson would
not trust him, but saw it laid out himself. This Henry
Greene was not set down in the owners' bookes, nor
any wages made for him. Hee came first on board at
Gravesend, and at Harwich should have gone into the
field with one Wilkinson. At Island, the surgeon and
hee fell out in Dutch, and hee beat him ashore in English,
which set all the company in a rage; so that wee
had much ado to get the surgeon aboarde. I told the
master of it, but hee bade mee let it alone, for (said
hee,) the surgeon had a tongue that would wrong the
best friend hee had. But Robert Juet (the master's
mate) would needs burn his fingers in the embers, and
told the carpenter a long tale (when hee was drunk)
that our master had brought in Greene to worke his credit
that should displease him; which words came to the
master's eares, who when he understood it would have
gone back to Island, when he was forty degrees from
thence, to have sent home his mate, Robert Juet, in a
fisherman. But being otherwise persuaded, all was
well. So Henry Greene stood upright and very inward
with the master, and was a serviceable man every way
for manhood: but for religion, he would say he was
cleane paper whereon he might write what hee would.
Now when our gunner was dead, (and as the order is in
such cases) if the company stand in need of any thing
that belonged to the man deceased, then it is brought to
the mayne mast, and there sold to him that will give
most for the same. This gunner had a graye cloth
gowne which Greene prayed the master to friend him so
much to let him have it, paying for it as another would
give. The master saith he should, and therefore he answered
some that sought to have it, that Greene should
have it, and none else, and so it rested.

“Now out of season and time the master calleth the
carpenter to go in hand with a house on shore, which at the
beginning our master would not heare when it might have
been done. The carpenter told him that the snow and frost
were such, as he neither could or would go in hand with
such worke. Which when our master heard, he ferretted
him out of his cabbin, to strike him, calling him by
many foule names, and threatening to hang him. The
carpenter told him that hee knew what belonged to his
place better than himselfe, and that hee was no house
carpenter. So this passed, and the house was (after)
made with much labour, but to no end.

“The next day after the master and the carpenter
fell out, the carpenter took his peece and Henry Greene
with him, for it was an order that none should go out
alone, but one with a peece, and the other with a pike.
This did moove the master so much the more against
Henry Greene, that Robert Billet, his mate, must have
the gowne, and had it delivered to him; which when
Henry Greene saw he challenged the master's promise;
but the master did so raile on Greene with so many
words of disgrace, telling him that all his friends would
not trust him with twenty shillings, and therefore why
should hee? As for wages hee had none, nor none
should have if he did not please him well. Yet the
master had promised him to make his wages as good as

any man's in the ship; and to have him one of the
prince's guard when he came home. But you shall see
how the devil out of this so wrought with Greene, that
hee did the master what mischiefe hee could in seeking
to discredit him, and to thrust him and many other
honest men out of the ship in the end.”

It appears that Greene having come to an understanding
with others whom he had corrupted, a plot was
laid to seize Hudson and those of the crew that remained
faithful to him, put them on board a small shallop
which was used in making excursions for food or observations,
and run away with the ship. Of the manner
in which this was consummated the same writer gives
the following relation:

“Being thus in the ice on Saturday the one and
twentieth day of June, (1610,) at night Wilson the
boatswayne and Henry Greene came to mee lying in my
cabbin lame, and told me that they and the rest of their
associates would shift the company and turne the master
and all the sick men into the shallop, and let them
shift for themselves. For there was not fourteen daies
victuals left for all the company, at that poor allowance
they were at, and that there they lay, the master not
caring to goe one way or other: and that they had not
eaten any thing these three dayes, and therefore were
resolute either to mend or end, and what they had begun
would go through with it, or dye.” Pricket refuses
and expostulates with Wilson and Greene. “Henry
Greene then told me I must take my chance in the
shallop. If there be no remedy, (said I,) the will of
God be done.” Pricket tries to persuade them to put

off their design for two days, nay for twelve hours, that
he might persuade Hudson to return home with the
ship; but, to this they would not consent, and proceeded
to execute their plot as follows:

“In the mean time, Henry Greene and another
went to the carpenter, and held him with a talke till the
master (Hudson) came out of his cabbin; (which he
soon did;) then came John Thomas and Bennett before
him, while Wilson bound his arms behind him.
He asked them what they meant? They told him he
should know when he was in the shallop. Now Juet
while this was doing, came to John King into the hold,
who was provided for him, for he had got a sword of
his own and kept him at bay, and might have killed him,
but others came to help him, and so he came up to the
master. The master called to the carpenter and told
him he was bound; but I heard no answer he made.
Now Arnold Lodlo and Michael Bute rayled at them,
and told them their knaverie would shewe itselfe. Then
was the shallop haled up to the ship's side, and the
poore sick and lame men were called upon to get them
out of their cabbins into the shallop. The master called
to mee, who came out of my cabbin as well as I could
to the hatch waye to speak to him: where on my knees,
I besought them for the love of God to remember themselves,
and to doe as they would be done unto. They
bade me keepe myselfe well, and get me into my cabbin,
not suffering the master to speake to me. But
when I came into my cabbin, againe he called to me at
the horne that gave light into my cabbin, and told me

that Juet would overthrow us all. Nay, says I, it is
that villaine Henry Greene, and I spake it not softly.

“Now were all the poore men in the shallop, whose
names are as followeth: Henrie Hudson, John Hudson,
Arnold Lodlo, Sidrach Faner, Phillip Staffe, Thomas
Woodhouse, (or Wydhouse,) Adam Moore, Henrie
King, and Michael Bute. The carpenter got of them
a peece, and powder and shot, and some pikes, an
iron pot, with some meale and other things. They
stood out of the ice, the shallop being fast to the sterne
of the shippe, and so when they were nigh out, for I
cannot say they were cleane out, they cut her head fast
from the sterne of the ship, then out with theire top-sayles,
and towards the east they stood in a cleare
sea.”

The mutineers being on shore, some days after, were
attacked by a party of indians.

“John Thomas and William Wilson had their bowels
cut, and Michael Pearce and Henry Greene being mortally
wounded, came tumbling in the boat together.
When Andrew Moter saw this medley, hee came running
down the rockes, and leaped into the sea, and soe
swamme to the boat, hanging on the sterne thereof, till
Michael Pearce took him in, who manfully made good
the head of the boat against the savages that pressed
sore upon us. Now Michael Pearce had got an
hatchet, wherewith I saw him strike one of them, that
he lay sprawling in the sea. Henry Greene crieth coragio,
and layeth about him with his truncheon. The
savages betook themselves to their bowes and arrows
which they sent among us, wherewith Henry Greene

was slaine outright, and Michael Pearce received many
wounds, and so did the rest. Michael Pearce and
Andrew Moter rowed the boat away, which when the
savages saw they ranne to their boats, and I feared they
would have launched them to have followed us, but they
did not, and our ship was in the middle of the channel,
and did not see us.

“Now when they had rowed a good way from the
shore, Michael Pearce fainted and could row no more.
Then was Andrew Moter driven to stand in the boat's
head and waft to the ship, which at the first saw us not,
and when they did, they could not tell what to make of
us; but in the end they stood for us, and so took us up.
Henry Greene was thrown out of the boat into the sea,
and the rest were had on board. But they died all
three that day, William Wilson swearing and cursing in
the most fearful manner. Michael Pearce lived two
days after and then died. Thus you have heard the
tragicale of Henry Greene and his mates, whom they
called the captaine, these four being the only lustie men
in all the ship.”

After this, Robert Juet took the command, but “died
for meere want,” before they arrived at Plymouth,
which is the last we hear of them, except that Pricket
was taken up to London to Sir Thomas Smith. Neither
was the unfortunate Hudson and his companions
ever heard of more. Doubtless they perished miserably,
by famine, cold, or savage cruelty. The mighty
river which he first explored, and the great bay to the
north, alone by bearing his name, carry his memory,
and will continue to carry it down to the latest posterity.

We thought we could do no less than call the attention
of the traveller a few moments, to the hard fate of one
to whom they are originally indebted, for much of the
pleasures of the tour to the springs.

After the traveller has paid tribute to the memory of
honest Henry Hudson, by reading the preceding sketch
of his melancholy end, he may indulge himself in contemplating
the beautiful world expanding every moment
before him, appearing and vanishing in the rapidity of
his motion, like the creations of the imagination. Every
object is beautiful, and its beauties heightened by the
eye having no time to be palled with contemplating
them too long. Nature seems in merry motion hurrying
by, and as she moves along displays a thousand varied
charms in rapid succession, each one more enchanting
than the rest. If the traveller casts his eyes backwards,
he beholds the long perspective waters gradually converging
to a point at the Narrows, fringed with the low
soft scenery of Jersey and Long Island, and crowned
with the little buoyant islands on its bosom. If he looks
before him, on one side the picturesque shore of Jersey,
its rich strip of meadows and orchards, sometimes backed
by the wood crowned hills, and at others by perpendicular
walls of solid rock; on the other, York Island
with its thousand little palaces, sporting its green fields
and waving woods, by turns allure his attention, and
make him wish either that the river had but one side, or
that he had more eyes to admire its beauties.

As the vessel wafts him merrily, merrily along, new
beauties crowd upon him so rapidly as almost to efface
the impressions of the past. That noble ledge of rocks

which is worthy to form the barrier of the noble river,
and which extends for sixteen miles, shows itself in a
succession of sublime bluffs, projecting out one after
the other, looking like the fabled creations of the giants,
or the Cyclops of old. High on these cliffs, may be seen
the woodman, pitching his billet from the very edge
down a precipice of hundreds of feet, whence it slides
or bounds to the water's edge, and is received on board
its destined vessel. At other points, half way up its
sides you will see the quarriers, undermining huge masses
of rocks that in the lapse of ages have separated
from the cliff above, and setting them rolling down with
thundering crashes to the level beach below. Here and
there under the dark impending cliff, where nature has
formed a little green nook or flat, some enterprising
skipper who owns a little pettiauger, or some hardy
quarrier, has erected his little cot. There when the
afternoon shadows envelope the rocks, the woods and the
shores, may be seen little groups of children sporting
in all the glee of youthful idleness. Some setting their
little shaggy dog to swimming into the river after a chip,
others worrying some patient pussy, others wading
along the white sands knee deep in the waters, and
others perhaps stopping to stare at the moving wonder
champing by, then chasing the long ripple created by its
furious motion as it breaks along the sands. Contrasting
beautifully with this long mural precipice on the
west, the eastern bank exhibits a charming variety of
waving outline. Long graceful curving hills, sinking into
little vales, pouring forth a gurgling brook—then rising
again into wood crowned heights, presenting the image of
a mighty succession of waves, suddenly arrested in
their rolling career, and turned into mingled woods, and
meadows, and fertile fields, animated with all the living
emblems of industry; cattle, sheep, waving fields of
grain, and whistling ploughmen.

These precipices are said to be of the trap formation,
a most important species of rock in geology, as whoever
“understands trap,” may set up for a master of the science.
In many places, this trap formation is found apparently
based on a horizontal stratum of primitive
rock. This has somewhat shaken the trap theory and
puzzled geologists. But we leave them to settle the
affair, and pass on to objects of more importance to the
tourist, in a historical point of view at least.

At Sneden's Landing, opposite Dobb's Ferry, the
range of perpendicular trap rocks, disappears until you
again detect it, opposite Sing Sing, where it exhibits
itself in a most picturesque and beautiful manner at intervals,
in the range of mountains bordering the west
side of the river, between Nyack and Haverstraw. At
Sneden's, commences a vast expanse of salt meadows,
generally so thickly studded with barracks and haystacks,
as to present at a distance the appearance of a
great city rising out of the famed Tappan Sea, like
Venice from out the Adriatic. Travellers, who have
seen both, observe a great similarity—but on the whole
prefer the haystacks. Here commences Tappan Sea,
where the river expands to a breadth of three miles, and
where in the days of log canoes and pine skiffs, full
many an adventurous navigator is said to have encountered

dreadful perils in crossing over from the Slote to
Tarrytown. At present its dangers are all traditionary.

The western border of this beautiful expanse is
mountainous; but the hills rise in such gradual ascent
that the whole is cultivated to the very top, and exhibits
a charming display of variegated fields. That the soil
was once rich, is established by the fact of this whole
district being settled by the Dutch, than whom there
never was a people better at smelling out rich vales
and fat alluvions. Here the race subsists unadulterated
to the present time. The sons are cast in the same
moulds with the father and grandfather; the daughters
depart not from the examples of their mothers and
grandmothers. The former eschew the mysteries of
modern tailoring, and the latter borrow not the fashion
of their bonnets from the French milliners. They
travel not in steam boats, or in any other new fangled
inventions; abhor canals and rail roads, and will go
five miles out of the way to avoid a turnpike. They
mind nobody's business but their own, and such is their
inveterate attachment to home, that it is credibly reported
there are men now living along the shores of the
river, who not only have never visited the renowned
Tarrytown, directly opposite, but who know not even
its name.

They are deplorably deficient in the noble science
of gastronomy, and such is their utter barbarity of taste,
that they never eat but when they are hungry, nor after
they are satisfied, and the consequence of this barbarous
indifference to the chief good of life, is that they one
and all remain without those infallible patents of high

breeding, gout and dyspepsia. Since the period of the
first settlement of this region, the only changes that
have ever been known to take place, are those brought
about by death, who if report says true has sometimes
had his match with some of these tough old copper-heads;
in the aspect of the soil, which from an interminable
forest has become a garden; and in the size of
the loaves of bread, which from five feet long have dwindled
down into the ordinary dimensions. For this unheard
of innovation, they adduce in their justification
the following undoubted tradition, which, like their hats
and their petticoats, has descended down from generation
to generation without changing a syllable.

“Sometime in the autumn of the year 1694, just when
the woods were on the change, Yffrow, or Vrouw
Katrinchee Van Noorden, was sitting at breakfast,
surrounded by her husband and family, consisting of six
stout boys, and as many strapping girls, all dressed in
their best, for it was of a Sunday morning. Vrouw Katrinchee,
had a loaf of fresh rye bread between her knees,
the top of which was about on a line with her throat, the
other end resting upon a napkin on the floor; and was
essaying with the edge of a sharp knife to cut off the upper
crust for the youngest boy, who was the pet; when
unfortunately it recoiled from the said crust, and before
the good Vrouw had time to consider the matter, sliced
off her head as clean as a whistle, to the great horror of
Mynheer Van Noorden, who actually stopt eating his
breakfast. This awful catastrophe, brought the big
loaves into disrepute, but such was their attachment to
good old customs, that it was not until Domine Koont

zie denounced them as against the law and the prophets,
that they could be brought to give them up.
As it is, the posterity of the Van Noordens to this day
keep up the baking of big loaves, in conformity to the
last will and testament of their ancestor, who decreed
that this event should be thus preserved immortal in
his family.”[6]

On the opposite side of the river, snugly nestling in a
little bay, lies Tarrytown, famous for its vicinity to the
spot where the British spy, Andre, was intercepted
by the three honest lads of Westchester. If the curious
traveller is inclined to stop and view this spot, to which
a romantic interest will ever be attached, the following
directions will suffice.

“Landing at Tarrytown,[7] it is about a quarter of a
mile to the post road, at Smith's tavern. Following the
post road due north, about half a mile, you come to a
little bridge over a small stream, known by the name of
Clark's Kill, and sometimes almost dry. Formerly the
wood on the left hand south of the bridge, approached
close to the road, and there was a bank on the opposite
side, which was steep enough to prevent escape on
horseback that way. The road from the north, as it
approaches the bridge, is narrowed between two banks of
six or eight feet high, and makes an angle just before it
reaches it. Here, close within the copse of wood on
the left, as you approach from the village, the three
militia lads, for lads they were, being hardly one and
twenty, concealed themselves, to wait for a suspicious

stranger, of whom they had notice from a Mrs. Read, at
whose house they had stopt on their way towards Kingsbridge.
A Mr. Talmadge, a revolutionary officer, and
a member of the house of representatives, some years
since took occasion to stigmatize these young men, as
Cow Boys, out on a plundering expedition. The imputation
was false; they were in possession of passes from
General Philip Van Courtlandt, to proceed beyond the
lines, as they were called, and of course by the laws of
war, authorized to be where they were.

“As Major Andre approached, according to the
universal tradition among the old people of Westchester,
John Paulding, darted out upon him and seized his
horse's bridle. Andre was exceedingly startled at the
suddenness of this rencontre, and in a moment of unguarded
surprise, exclaimed—`Where do you belong?'

“`Below,' was the reply, which was the phrase commonly
used to designate the British, who were then in
possession of New York.

“`So do I,' was the rejoinder of Andre in the joyful
surprise of the moment. It has been surmised that this
hasty admission sealed his fate. But when we reflect that
he was suspected before, and that afterwards not even the
production of his pass from General Arnold, could prevail
upon the young men to let him go, it will appear sufficiently
probable that this imprudent avowal was not the original
cause of his being detained and searched. After some
discussion and exhibiting his pass, he was taken into the
wood, and searched, not without a good deal of unwillingness
on his part; it is said he particularly resisted
the pulling off his right boot, which contained the

treasonable documents. When these were discovered,
it is also said, Andre unguardedly exclaimed, `I'm lost!'
but presently recollecting himself, he added, `No matter—they
dare not hang me.'

“Finding himself discovered, Andre offered his
gold watch and a purse of guineas for his release.
These were rejected. He then proposed that they
should take and secrete him, while one of the party carried
a letter, which he would write in their presence, to
Sir Henry Clinton, naming the ransom necessary to his
discharge, and which they might themselves specify,
pledging his honour that it should accompany their associate
on his return. To this they likewise refused their
assent. Andre then threatened them with a severe
punishment for daring to disregard a pass from the commanding
general at West Point; and bade them beware
of carrying him to head quarters, for they would only
be tried by a court martial and punished for mutiny.
Still the firmness of these young men sustained them
against all these threats and temptations, and they
finally delivered him to Colonel Jameson. It is no inconsiderable
testimony to the motives and temptations thus
overcome, that Colonel Jameson, an officer of the regular
army, commanding a point of great consequence, so far
yielded to the production of this pass, as to permit
Andre to write to General Arnold a letter, which enabled
that traitor to escape the ignominious fate he deserved.

“While in custody of the three Westchester volunteers,
Andre is said gradually to have recovered from
his depression of spirits, so as to sit with them after
supper, and chat about himself and his situation, still

preserving his incognito of John Anderson. In the
course of the evening which he passed in their company,
he related the following singular little anecdote. It
seems the evening before he left London to embark for
America, he was in company with some young ladies
of his familiar acquaintance, when it was proposed, that
as he was going to a distant country on a perilous service,
he should have his fortune told by a famous sybil,
at that time fashionable in town, in order that his friends
might know what had become of him while away. They
went accordingly, when the old beldam, after the usual
grimace and cant, on examining his palms, gravely announced,
`That he was going a great distance, and
would either be hanged, or come very near it, before he
returned.' All the company laughed at this awful annunciation,
and joked with him on the way back. `But,'
added Andre, smiling, `I seem in a fair way of fulfilling
the prophecy.'

“It was not till Andre arrived at head quarters,
and concealment became no longer possible, that he
wrote the famous letter to General Washington, avowing
his name and rank. He was tried by a court martial,
found guilty on his own confession, was hanged at
Tappan, where he met his fate with dignity, and excited
in the bosoms of the Americans that sympathy as a
criminal, which has since been challenged for him as a
hero and a martyr. A few years since the British consul
at New York, caused his remains to be disinterred
and sent to England, where to perpetuate if possible the
delusion of his having suffered in an honourable enterprize,
they were buried in Westminster Abbey, among

heroes, statesmen, and poets. The thanks of congress,
with a medal, an annuity, and a farm, were bestowed on
the three young volunteers, and lately a handsome monument
has been erected by the corporation of New York,
to John Paulding, at Peekskill, where his body was
buried. The other two, Isaac Van Wart and David
Williams, still survive.

“About half a quarter of a mile south of Clark's Kill
Bridge, on the high road, formerly stood the great tulip,
or whitewood tree, which being the most conspicuous
object in the immediate vicinity, has been usually designated
as the spot where Andre was taken and searched.
It was one of the most magnificent of trees, one
hundred and eleven feet and a half high, the limbs projecting
on either side more than eighty feet from the
trunk, which was ten paces round. More than twenty
years ago it was struck by lightning, and its old weather
beaten trunk so shivered that it fell to the ground, and
it was remarked by the old people, that on the very
same day, they for the first time read in the newspapers
the death of Arnold. Arnold lived in England on a
pension, which we believe is still continued to his children.
His name was always coupled even there with infamy;
insomuch that when the Duke of Richmond, Lord
Shelburne, and other violent opponents of the American
revolutionary war, were appointed to office, the late Duke
of Lauderdale remarked, that `If the king wished to employ
traitors, he wondered that he should have over-looked
Benedict Arnold.' For this he was called out
by Arnold, and they exchanged shots, but without effect.
Since then we know nothing of Arnold's history, till his

death. He died as he lived the latter years of his
life, an object of detestation to his countrymen, of
contempt to the rest of the world.

“There is a romantic interest attached to the incidents
just recorded, which will always make the capture of
Andre a popular story; and the time will come when it
will be chosen as the subject of poetry and the drama,
as it has been of history and tradition. There is already
a play founded upon it by Mr. William Dunlap, the writer
and translator of many dramatic works. Mr. Dunlap
has however we think committed a mistake, in which
however he is countenanced by most other writers—that
of making Andre his hero. There is also extant a history
of the whole affair, written by Joshua Hett Smith,
the person who accompanied Andre across the river from
Haverstraw, and whose memory is still in some measure
implicated in the treason of Arnold. It is written with
much passion and prejudice, and abounds in toryisms.
Neither Washington, Greene, nor any of the members
of the court martial escape the most degrading imputations:
and the three young men who captured Andre are
stigmatized with cowardice, as well as treachery! The
history is the production of a man, who seems to have
had but one object, that of stigmatizing the characters
of others, with a view of bolstering up his own. Washington
and Greene require no guardians to defend their
memory, at one time assailed by women and dotards,
on the score of having, the one presided at the just condemnation
of a spy; the other of having refused his pardon
to the threats and bullyings of the enemy. The reputations
of the three young captors of Andre have also

been attacked, where one would least of all expect it—
in the congress of the United States, where some years
ago an honourable member, denounced them as Cow
Boys; and declared to the house that Major Andre had
assured him, he would have been released, could he have
made good his promises of great reward from Sir Henry
Clinton. The characters of these men, were triumphantly
vindicated by the publication of the testimony of nearly
all the aged inhabitants of Westchester who bore ample
testimony to the purity of their lives and the patriotism of
their motives. The slander is forgotten, and if its author
be hereafter remembered, no one will envy him his reputation.”

Tarrytown is still farther distinguished, by being within
a mile or two of Sleepy Hollow, the scene of a pleasant
legend of our friend Goeffrey Crayon, with whom in days
long past we have often explored this pleasant valley,
fishing along the brooks, though he was beyond all question
the worst fisherman we ever knew. He had not the
patience of Job's wife—and without patience no man can
be a philosopher or a fisherman.