PART I.

Woodside in 1849.Woodside in 1849. Enlarged from Sidney’s map of “Twelve Miles Around New York”, published in 1849.

Woodside in 1849. Enlarged from Sidney’s map of “Twelve Miles Around New York”, published in 1849.

GENERAL HISTORY.

Woodside was originally included in the Newark grant, which extended north “to the Third River above the towne, ye River is called Yauntakah”. For a long time those of this region in common with those of Belleville, were known as the “Inhabitants of the Second River”. But Newark on March 11, 1743, having become tired of supporting the poor of so large a district, narrowed its borders, drawing a line on the north just below the eastern end of the Gully road to the “Boiling Spring”.

The description given in the Town Meeting of March 11, 1743, reads as follows: “Beginning at Passaick River, at the Gulley near the House of Doct’r Pigot, thence North West (Northeast?) to Second River, thence up the same to the Saw Mill belonging to George Harrison, thence a direct Line to the North East Corner of the Plantation of Stephen Morris, thence to the Notch in the Mountain leaving William Crane’s House to the Southward, thence on a direct line to Stephen Van siles, thence Westwardly (Eastwardly?) to Passaick River leaving said Van siles Bars and Abraham Francisco’s to the Northward of s’d Line: and it was agreed, that all on the Northwardof s’d Lines should be esteemed Inhabitants of Second River, and all on the Southward of the Body of Newark, excepting Levi Vincent, Johanes Kiper and his Son Thomas Cadmus. John Low desired that himself and his Father might be reconed or esteemed Inhabitants of Second River, since they belonged to that Society.”

This is a verbatim copy taken from the “Newark Town Records”, but I do not know just what it means unless some previous copyist stood on his head when putting down the points of the compass.

For nearly one hundred years this region was a portion of Bloomfield, or Wardesson, as it was formerly known, and when in 1839 Belleville was set off from eastern Bloomfield, Woodside became a part of the newer township, and so remained until March 24, 1869, when it became independent of all outside control.

At this time its boundaries extended from the mouth of Second river along the west bank of the Passaic to a point immediately below the Gully road, thence west a little south to the Boiling Spring, cutting across Second avenue above Mount Prospect avenue, thence almost northeast to a point on the canal just above what is now known as the “butter works”; thence southeast a quarter mile or so to Second river which it crossed and continued with Mill street as its northern limit as far as the Back road, fromwhich point Second river was itself the dividing line to its mouth at the Passaic.

But, alas! on the fifth of April, 1871, our independence was lost forever and most of us were turned over to the tender mercies of the Newark politicians, who have ever since exercised a wonderful ingenuity in taxing us poor inhabitants to the limit and giving as little in return as possible. In fact the only thing we get for our taxes, aside from the fire department service, is an occasional policeman, who comes twice each year with tickets to sell for ball or excursion. Does the road need paving or sewering, the cost is assessed on the abutting property, and so is it with sidewalks, and even with the shade trees which the city fathers insist are good for us, and having planted them they send us a bill therefor. The Woodsider has never yet been able to ascertain what he is taxed for, unless it is to keep the politicians in good running order. This remark should be qualified to some extent so far as the police are concerned, for no locality could have a better protector than Mounted Officer Niblo, who has long been on this post and who, we hope, will long remain; there is also a patrolman who does his duty as though his job depended on it, but the majority of them seem to have the true politician’s idea as to what is good for them.

The sin was legalized by “An Act to divide the township of Woodside between the City of Newark and the township of Belleville”.

The boundary of Woodside is given as “beginning at the intersection of the centre of the Second river with the centre of the Passaic river; thence (1) running southerly along the centre of the Passaic river, the several courses thereof, to the northerly line of the city of Newark (just below Gully road); thence (2) westerly along the said line of the city of Newark to the centre of the Great Boiling spring, at the line of the township of Bloomfield; thence (3) northerly along said line to the centre of Branch brook; thence (4) northeasterly along the centre of said brook, the several courses thereof, to the centre of Second river; thence (5) down along the centre of Second river, the several courses thereof, to the centre of Passaic River, and the place of beginning.”

All of the township of Woodside not included within the above mentioned boundaries was annexed to the township of Belleville.

James S. Gamble, Horace H. Nichols and Charles Akers, of the township of Woodside, were among the commissioners appointed to see that the division was properly carried out.

The act was approved April 5, 1871.

The transition from independence to slavery was engineered, I am told, by three men for personal and selfish motives, and it gives me great pleasure to record that all three were sadly left. One longed to be sheriff, but must live in Newark to secure the nomination, and did not wish to remove from this pleasant land; the two others were holders of considerableproperty, and it was their hope that a boom in building lots would set in that would materially fatten their pocketbooks, and so in some dark and mysterious way our model township was ceded to Newark.

But the politician failed of election and the lots did not sell, and “one of the disappointed real estate owners, like Judas Iscariot, went out and hanged himself”.

Once the place belonged to Newark the street car company could, of course, do what it liked with the roadway, and it shortly proceeded to regrade (I had almost said degrade) Washington avenue above Elwood, utterly destroying the carefully laid out parkway on which property owners had spent much thought and money. Terraces and trees were ruthlessly cut down and, to provide a dumping place for the earth removed, Oraton street was cut through and filled in with the Washington avenue debris. “Ichabod was written upon the avenue and the fine name of Oraton could in no way lend dignity to the new street”, which at that time was largely given over to negroes and laborers.

Until 1865 Woodside was a purely agricultural district, except for the factories along Second river, and contained but four roads of any moment. The River road, the Back road to Belleville, the old Bloomfield or Long Hill road and the lower road from Belleville to Bloomfield, known as Murphy’s lane.There was also one cross road known as Division road or Bootleg lane, because of its shape; this is now given over to Halleck street and Grafton avenue, with that bit of Washington avenue which lies between.

The history and legend, dating before 1867, so far as I have been able to find them, will be taken up guidebook fashion by following each road in turn and pointing out its wonders as we proceed.

THE RIVER ROAD.

“The road to ‘Hocquackanong’ was laid out from the north end of Newark, as the path then ran, through the village named, passing the north end of the Acquackanonk meeting house and thence to Pompton”. This was recorded March 16, 1707, and must refer to the River road, though probably all the laying out it received was on paper.

The Indians from Paterson and beyond had a well defined trail along the river bank which led to Newark Bay, and the early settlers probably used this without attempting much improvement.

As we travel northward the River road naturally begins with the Gully road. As far back as tradition goes and the old maps show, the Gully road has existed, but there is a theory that the Indian trail, of which the River road is an expansion, continued down the river bank, and one bit of folk-lore which remains indicates that this may have been so.

The legend tells us that so long ago that those who tell the story cannot compute the time, there lived at the present junction of Washington avenueand the Gully road an aged couple in a simple cot that hardly kept them from the weather. There was then a small stream that claimed the gully for its own, but as time went on the brook gradually dried up, and as gradually people from the back country began to use its bed as a highway. As traffic grew the cottage was found to lie in the way of travelers, and one night it was ruthlessly torn down over the head of its defenseless occupant, for by this time only one was left.

The resultant exposure proved fatal, the old settler being unable to survive the shock, and ever after has his ghost walked the Gully road. The ghost has not been seen for thirty years or more, but one who has actually met the vision, a lady of years and education, tells me that she distinctly saw it one dark Sunday afternoon, about 1879, while on her way to church.

Though a resident here for several years she had never heard of the Gully road ghost, nor did she know that the region was haunted, but in the darkest and loneliest part of the road she encountered a nebulous shape about the size of a human being, standing at a gate which gave entrance to one of the few places along the road. My informant was young then, and more easily frightened than now, but she saw too distinctly to believe that she could have been mistaken. It appears that the lady had disregarded the biblical injunction to obey her husband, for he did not wish her to go to church at that particular time, but she, being contrary minded, insisted, and it seems highlyprobable that the ghost was sent to warn her back into path of obedience. Hurrying back she informed her husband, but nothing more was seen of the apparition and it was some time later that she learned that the road was haunted and heard the above story from an old settler.

The present level of the Gully road is much lower than it was even fifty years ago, and there is a legend that one hundred and fifty years ago a great freshet cut out large quantities of earth here, but the higher level could hardly have been of long duration, for Mrs. Gibbs recalls that a number of years ago, while workmen were digging a trench, possibly for the sewer, they brought up what are thought to have been Indian relics from a depth of twelve feet or more. Mr. Gibbs’s brother was passing at the moment of discovery and tried to purchase the find from the man in charge, as he regarded it of considerable ethnological value, but the contractor refused to sell, and when Mr. Gibbs and his brother returned to the spot the men had gone and their discovery with them, and to-daythe exact character of the find is not known. Other Indian finds in this immediate neighborhood are a stone mortar and pestle and many arrow points on the Gibbs place. On the Sandford place, just above, a stone mortar hollowed out of a heavy block long stood by the well. This was kept filled with water for the chickens to drink from. When the place was regraded this stone disappeared, it having been probably buried.

(Since the above was put in type I have found one of the laborers who was employed in building the sewer through the Gully road. He tells me that this was about fourteen years ago, that the find occurred just east of the entrance to the Gibbs place on the north edge of the road, and consisted of four or five Indian skeletons with many stone hammers, arrow points, etc. My informant is under the impression that the burial place was extensive and only partially uncovered.)

From the fact that Indians would hardly dig to any such depth as indicated above, it is fair to presume that the filling in may have been comparatively recent; possibly some great storm had washed masses of earth down into the gully.

The Gully road is now well paved and lighted and much affected by that brazen highwayman the automobile, but there was a time when it was a dark and lonesome place where no honest man desired to be caught after dark; where it is said smugglers filed by during the silent watches of the night, the deserted river bank here being a favorite rendezvous for those whose deeds were evil.

Sixty years or so ago a stone wall ran from the bend of the Gully road, near the river diagonally to Belleville avenue, across the property now occupied by the cemetery. Beside this stone wall was buried the first person interred on the site of the cemetery—a noted witch, old Moll DeGrow, the fear of whoseshade lent greatly to the terrors of the Gully seventy-five years ago.

This witch was used by the elders as a bugaboo to keep the children indoors after dark, and she appears to have been eminently useful and successful in this capacity. The Gully road was as black as a black hat on a moonless night, and one who ventured abroad at such a time never could tell when he or she might be grabbed by the powers of darkness. During the long Winter evenings these farmer and fisher folk were wont to amuse and scare themselves, as well as the children, by relating all manner of ghostly experiences. Mrs. Henry Davis recalls how, as a child, she used to crawl up to bed so terrified after an evening of witch stories that she could hardly move, her one thought being to get under the bed clothes as quickly as possible, where she would all but smother.

Under such circumstances the ghost of a witch was a powerful combination for evil, and particularly so when it was such a witch as old Moll, who was so much a terror to the neighborhood that there was talk of burning her in order to rid the community of her undesirable presence, but fortunately she died before this feeling culminated in a tragedy. Mrs. Henry Davis well remembers hearing her mother (a former Miss King) tell this as a fact.

In the early days of the cemetery, when it was inclosed by a high wooden fence, there was considerabletalk of body-snatching, and one of the men in charge of the grounds was strongly suspected.

Old Mrs. Holt walking down the Gully road one night saw, standing in the darkest shadow, an old fashioned undertaker’s wagon, and hearing voices of men, stepped back among the bushes out of harm’s way. Soon she saw three men against the night sky standing on the high ground of the cemetery. One carried a lantern while the other two had a long bundle shrouded in white. He with the lantern stopped on the ridge, while the others kept down the slope. Now they lifted their bundle to the top of the fence where one man steadied it while the other climbed over. When both were over the body was taken down and placed in the wagon. The man on the hill, whose voice Mrs. Holt recognized, called good-night to the men in the road and they responded as the wagon rapidly drove toward Newark.

How John Thompson saw the Devil in the Gully road was once told by himself in a moment of great confidence, for ordinarily he would never speak of the adventure.

About ’68 or ’69 John worked for Mr. Melius on the River road, and it was noticed that when called on to drive down town after dusk for his employer he invariably went the long way round—Grafton and Washington avenues—and when coming back with Mr. M. he would shut his mouth the moment theyentered within the dark precincts of the Gully and say never a word until they were well beyond the black shadow of its overhanging trees.

It seems that John was originally a river man and that he sailored under Captain Nichols, whose profanity was one of his notable points; he had a varied assortment of swear-words and a proficiency in their use that made the efforts of ordinary mortals pale into insignificance.

For some reason not explained the schooner was held up in Newark one day, and as the Captain lived in Belleville there was nothing for it but to walk home. John Thompson went along for, of course, neither one of the seamen thought much of the storm that was raging, even if the rain did come down in torrents which soaked them through.

It certainly did look dark and creepy to John as he peered into the black hole of the Gully road, and though he was himself a gentleman of color and matched up with a dark night first rate, he ever fancied daylight for such places, but the Captain went plunging on into the shadows and John could but follow.

The Captain had used up his stock of cuss-words, and while in the very darkest part of the tunnel commenced all over again and was going fine when a sudden, blinding flash of lightning discovered to John, who was in the rear, a third man walking between them and chuckling every time the Captain swore. Before the light went out John saw that the man wasdressed like a parson and that his clothes appeared to be dry in spite of the heavy downpour. A second flash showed a most alarming state of things: the stranger was on fire, smoke or steam was escaping from every crevice, but still he chuckled as the Captain ripped out all manner of strange oaths, and did not seem to pay any attention to his own internal combustion; even in the dark his glee could be heard bubbling forth, nor could the pounding of the storm drown it. By this time the Captain’s attention was also attracted, and when a third flash enabled them to see that their unknown companion had hoofs their worst suspicions were realized and both men broke and ran for Belleville as fast as two pairs of scared legs could carry them, while the Devil laughed long and loud at their dismay.

Another man once ran against a cow in the Gully road one dark night and was considerably worked up over the adventure for the moment. The unfortunate part of it was that he lingered long enough to discover that it was a cow, else we might have had another story of these darksome terrors. The horns and hoofs were there, and all that was needed was a little more imagination and not quite so much practicality. But not all the stories of the Gully road are of such fearful things as these. It was a way of surpassing beauty when lighted by the sun, and a lover’s lane that fairly blossomed with loving couples on pleasant Sunday afternoons, when the sighing of the wind inthe trees was but an echo of the happy sighs below. Many a life contract has been signed, sealed and delivered within its confines; in fact I have heard of one youth who proposed on the way back from a boat race, the romantic influence of the place with its glamor of shady nooks being quite too much for his equanimity.

Then there was the English spy who, legend says, was captured by a party of Americans and promptly hanged on the limb of a large tree that stood at the bend of the road. His ghost was for long a sad handicap to the neighborhood and, singular as it may seem, he is said to have played his wildest pranks with those who placed the greatest faith in him. But since the spread of the Mount Pleasant Cemetery down toward his abode little or nothing has been heard of his doings. One theory is that of late he has come within the orbits of so many other ghosts, but of a more respectable and orderly character, that he has become inextricably tangled, much as is reported of wireless messages when many amateurs assault the air.

About fifty years ago Henry William Herbert, who wrote under the name of Frank N. Forrester, resided on the river bank within the present limits of the cemetery, his place being known as “The Cedars”. A queer, romantic figure about which much of fiction as well as truth has been woven.

To Mr. Boyden and others, whose youth was spent about here, this strange figure was a familiar sight, for the recluse used almost daily to walk down town, his shoulders enveloped in a shawl, and always with a troop of dogs at his heels. Those who so remember him rather resent the fact that his brawls have been made much of and his virtues neglected by such as write of him, for they recall him as an attractive man and pleasant companion with many kindly qualities. Herbert generally made a call at the Black Horse tavern which then stood at the “Stone Bridge”, and after a short stay would continue on to the Park House. He was apt to be brusque with those he did not like, and when “beyond his depth” through too great conviviality inclined to be ugly when opposed.

He was born in London April 7, 1807, and was educated at an English college. He came to New York in 1831, supporting himself by teaching and later by writing short stories, historical novels and books on sports, his “Field Sports of America” soon making his name a familiar one to the lovers of gun and rod.

A Newarker, who has written of him from personal knowledge, says:—

“It is a difficult matter to sift the good from the bad in Herbert’s character. He was in truth a most rare and singular being if he did not possess some virtues.

“When writing his celebrated work, ‘Field Sports of America’, he had access to the Newark Library;not content with the privileges there afforded, he cut out bodily leaves from ‘The Encyclopedia Britannica’, evidently unmindful of the selfishness and criminality of the act. There are some men made up of inconsistencies, and a strange agglomeration of moods. Herbert was one of them.

“There is nothing associated with Herbert’s life that is apt to strike a stranger favorably. He was a direct antithesis of Irving, who possessed a certain magnetic influence. The truth is Irving was a good man and Herbert was not. Herbert was endowed with rare genius, and those who have a desire to become convinced of this fact should read his works; they tower as far above the general literary productions of to-day as does the Oregon pine over the tender sapling. His characters are finely drawn—not overdrawn—his heroines are as pure as the purest, and his villains—distinctive in their characteristics—‘act well their parts’. Though not an extensive verse writer, Herbert was the author of some very creditable poetry, his translation of Æschylus’s ‘Prometheus Bound’ and ‘Agamemnon’ show ripe scholarship and otherwise redound to his credit.

“In several of his novels the subject of this sketch has portrayed his own character far better than it has been or can be done by another. Whatever Herbert’s defects, as an author he was of the highest order; he was a voluminous writer and a fine translator. ‘Marmaduke Wyvil’, ‘Cromwell’ and ‘The Roman Traitor’ are works that stand in the frontrank of their class, while among his translations M. Thiers’s ‘Life of the First Consul’ is one of the standard works of literature. In his historical novels he approaches nearer Sir Walter Scott than any author I have been privileged to read. He was, in fact, a dual character—an enigma. His genius merits admiration, and it is safe to say that his fame will not die with the century that gave him birth.”

Many are the stories told to show his eccentric character and occasional violence. During summer days he would place himself on the bank of the river with a gun and threaten to shoot passing boatmen unless they came on shore at his bidding, but no sooner did they land than Herbert would disappear, leaving the affrighted oarsmen in a state of perplexity as to what next. It sounds much like a fool trick from this distance, but his reputation made the experience anything but a pleasant one.

Conviviality was the order of the night at The Cedars, Herbert being much in the habit of inviting friends to enjoy what he termed the hospitality of the place. On one such occasion four guests were drinking with him, when the host suddenly sprang to his feet and produced from a small closet two swords and, throwing one on the table, ordered one of those present to defend himself. Recognizing that the affair might terminate seriously, one of the guests kicked over the table, throwing the lamp to the floor and enveloping the room in sudden darkness. The party “broke up” then and there, and the company made forthe Gully road that they might live to fight another day. Herbert was thoroughly crazed by this time, and chased his friends up to and down Belleville avenue. Finally the pursued separated and the pursuer kept on after one of them even to the Black Horse tavern (Broad street and Belleville avenue), where an escape was effected.

A race modeled on Æsop’s fable is by no means an everyday occurrence, but Herbert was by no means an everyday citizen. He seems to have been as fond of a joke as he is said to have been of a bottle, and these two loves furnished a modern version of the Hare and Tortoise fable. The following facts are given me by Mr. James S. Taylor, who was an eye witness of the event, and who secured missing details from one of the participants later.

But before going on with the story suppose we hear what the local poet had to say on the subject:—

This is the tale of a raceThat long years gone took placeOn the broad river PassaicWhen times were archaic,And here are the facts in the case:One Herbert of eccentric renownChallenged a friend, of the town,And a supper of gameShould be prize for the same,And with plenty of wine washed down.The challenged was clumsy at rowingAnd his boat very poor was at going,While Herbert’s was lightAnd his rowing a sightTo set all his backers a-crowing.But, like the hare in the ancient race,Herbert likewise did slacken his pace,And soon sought his ease‘Neath the leaves where the treesOn the waters their shadows did trace.A bottle he had from the vineAnd was having a jolly good time,When his friend labored by,To whom Herbert did cry:“Stop in and have sup of my wine.”But the tortoise kept steadily at workWhile the hare on the bank still did shirk—Where drink of the gods held him fast,Where the cool, dark shadows were castAnd the scent of wild flowers did lurk.The end came as it should in such case,For the tortoise, though slow, won the race,And ’twas Herbert who paid for that supper of game.The story is ended, but for details of sameWe’ll drop into prose for a space.

This is the tale of a raceThat long years gone took placeOn the broad river PassaicWhen times were archaic,And here are the facts in the case:

This is the tale of a race

That long years gone took place

On the broad river Passaic

When times were archaic,

And here are the facts in the case:

One Herbert of eccentric renownChallenged a friend, of the town,And a supper of gameShould be prize for the same,And with plenty of wine washed down.

One Herbert of eccentric renown

Challenged a friend, of the town,

And a supper of game

Should be prize for the same,

And with plenty of wine washed down.

The challenged was clumsy at rowingAnd his boat very poor was at going,While Herbert’s was lightAnd his rowing a sightTo set all his backers a-crowing.

The challenged was clumsy at rowing

And his boat very poor was at going,

While Herbert’s was light

And his rowing a sight

To set all his backers a-crowing.

But, like the hare in the ancient race,Herbert likewise did slacken his pace,And soon sought his ease‘Neath the leaves where the treesOn the waters their shadows did trace.

But, like the hare in the ancient race,

Herbert likewise did slacken his pace,

And soon sought his ease

‘Neath the leaves where the trees

On the waters their shadows did trace.

A bottle he had from the vineAnd was having a jolly good time,When his friend labored by,To whom Herbert did cry:“Stop in and have sup of my wine.”

A bottle he had from the vine

And was having a jolly good time,

When his friend labored by,

To whom Herbert did cry:

“Stop in and have sup of my wine.”

But the tortoise kept steadily at workWhile the hare on the bank still did shirk—Where drink of the gods held him fast,Where the cool, dark shadows were castAnd the scent of wild flowers did lurk.

But the tortoise kept steadily at work

While the hare on the bank still did shirk—

Where drink of the gods held him fast,

Where the cool, dark shadows were cast

And the scent of wild flowers did lurk.

The end came as it should in such case,For the tortoise, though slow, won the race,And ’twas Herbert who paid for that supper of game.The story is ended, but for details of sameWe’ll drop into prose for a space.

The end came as it should in such case,

For the tortoise, though slow, won the race,

And ’twas Herbert who paid for that supper of game.

The story is ended, but for details of same

We’ll drop into prose for a space.

Herbert was well acquainted with Frank Harrison, veteran of the war with Mexico and keeper of the North Ward Hotel on Broad street, opposite Bridge. At some convivial point in his existence he suggestedto Harrison that the two have a boat race on the Passaic, from Belleville to Newark, the prize to be a game supper, and the latter, being game himself, though no boatman, accepted the challenge.

The only condition or obligation of the race was that they should start together, and that the first man to cross the finishing line should win. Each could choose his own boat and suit himself as to rowing. Herbert, living on the river, had a light boat which he knew how to handle, was familiar with the currents and eddies and was moreover a good oarsman, while his opponent knew nothing of the Passaic or its ways. The day was warm, the start was made on time and Harrison received the inverted plaudits of the company assembled for the occasion, for it seemed to these wise ones that there could be but one end to such an event. Herbert was away promptly and soon out of sight around the bend where Second river loses its identity, while the dispenser of strong waters was yet finding himself, but as he rowed our eccentric friend became warm and a black bottle, which he had brought along for company, looked up at him from the bottom of the boat with an invitation he could not resist.

He was now well on his way and still his antagonist was not in sight, therefore, hurry seemed out of place, and then the cool depths of the tree-shaded river bank looked inviting and, thinking to tarry but a moment, he put the boat about for the shore.

Once on shore and stretched at his ease the necessityfor any race at all did not appear plain to our hero and he gurgled the time away, blissfully careless as to what might happen out in the hot sunshine. Thus the second boat came along, passed and continued on down toward the goal. Possibly Herbert thought he could at any time overtake his clumsy antagonist, possibly he did not go so far in his speculations; whatever his idea was, the tortoise won the race and the game supper.

Herbert shot himself in the Stevens House, New York, on May 17, 1858. He was buried in Mount Pleasant Cemetery, overlooking the river he knew so well, and his epitaph, which he is said to have suggested himself, is the single Latin word “Infelice”.

In 1743 a Dr. Edward Pigot lived hereabouts, as is noted in the Town Meeting of that year, quoted elsewhere; who he was or whence he came is not for me to say. In 1791 Abraham Sandford, Jr., and Elisha Sandford, lived in an old house on the site of the Herbert house, while building the Sandford dwelling, which still stands nearly opposite the Point House. As early as 1680 the property was owned by Henry Rowe, and remained in the possession of the family until about 1812. Mary Rowe, a witch, lived in a cabin here, and may be the same person referred to elsewhere as Moll De Grow.

After that I find no record of a dwelling here until Herbert built. After his death this house wasoccupied for a short time by Mr. Joseph S. Rano, a shoemaker by trade, and a great hunter and a haunter of the river and its banks; then came Mr. Sanchez y Dolce, who resided here until the dwelling was destroyed by fire. Then came the cemetery, and it is now the dwelling place of many dead.

Those who only know the Passaic of to-day can hardly realize that there was once a “Green Island” lying off the northern end of Mount Pleasant Cemetery which was a noted rendezvous for wild ducks and geese, with enough water between it and the shore to enable river craft to navigate the channel.

This Green Island was a thorn in the side of the cemetery people, who purchased it for $ 1,000, or thought they did; but soon came those who bluffed them into buying it over again, and this time they paid $10,000. When the Erie came it claimed that the cemetery had no rights in Green Island at all, and calmly pre-empted it for trackage purposes.

Seventy-five years ago this was a hunter’s paradise, and even within the memory of some of us old codgers the fishing for shad and smelts was a well established industry. In fact, the fishing rights of Green Island were for hire, as I am told that one could rent them for a day or a week and do his own fishing. Old Fink, whoever he was, once gathered in five hundred shad in one haul; at least one of his contemporaries doessolemnly affirm such to have been the case, and another as calmly tells me that fourteen bushels of smelts were the reward of two hauls, of which he had cognizance.

This almost sounds as if we were again on the lake of Gennesaret. But still greater wonders are recorded by Mr. William Stimis, eighty-seven years of age, who has heard his father say that he had seen 1,200 shad caught in one haul, and he, William, with three others, gathered in 120 bushels of smelts in one night. He also tells of a striped bass weighing sixty-six pounds, sturgeon six feet long and of a host of lesser fish that swam the Passaic.

In Graham’s American Monthly Magazine, 1854, appears a “Memoir on the Smelt of the Passaic River”, by Frank Forrester, from which the following brief facts are taken:—

The author was fond of classical allusions and high sounding phrases, and devotes two of his four pages to telling us how much he knows of things that do not pertain to the subject in hand, but when he gets down to “the delicious little fish known as the Smelt” we learn that it is the smallest of the salmon family, that the American smelt is larger than, and superior to, the European variety, and that its zoological name “osmerus” is from the Greek, and means “to give forth a perfume”, this having reference to the peculiar odor of cucumbers it exhales when fresh.

The smelt of the Passaic and Raritan rivers wasan entirely different fish from that of the Connecticut and more eastern rivers, and commanded a far higher price in the New York markets, though much smaller, the majority being under six inches in length while the eastern smelt averages eleven to twelve inches. The whole fish was of the most brilliant pearly silver, with the slightest possible changeable hue of greenish blue along the back, “The peculiar cucumber odor, in the freshly caught fish, and the extreme delicacy of the flesh, both of which are (1854) so far superior in the fish of the Passaic, as to be obvious to the least inquisitive observer”. This Passaic smelt Mr. Herbert found agreed in every particular with the description of the European smelt.

In the springs of 1853-4 no school of fish, either shad or smelt, ran up the river owing, it was believed, to the establishment of a chain ferry about a mile above Newark bay. Mr. Herbert never knew of a well authenticated case where the smelt had been taken with bait, but states that they could be taken with the scarlet Ibis fly, and that he had himself killed them thus on the Passaic.

Two well known figures of the Green Island waters were those of the “Two Horaces”, as they were called, Messrs. Horace H. Nichols and Horace Carter, brothers-in-law, neighbors and good friends. They constructed a comfortable boat for the purpose and might have been seen almost any pleasant afternoon, when the fishing was on, placidly waiting for a bite.

THE POINT HOUSE.

When the Erie came it drove spiles into the tender bosom of Green Island, and in time filled in a solid road bed, and where we once hunted for the roots and buds of the calamus docks have been built and filled in, and our island has lost its identity. All this filling has so changed the outline of the river bank that it is not now evident why the “Point House” was so named, though there was a time when this was a well developed point.

Accounts differ somewhat as to the old-time owners of the Point House property, even the same man does not altogether agree with himself on this point. It is said that Judge Elias Boudinot, a Newarker, secured the property from the state, there being no other claimant for it. It was probably purchased on November 12, 1799, from the Judge by Abraham Van Emburgh who, about 1810-14, left suddenly for parts unknown because of a financial panic in the Van Emburgh family.

The Point House.The Point House. Said to be 150 years old. The scene of many a story and incident.

The Point House. Said to be 150 years old. The scene of many a story and incident.

The property was sold by order of the court on July 24, 1811, to Thomas Whitlock who, on August 22, 1811, sold it to Peter Sandford; his heirs disposed of it on February 8, 1832, to William Duncan, John Cunningham, Sebastian Duncan and John Duncan. Another account makes Simeon Stivers an owner one hundred years ago, and also mentions one William Glasby and Miles I’Anson as subsequent owners.

PHŒBE KING AND THE POINT HOUSE.

That the Point House was a place of resort at an early date would appear from the following anecdote told me by Mrs. R. H. Brewster, a granddaughter of that Phœbe King who furnished the original material for the story, and who lived just below in the King house. The incident occurred before 1820, and came to Mrs. Brewster from her mother.

During certain seasons of the year the men of the neighborhood were in the habit of going on what were known as fishing trips on the river, but though they fished within sight of their own doors, they would remain away from home for two or three days, using the Point House, which was then run by a woman, as headquarters, and here they indulged in what were technically known as “fish dinners”, and these fish dinners, it would appear, were conducive to more or less conviviality. The fact that “Poddy”, husband of Phœbe, was much troubled with gout in later years may have been due to an excess of fish, or something taken at this time—however this is merely surmise.

Phœbe, it seems, came to the conclusion that her good man was eating too many fish dinners, and she said something to this effect, even going so far, when no attention was paid to her first hint, as to suggest that she might blow up the Point House if “Poddy” did not change his method of fishing, but he forgot all about it the next time one of his cronies came along and off he went again. Thus things ran along some two years or more until one day Phœbe discovered aladder standing against the side of the Point House, next the kitchen chimney, at a time when a “fish dinner” was hatching, and as our story opens a great chowder was brewing over the fire at the bottom of that chimney. Phœbe saw her opportunity and grasped it; procuring a long string, a small bag and what she thought was powder enough to give the fisherman a scare, she proceeded to work. But as the result shows she underestimated the ability of good black powder to do things.

With the powder inclosed in the bag and the bag fast to one end of the string the good wife cautiously ascended to the roof and, carefully placing the bag just over the chimney’s edge, she then came back to earth and, walking as far as the string would permit, let it go and hurried home. The result was even more conclusive than she had anticipated, for the explosion that followed not only distributed the chowder with absolute impartiality to the expectant company gathered around the hearth, but also removed a portion of the chimney.

It would appear that at that time there was a witch in the neighborhood, possibly old Moll DeGrow, whose power for evil was generally recognized, and the recipients of the chowder promptly came to the conclusion that the witch was at the bottom of the trouble, all but “Poddy”. He had a light, and hastened home with it, but there sat Phœbe, placidly spinning and greatly surprised at his tale of woe, and though he tried to get up an argument over the matterit lacked success, being much too one-sided, and it was many years before he was allowed to verify his suspicions. In the meantime fish dinners at the Point House went out of fashion, the new method of serving chowder not being looked on with favor.

For several years the Duncans carried on the printing and dyeing of silk handkerchiefs in the Point House, probably the first enterprise of this sort established in the vicinity of Newark. They secured the raw silk in New York and, after converting it into the finished article, one of the brothers would make up a bundle of handkerchiefs and trudge to New York with it. On leaving this place the Duncans established the woolen mills in Franklin, N. J., which have since been known as the Essex Works.

Apparently the next use to which the point was put was for the transshipping of freight, for we are told that rather more than fifty years ago this was a landing where vessels unloaded coal and other commodities which those from the back country, even so far as Bloomfield, were wont to cart home by way of the Division road and Murphy’s lane.

About 1855 our old Point House, which some say was built 150 years ago, was owned by George Jackson, who manufactured fireworks here, while his brother Charles followed the same trade in a small building just north. He is said to have paid $400 for the property. About once in so often the fireworks factory would explode, and it made such a nuisance ofitself because of these irregular excursions heavenward that Mr. Gould, who lived just across the way, purchased the property in order to quiet his nerves.

From fireworks to firewater sounds like an easy transition, and so we come to the Holt regime. The Holts and a brother of Mrs. Holt, Ed. Moorehouse, lived in the King house (which we have passed without knowing it, and to which we shall go back shortly) and some time before 1865 removed to the Point House, and here again was trouble for the neighbors, for while this was not a regular tavern, it would appear that a certain black bottle was part of its furniture, and that that black bottle was a magnet which no servant girl of the time and region could resist. Now a drunken cook is not generally regarded as any great addition to the family menage, as I am informed. It was no small undertaking to find a cook who would go so far into the country as this region then was, and when found, to have her almost immediately go astray via the Point House, was considered highly provoking.

The Holts made their own root beer, and there is a story to the effect that while a party of well known Newarkers was in the place one day a keg of this same beer, which stood on the bar, exploded and deluged the visitors with a combination of liquid sassafras and wintergreen that was shocking to see and worse to bear, and it is recorded that those inundated failed to discover a funny side to the experience.

The “Floating Palace”, kept by Ed. Holt, appearsto have been a laudable effort on his part to benefit his friends and neighbors by catering to those who frequented the river. This was a boat anchored in the middle of the stream, which was reached by customers in small boats. It appears to be commonly thought that Ed. had a government license, but no local permit to retail liquor, and the boat was supposed to overcome the difficulty by straddling the county line. But one who knew Ed. well and knew the kind of a place he kept tells me that he sold nothing stronger than beer, and endeavored in every way to keep the boat of such a character that respectable parties could stop for refreshment, and that he was ably seconded in this by his Scotch-Irish wife, whose influence was all for good. Under more favorable circumstances Ed. Holt might have developed into a leading citizen. He was a man of character and of very temperate habits himself; a carpenter by trade, he always refused to employ men who were habitual drinkers.

For a short time there was a second floating palace anchored in Dead Man’s bend, nearly opposite the lower end of Green Island, which was thoroughly disreputable, and it is probable that the reputation of this was unjustly extended to Holt’s place, for many people are to-day of the opinion that the latter was not as clean as it might have been. The Floating Palace burned to the water’s edge while Ed. Holt was still proprietor, and the experiment was not tried again.

The Point House was long known to oarsmen asthe training ground of some of the famed scullers of the world. Captain Chris. Van Emburgh, mariner, was one of the noted characters who frequented the place; he was an old Passaic river skipper and came originally from its eastern bank.

Quite within the memory of those who are now beginning to be numbered with the older inhabitants, the place was one of the picturesque features of the river. Here were benches placed beneath the graceful willows which adorned the banks of the point; it was a good vantage ground from which to view the boat races when the local Tritons were trying their powers of endurance against outside barbarians. There were boats to let here, as full many a lover knew. But as the river became more and more foul such diversions ceased, and to-day the Point House stands shorn of all its old time attractions.

Old Black Tom was a well known, and many times damned, neighbor of the Point House. This was a large rock which lay almost in the middle of the channel, which at this point came close in to the western shore; at low water it was just covered, and one of the amusements of the boys was to step on the rock from a boat, when the person so doing had the appearance of walking on the water. But what was not so amusing, at least to the river men, was for a boat to run on the rock when the tide was falling. The canal boats which carried bricks or coal above frequently fell victims and, as every one knows how earnestlya rusty canaler talks when excited, there is no need to attempt a reproduction here.

It seemed natural to step from Green Island to the Point House and now, having disposed of the latter, we shall go back as far as the Gully road.

Just at the bend of the road on the north side stood, within the memory of man, a pump which was long a popular warm weather resort. This was on the old King property. Just when the first King came here, or where from, has not been ascertained; all we know is that a Jasper King was living at the junction of the Gully and River roads, an old man, at the time of the Revolution, and that his son, whose name is not now recalled, was a soldier under General Anthony Wayne and was killed in action. He is said to have been one of those who crossed the Delaware with Washington.

This son left one child, a son named Jasper, born July 18, 1775, who was brought up by his grandfather. Because of the confusion of tongues due to the similarity of name, the younger Jasper was nicknamed “Poddy”, this being a sort of explanatory title which is supposed to have described his midship section.

This grandson enlisted for the War of 1812 and was stationed at Sandy Hook, he never saw active service in the field, but served his time out and was honorably discharged. He married Phœbe Budd, January 6, 1795, and about 1817 built the house which formerly stood in the bend of the road. Mrs. HenryDavis, a granddaughter of this Jasper, recalls having heard her mother relate how, when Jasper was a very young child, he was taken by his mother to see the husband and father off to the war, and how the mother lifted him up so that the father, who was on horseback, could kiss the child good-bye. The father was killed in action and the child never saw him again.

The poorly shod condition of the soldiers at this time led to the throwing of their caps in the snow to stand in while waiting for the order to march. (This same tradition has also been handed down in the Phillips family, as noted elsewhere).

A story current in the King family indicates that a detachment of British or Hessian troops was camped at one time near the King house. For it is told how the young child Jasper was induced by these soldiers to bring them apples and potatoes from his grandfather’s cellar. He was too young to appreciate what he was doing, but the grandfather soon caught him at it, and put a stop to it. This story would indicate that the invaders were not always such merciless marauders as is generally supposed. The orchard from which these apples came was situated on the Gibbs’ hill and was noted for the fine quality of its fruit.

The last Jasper, who died October 1, 1854, had two sons, William and John, and eight daughters. John was a ship-builder, his yard being located in North Belleville. William was a brass molder and later had a sash and blind factory in Newark; he was noted asa temperance lecturer and traveled the country over in the cause.

One of the incidents of the Revolutionary period had somewhat to do with the King house. A son of Joseph Hedden, Jr., “the martyr patriot” of Newark, escaped from his father’s house while the British soldiers were dragging the senior out of his bed and into the street. The boy, though but half clad, jumped from a window and ran to the Passaic river at Lombardy street and up the river on the ice and snow to the Gully road.

He stopped at the older King house for information and such scant clothing as they could afford to share with him and, believing that the soldiers were after him left by the Gully road for the Long Hill or Bloomfield road, where he found refuge in the house of a friend named Morris and was furnished with stimulants, food and clothing, and had his frozen feet treated.

The King house was later included in the Gibbs purchase and was occupied by the gardener employed by Mr. Gibbs, and while so used it was destroyed by fire. Mrs. Gibbs remembers the building as a typical old frame farm house snuggled down under the shelter of the hill, embowered in roses and so picturesquely situated as to make her long for the simple life.

There have been many stories in the past of CaptainKidd and his buried treasure, and there has been much digging in the fields hereabout by those who would acquire riches without due process of labor, but the only find that I have heard of occurred where the Gully road joins the River road.

The building of the Erie Railroad necessitated a change where the Gully becomes the River road, and a strip some eighty feet wide was lopped off the Gibbs property. When the fence was moved back certain articles of silver were dug up by the workmen in the slender triangle which now lies between the drive and the railroad. The matter was kept quiet, presumably through fear that the stuff would be claimed, and the pieces disappeared before any one could inspect them.

Where this occurred would have been just in front of the older King house and it is possible that these articles were family treasures buried during the Revolution in fear of a British raid.

A story has come down from the elders to the effect that at some point in the game of war two detachments of British troops were foraging in this region apparently each “unbeknownst” to the other, for the legend has it that while one was on the River road nearly opposite Jasper King’s, the other, which was on higher ground, mistook them for the enemy and fired a volley among them, whereupon the hirelings rushed for the cover of the river bank, which was much higher then than now, and in their excitementthrew their guns into the river. Some of these guns were recovered after the war by fishermen.

What has been known to most of those now living as the Gibbs house is an imposing brown stone edifice which was built by Governor Pennington for his daughter Mary when she became the wife of Hugh Toler. In due time the place was sold to Mr. Alfred H. Gibbs, and has since been known as Thornhill. It was a sightly place with the river at its feet.

The next place north was that known of late as the Terhune place, which stands just above the Riverside station. The original dweller on or near this site is said to have been a Maverick, but nothing more than this is known. Then came one Matthew Banks who, according to story, was so lazy that he hoed his corn on horseback. Mr. Banks was quite as much fisherman as farmer, and spent much of his time on the river, and they do say that the old fellow would turn a penny now and then by selling herring for shad to the unsophisticated. Older residents tell me that there was formerly a hill of some altitude between this place and the river which cut out any view of the water from the house, and to which children were taken on Fourth of July nights as a vantage point from which to view the fireworks. Mr. Banks came here about 1820 and was possibly the last slave owner in this neighborhood. He is said to have purchaseda negro from John Hawthorn, the quarryman, and, when he sold the place, among the chattels he wished to dispose of was a colored boy aged 14 years, “used to farm work”.

After Matthew Banks a Mr. Small, who was the head printer in the Daily Advertiser office, took up his residence here, and following him, if I have the history right, came Mr. Terhune, who built the present house. Here also lived Mr. Horace Carter while his own dwelling was building on the Gully road, and thus we come to modern times.

“Second day of July in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and ninety-one, Abraham Sandford, Jr., of New Barbadoes Bergen County, bought from Thomas Eagles and wife Mary a certain parcel of land. Beginning at the road that leads from Newark to Second river at the east corner of the land of Abraham Stivers”, etc. So runs the old deed which announces the advent of the Sandford family on this side of the river.

Captain William Sandford, the original settler of the name in this country, came from the Barbadoes Islands in 1668 as the representative of Nathaniel Kingsland “of the same Island of Barbadoes, Esq.” He purchased “all that Neck of Land lying and being between Pisaick and Hackingsack Rivers”. The lower seven miles of this tract beginning at Newark bay and extending to the copper mine, and “Commonly then known by the name of New Barbadoes” fell in duecourse to Captain Sandford. The Captain was a noted man in his day. In 1682 he was commissioned Attorney of the Province, in 1699 he was appointed by Governor Carteret one of his two deputy governors during the absence of the Governor in England; he was for years in the Governor’s Council and prominent in affairs of church and state.

The Abraham Sandford, Jr., who was the first of the name to settle on the west bank of the Passaic, was a great-great-grandson of William Sandford. He built the house (1794-5) which still stands, but in a greatly remodeled condition, just below and opposite the Point House, and which is to-day occupied by his grandchildren. As the family grew and multiplied this particular branch was known as the “Pine Tree Sandfords”, owing to the fact that a magnificent tree of the species long flourished near the dwelling.

The tract originally purchased by Abraham Sandford, Jr., comprised about thirty acres, extending to the Back road. In 1801 he added to his possessions by purchasing the river front from Simeon Stivers, and in 1817 bought an adjoining half acre from Stewart Elder. Abraham, Jr., had three children: Susan, Maria and Abraham A. The son married Charity Yansen, whose father was a soldier of the Revolution; they resided on the homestead; their children were Elizabeth M., Emma L., Mary O. and Frank. The first and last of these still live in the old house.

Polly Van Winkle was one of the picturesquefigures of the River road some two or three generations ago. The neighbors appear to have stood in some fear of her lest she take offense and vent her displeasure by setting fire to their property; thus she came and went much as it pleased her. She appears to have had no home of her own, but carried all her worldly goods in a pack on her back, and when she appeared at some door it was to walk in and make herself at home, declining to go no matter how broad the hints that were dropped. She never wished a bed, always preferring to sleep on the floor close to her bundle, which was never allowed to leave her sight.

Next as we progress northward is the Munn house.

The Munns came to America from England or Wales, and were among the early Newark settlers from New England. Captain Benjamin Munn of Hartford, Conn., served in the Pequot Indian War of 1637. He removed to Springfield, 1649; was probably killed by the Indians, 1675. His two sons, John and James, were in the Indian fight at Turners Falls, 1676. John settled in Westfield, died 1684, leaving a widow and two sons, John and Benjamin. The widow married, 1686, John Richards, the schoolmaster of Westfield, and removed with him and her two boys to Deerfield, where his house was burned in the destruction of the town by the French and Indians in 1704. A few years afterward he removed to Newark, N. J., where he was the schoolmaster in 1718. His stepson, John Munn, married Mary, sister of John Richardsand widow of John Ward, about 1720, and had Joseph, Samuel and Benjamin. Benjamin was born 1730 and died 1818—lived all his life on his farm, now the town of East Orange. Two of his sons, David and Amos, served in the Revolutionary War. After the war Amos married a daughter of Silas Dod and settled in Bloomfield—died in 1808, leaving Silas and other children. Silas continued his business till 1825, when he removed with his wife and two boys, William Alonzo and Bethuel, to the old Col. Van Cortland place on the Passaic, just below the mouth of Second river. Here he resided five years—1825-1830—during which time his son Henry Benson and daughter Emeline were born. He then moved to Belleville, where he lost his daughter Emeline, and where his son Silas, Jr., was born.

In 1850 he purchased the Van Emburgh place, consisting of four or five acres, opposite the old Point House.

This tract was conveyed on June 7, 1790, by Gaspars Van Winkle and wife and Aurentee Due, heirs of Gideon and Mary Smith, to Abraham Van Emburgh. Most of the property remained in the Van Emburgh family until sold to Silas Munn, March 16, 1850. At this time there were two small dwellings on the land, one was moved back and converted into a barn, the other was moved, remodeled and added to in 1893 and is still standing. Here Silas died in 1873.

The children of Silas were William Alonzo, Bethuel, Silas, Henry Benson and Emeline. WilliamAlonzo married a sister of John Boyd of Woodside, and removed to New York; his second wife was Hannah Wilson, with whom he removed to Milwaukee, where he died in 1876. Bethuel married Sarah, another sister of John Boyd, and after the death of his mother, in 1866, occupied the house on the River road until his decease in 1899. Henry Benson studied law, moved to Madison and Portage City, Wis., of which latter place he was elected mayor, and from which he was sent to the Legislature. He finally removed to Washington, D. C., where he still resides; he has owned the homestead for many years. Silas, Jr., followed civil engineering, went west and finally settled on a farm near Grant City, Mo., where he now resides.

Next in order stands the Esley Melius house. Old deeds in the possession of Mr. Theo. Melius tell us that on December 11, 1799, Abraham Van Emburgh and Rhoda, his wife, sold to John P. Sandford for the sum of $3.84, at a place called Belleville, a part of a water lot, which the said Abraham Van Emburgh purchased from Elisha Boudinot, Esqr., by a deed bearing date November 12, 1799; this adjoined the lot “now conveyed” to Charles Hedenburgh.

March 20, 1866, John I. Sandford and Rhoda, his wife; Asa Torry and Mary, his wife; Catherine Udall and Sarah Hopson quitclaimed the above water lot to Rachael Sandford, this being part of the real estate of the late John P. Sandford.

March 20, 1860, Rachael Sandford deeded the above water lot to Ezra Gould for the sum of $500.

These transfers show the ownership of the waterfront of the Melius place since 1799, and possibly some time before that date.

The north part of the present Melius house was erected by John Stimis, probably at the same time that he erected his own house, just above, 1805. Amos Munn, son of Benjamin, of East Orange, and father of Silas Munn, ancestor of the River road branch, born 1763, died 1808, was at the time of his death building a dwelling on the lot now occupied by the Foster Home; his executors exchanged the unfinished building for a two-acre lot, which is now part of the Melius homestead. In 1811 the executors sold the lot to Jean Baptiste Bacque. Later there dwelt here one Hedenburgh, if I am correctly informed; then a Vincent whose daughter, Dorcas, married Gilbert Pullinger—the Pullinger reign lasted from 1830 to 1836. Mrs. Pullinger appears to have been a character with more loves than come to most of us. After her came the Duncans, a Zeiss, William Patterson, Ezra Gould and Esley Melius.

By a deed dated October 1, 1853, John R. Sked and Sarah C., his wife, sold the property, which was in shape like the letter L, and which inclosed on two sides the property of Charles Daugherty, to Ezra Gould, subject to several mortgages held by William Patterson and others. And on May 1, 1857, Charles Daugherty and Rachael, his wife, sold to Ezra Goulda lot purchased in 1849 from William Patterson, which squared the Gould property.

April 12, 1866, Peter M. Myers and wife sold the Ezra Gould property to Sarah A. Melius, wife of Esley Melius, and the property has since remained in the Melius family.

Mrs. Melius was a daughter of Samuel Rust, the inventor of the Washington press, which was the foundation on which the great firm of R. Hoe & Co. was builded. The daughter received the best education that the times afforded girls, being placed first at a leading school in Poughkeepsie, then at the West Point Academy on Lake Champlain, and was given a finishing polish at Mrs. Jackson’s school on Broadway, New York, which was located just above Prince street on the site later occupied by the Metropolitan Hotel. She was a woman of strong convictions and was in her day a magazine writer of some note.

There is a story current that Mrs. Melius once held the Erie Railroad up at the point of her parasol by standing in the middle of the track and shaking that weapon at the approaching engine, which naturally stopped all a-tremble, whereupon the lady climbed on board a car and enjoyed a ride to New York. Just how much of this is fact and how much is fancy is not altogether clear at this distance.

The next house that can claim the dignity of age is that built about 1805 by Mr. John Stimis, son ofChristopher, and occupied during our early days by Col. Gilbert W. Cumming, and at present by the Andersons.

Christopher Stimis was the first of the name to settle in this neighborhood. He came some time before the Revolution, from a place then known as Weasel which, according to the Erskin Map No. 82 (made for the use of General Washington during the Revolution), was situated along the Passaic river, west side, some 3-4 miles north of the “Achquackhenonk” bridge (the present town of Passaic).

Christopher married a daughter of the house of Coeyman and built his home, on land that had come to his wife from her father’s estate, a few hundred feet north of the present Melius house. When the Revolutionary war came Christopher enlisted, and while in the army took a heavy cold and died of hasty consumption.

Christopher had two sons, John (1) and Henry (1).

John (1) had five sons: John, Peter, Christopher, Henry and William (the latter is the only one of this generation now living).

Henry (1), who lived in the old homestead just south of John, had four sons: John, Abraham, James and Thomas.

The above information comes from Mr. William Stimis, now 87 years of age, a grandson of Christopher. His memory is clear and he is quite certain of his facts.

While the first Stimis did not keep a tavern inthe ordinary sense, he did know how to brew beer, and for many years the house was a stopping place for thirsty souls. Even as late as the Revolution the brewing of beer was continued, for I am informed that the place was frequented both by Hessians from across the river and by such Continental soldiers as happened in the neighborhood.

There is a story which has been handed down in the Stimis family to the effect that some Hessians, while on this side, were hard pressed by a superior force of Americans, and in their haste to get away were compelled to bury certain treasure or loot of some sort in the field back of the Stimis house, toward Washington avenue. This treasure has been dug for within my own recollection, but so far as known was never found. The Hessians also left behind in the Stimis house some muskets and a camp kettle which are still in the possession of members of the family.

One of the characters of the River road some fifty or more years ago was “General” James or “Old Two Bottles”, as he was more familiarly known. General James was a shoemaker who lived under the bank, two hundred feet or so below the limekiln; in fact at about the spot known to my youth as “the Cedars”, where we boys learned to swim and had our clothes tied in knots to a chant which, as I remember it, went something like this:—

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