The village still contains a number of notably fine specimens of Colonial architecture, one of which is the Ludlow house, built in 1786. The present Ludlow, a grandson of Robert Fulton, having some money and much leisure, has turned the old place into a Fulton museum. The Miller house, formerly Muldor, an interesting relic of the year 1767, is known as the Court Martial House, it having been used for the trial and its cellar for the imprisonment of delinquents during the Revolution, the owner himself being among those who suffered, he being given the choice of paying $1,000 or serving two months. This appears to have been because the gentleman shirked his military duties. His thoughts on the subject of being haled a prisoner to his own cellar do not appear to have been recorded; possibly they would not look well in print, as it was written by an early traveler through this region that the inhabitants were much "addicted to misusing the blessed name of God." Mr. Miller, if inclined that way, certainly was afforded every opportunity. Other attractive places are the Webb house, erected about 1790; the Old Stone House, on the Post Road, formerly an inn, said to be haunted by the ghost of a murdered pedler, and the Dutch Church, 1767, in the northern edge of the village. In fact, buildings a hundred years old are too frequent to excite remark. Gen. James Watson Webb, whose father, Gen. Samuel B. Webb, was wounded on Bunker Hill, was born here, as was Judge William P. Van Ness, Aaron Burr's second in the Hamilton duel, and many another man known to fame.
HUDSON.
It is but a short distance to Hudson, whose history is so interestingly different from that of the other towns of the region that a few words concerning it may not be out of place, even if the Post Road does pass by on the other side. Here, in 1783, came certain Quakers from Providence and Newport, Nantucket and Edgartown. It seems that the British cruisers had crippled the whaling industry and other marine ventures in which these enterprising gentlemen were engaged, and they sought a more secluded haven from which to transact their business. Some of them brought, on the brig "Comet," houses framed and ready for immediate erection, but before placing them these methodical Quakers first laid out the town in regular form, establishing highways, and not allowing them to develop from cow paths, as was the honest Dutch fashion. A committee was appointed "to survey and plot the city," and another to see that the streets were given suitable names.
The settlers promptly opened clay pits, burned bricks, built a first-class wharf, and were regularly trading with New York within a year after they landed. A canoe ferry satisfied the earlier settlers, but "a gunwaled scow" was none too good for the new comers.
In 1785 it was the second port in the state; two ship yards were established, and a large ship, the Hudson, was nearly ready for launching. The fame of its hustle was attracting people from every side. March 31, 1785, the first newspaper was issued; April 22, 1785, a legislative act incorporated the place into a city; and by January, 1786, they had finished an aqueduct to bring in an abundant supply of pure water from two miles back in the country.
In 1790 it was made a port of entry. In 1793 the Bank of Columbia was chartered; in 1796-7 the city issued small bills and copper coins.
Hudson was incorporated the third city in the State, was the third port of entry, and had one of the three banks in the State. Once it started on the down grade, however, its "decline and fall off" was equally rapid.
POST ROAD.
Now to get back to the Post Road, where the pace is not quite so hot-foot. As the next town is Kinderhook, some fourteen miles away, there is plenty of time to view the beauties of nature and fill one's nostrils with its rich perfumes. Most of the year's work in the fields is finished; here and there the shocks are being overhauled for the corn, which is shucked as gathered, while the pumpkins are still accumulating sunshine for the golden Thanksgiving pie. From the barn yards come the pounding of the steam thresher or the creak of a windlass, suggesting that the hay crop is being baled. Everything is busy but the cows, who evidently do not like frosting on their cake and, having the day before them, can afford to wait till the good sun comes along to undo the work which has kept Jack Frost so busy all night.
The Catskills or Blue Mountains, as they are known from this distance, fill the western horizon, while the beautiful landscapes sloping down toward the river are so exquisite that the traveler involuntarily pauses to take it all in. For a goodly portion of the time the road keeps well up along a side hill, giving an extensive view over the valley beneath and to the mountains beyond—the autumn colors and softness are like the fairy dreams of childhood. With the blood dancing under the influence of the brisk morning air, walking is a luxury, and the glow that comes with the exercise, as well as every sight and sound, a new found joy.