“Wednesday, October 1, 1761.—Embarked at Presque Isle (Erie) at 7 o’clock, with the wind strong ahead, continued so all the day, notwithstanding it improved all day, and got to Jadaghque Creek, and carrying place, which is a fine harbor and encampment.”
In a letter from General Washington to General Irvine, dated Mount Vernon, October 31, 1788, he speaks thus of this portage:
“If the Chautauqua Lake at the head of the Connewango River approximates Lake Erie as closely as it is laid down in the draft you sent me, it presents a very short portage indeed between the two, and access to all those above the latter.
“I am, etc.,
“George Washington.”
One of Chautauqua’s earliest pioneers was William Peacock, who passed over this road in 1800. Ten years later he became the agent of the Holland Land Company. He was an eccentric and shrewd man, and in a short time became exceedingly wealthy, the hard working land owners thought at their expense. He was charged with reserving the choicest farms, best water powers and timber lands for himself and his favorites. The land holders also thought he was not giving them credit for interest which they paid from time to time upon their land, and these opinions found vent in the newspapers, and the agitation grew until on the 6th of February, 1836, a mob gathered from all parts of the county at Dewittville, a little hamlet on the shore of Chautauqua Lake.
Word was brought to Mr. Peacock at Mayville, a village at the head of the lake, and seven miles from Westfield, that a raid was to be made upon the land office that night, and that mischief might be done to his person unless he should make good his escape. Donald McKenzie, a northwestern fur trader, and brother of the McKenzie who discovered the river of that name, had three years previous to this come to Mayville to live, and was in the land office that dreary February afternoon when this alarming message was brought. The stalwart Scotchman, through whose veins flowed some of the proudest blood of Caledonia, feared neither “mon nor de’il.” It was his custom to wear a very long black coat which fell in ample folds around his massive frame. Mr. Peacock was an undersized man. Donald McKenzie cast the drapery of his inky cloak about the frightened little man and thus shielded and shrouded from sight, he hurried him up the hill to his home, whence he was soon taken in a covered sleigh to Westfield, and down the lake shore road to Buffalo as fast as horses could carry him, and none too soon was he out of the way, for at dusk a crowd of infuriated men, numbering two or three hundred, made a raid upon the land office, demolished it, and after working until near morning succeeded in forcing open the vault and seized the books, records and contracts and carried them two miles away, and heaping them up made a goodly bonfire of them. The ruins of the land office are yet to be seen in Mayville. The land holders by this mad proceeding brought only “confusion worse than death” upon themselves, while the prudent Peacock accumulated a wonderful property, and was afterward made judge. He left to one heir alone the whole village of Barcelona, the harbor of Westfield, situated just east of the mouth of Chautauqua Creek, the starting point of the French portage road. This harbor was made a port of entry by the general government. In 1828 a lighthouse was erected by a citizen at his own expense; a steamer named the “William Peacock,” for the hero of the land office story, was built; all craft on the lake stopped at the little port; a company was formed called the Barcelona Company; the village was enlarged, the streets being laid out in city fashion; corner lots sold for fabulous sums; men lost their heads; the place was to be a great port; when suddenly the railroad came creeping along the shore; the bubble broke; the mushroom town was a failure; fortunes were lost, and to-day Barcelona harbor is a deserted village with grass-grown streets, gaunt houses, whose windows stare reproachfully at the gay carriage loads passing by, and an old white lighthouse, which, like the ghostly finger of the past, seems to beckon to all to come and look upon the desolation around it. A few sad faced women who might have ridden in their carriages; brawny fishermen who might have owned their blocks and wharves and shipping, are the only inhabitants. Down on the beach of a bright autumn afternoon the nets are spread a-drying; little huts, whose half open doors reveal the hauls of herring and bass, are here and there; ruddy faced boys lie sprawling on the sand, sunning themselves; the trees have grown thick and tall about the lighthouse upon the cliff; no sound is heard save the hiss of the waves as they tumble in; the quaint little harbor wears a disappointed look. Old “Groats’ Inn,” though time has used it roughly, alone seems to try and hold its ancient smartness, like an antiquated spinster who wishes it understood that the reason she has never married is not that she never had an offer. Summer and winter for many long years has it stood there on the edge of the cliff, waiting for the rush of travel which never came; ready to give hospitality to man and beast, but no wayfarer ever knocks for admission and entertainment. There is nothing sadder than a deserted village. What a mockery it seems of all human hopes and ambitions. In these old houses that look as if they were weary waiting through so many long years, what homely, uneventful lives have been spent; what tired eyes have closed for the last time; what aching and disappointed hearts have ceased to beat, thankful, no doubt, that the worry and fret were all over.
When old Judge Peacock died, his heirs each received one thirteenth of his vast estate. One grand-nephew, whose father and mother had been cousins, fell heir to two-thirteenths, and from being a poor lad living among the fishermen, found himself the possessor of this entire harbor and nearly all the land lying between it and Westfield.
In June, 1836, four months after the land office at Mayville had been destroyed, William H. Seward having been appointed to the agency, and also having an interest in the purchase, established the land office in Westfield and lived there until his election as governor of New York. The Seward mansion is one of the attractions to visitors. It is a “brave old house,” with a beautiful lawn, fronting on the village green. Its trees are trimmed in a peculiar old-fashioned way. Its iron gates stand open, as if inviting the passer to enter and look upon its quaint surroundings. Another stately old-time mansion is that of the Patterson family. It was originally occupied by a brother of Seward’s, and when a member of the family died its front door was painted black! A superb lawn shaded by grand old trees sweeps away on one side; a garden of grapevines lies on the other; in front great beds of scarlet geranium blaze, and the trees and shrubs are out in the same quaint pattern as those upon the Seward estate. The fashion of other days is plainly to be seen in everything pertaining to both these rare old places.
The drives about the town are picturesque and delightful. From nearly every street and road you get enchanting views of the lake on one hand and the range of hills on the other. The streets are laid in curves, and you are continually sweeping rounded corners and coming upon unexpected beauties. Old trees meet above your head; you cross and recross the gorge dividing the town; far below you rushes the stream; down a shaded street you go past old-fashioned homes and modern villas in sharp contrast, and suddenly through overhanging boughs you catch the glory of the blue waters of old Erie; you are soon in Barcelona harbor; from there you can drive for miles along the beach, now on the cliff, with the waves thundering in many feet below you, now further back from the shore past finely cultivated farms, vineyards, orchards, fields “afoam with sweetness,” and never failing to catch through grove, across fields of waving corn and grain, wooded hollows through which clear waters run, glimpses of the lake’s witchery.