“An acorn fell from an old oak tree,
  And lay on the frosty ground ­
  ‘O, what shall the fate of the acorn be?’
  Was whispered all around
  By low-toned voices chiming sweet,
  Like a floweret’s bell when swung ­
  And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet,
  And the beetle’s hoofs up-rung.”

  Mrs. Seba Smith.

There is a wide-spread error on the subject of American scenery.  From the size of the lakes, the length and breadth of the rivers, the vast solitudes of the forests, and the seemingly boundless expanse of the prairies, the world has come to attach to it an idea of grandeur; a word that is in nearly every case, misapplied.  The scenery of that portion of the American continent which has fallen to the share of the Anglo-Saxon race, very seldom rises to a scale that merits this term; when it does, it is more owing to the accessories, as in the case of the interminable woods, than to the natural face of the country.  To him who is accustomed to the terrific sublimity of the Alps, the softened and yet wild grandeur of the Italian lakes, or to the noble witchery of the shores of the Mediterranean, this country is apt to seem tame, and uninteresting as a whole; though it certainly has exceptions that carry charms of this nature to the verge of loveliness.

Of the latter character is the face of most of that region which lies in the angle formed by the junction of the Mohawk with the Hudson, extending as far south, or even farther, than the line of Pennsylvania, and west to the verge of that vast rolling plain which composes Western New York.  This is a region of more than ten thousand square miles of surface, embracing to-day, ten counties at least, and supporting a rural population of near half a million of souls, excluding the river towns.

All who have seen this district of country, and who are familiar with the elements of charming, rather than grand scenery it possesses, are agreed in extolling its capabilities, and, in some instances, its realities.  The want of high finish is common to everything of this sort in America; and, perhaps we may add, that the absence of picturesqueness as connected with the works of man, is a general defect; still, this particular region, and all others resembling it ­ for they abound on the wide surface of the twenty-six states ­has beauties of its own, that it would be difficult to meet with in any of the older portions of the earth.

They who have done us the honour to read our previous works, will at once understand that the district to which we allude, is that of which we have taken more than one occasion to write; and we return to it now, less with a desire to celebrate its charms, than to exhibit them in a somewhat novel, and yet perfectly historical aspect.  Our own earlier labours will have told the reader, that all of this extended district of country, with the exception of belts of settlements along the two great rivers named, was a wilderness, anterior to the American revolution.  There was a minor class of exceptions to this general rule, however, to which it will be proper to advert, lest, by conceiving us too literally, the reader may think he can convict us of a contradiction.  In order to be fully understood, the explanations shall be given at a little length.

While it is true, then, that the mountainous region, which now contains the counties of Schoharie, Otsego, Chenango, Broome, Delaware, &c., was a wilderness in 1775, the colonial governors had begun to make grants of its lands, some twenty years earlier.  The patent of the estate on which we are writing lies before us; and it bears the date of 1769, with an Indian grant annexed, that is a year or two older.  This may be taken as a mean date for the portion of country alluded to; some of the deeds being older, and others still more recent.  These grants of land were originally made, subject to quit-rents to the crown; and usually on the payment of heavy fees to the colonial officers, after going through the somewhat supererogatory duty of “extinguishing the Indian title,” as it was called.  The latter were pretty effectually “extinguished” in that day, as well as in our own; and it would be a matter of curious research to ascertain the precise nature of the purchase-money given to the aborigines.  In the case of the patent before us, the Indian right was “extinguished” by means of a few rifles, blankets, kettles, and beads; though the grant covers a nominal hundred thousand, and a real hundred and ten or twenty thousand acres of land.

The abuse of the grants, as land became more valuable, induced a law, restricting the number of acres patented to any one person, at any one time, to a thousand.  Our monarchical predecessors had the same facilities, and it may be added, the same propensities, to rendering a law a dead letter, as belongs to our republican selves.  The patent on our table, being for a nominal hundred thousand acres, contains the names of one hundred different grantees, while three several parchment documents at its side, each signed by thirty-three of these very persons, vest the legal estate in the first named, for whose sole benefit the whole concession was made; the dates of the last instruments succeeding, by one or two days, that of the royal patent itself.

Such is the history of most of the original titles to the many estates that dotted the region we have described, prior to the revolution.  Money and favouritism, however were not always the motives of these large concessions.  Occasionally, services presented their claims; and many instances occur in which old officers of the army, in particular, received a species of reward, by a patent for land, the fees being duly paid, and the Indian title righteously “extinguished.”  These grants to ancient soldiers were seldom large, except in the cases of officers of rank; three or four thousand well-selected acres, being a sufficient boon to the younger sons of Scottish lairds, or English squires, who had been accustomed to look upon a single farm as an estate.

As most of the soldiers mentioned were used to forest life, from having been long stationed at frontier posts, and had thus become familiarized with its privations, and hardened against its dangers, it was no unusual thing for them to sell out, or go on half-pay, when the wants of a family began to urge their claims, and to retire to their “patents,” as the land itself, as well as the instrument by which it was granted, was invariably termed, with a view of establishing themselves permanently as landlords.

These grants from the crown, in the portions of the colony of New York that lie west of the river counties, were generally, if not invariably, simple concessions of the fee, subject to quit-rents to the king, and reservations of mines of the precious metals, without any of the privileges of feudal seignory, as existed in the older manors on the Hudson, on the islands, and on the Sound.  Why this distinction was made, it exceeds our power to say; but, that the fact was so, as a rule, we have it in proof, by means of a great number of the original patents, themselves, that have been transmitted to us from various sources.  Still, the habits of “home” entailed the name, even where the thing was not to be found.  Titular manors exist, in a few instances, to this day, where no manorial rights were ever granted; and manor-houses were common appellations for the residences of the landlords of large estates, that were held in fee, without any exclusive privileges, and subject to the reservation named.  Some of these manorial residences were of so primitive an appearance, as to induce the belief that the names were bestowed in pleasantry; the dwellings themselves being of logs, with the bark still on them, and the other fixtures to correspond.  Notwithstanding all these drawbacks, early impressions and rooted habits could easily transfer terms to such an abode; and there was always a saddened enjoyment among these exiles, when they could liken their forest names and usages to those they had left in the distant scenes of their childhood.

The effect of the different causes we have here given was to dot the region described, though at long intervals, with spots of a semi-civilized appearance, in the midst of the vast ­nay, almost boundless ­ expanse of forest.  Some of these early settlements had made considerable advances towards finish and comfort, ere the war of ’76 drove their occupants to seek protection against the inroads of the savages; and long after the influx of immigration which succeeded the peace, the fruits, the meadows, and the tilled fields of these oases in the desert, rendered them conspicuous amidst the blackened stumps, piled logs, and smooty fallows of an active and bustling settlement.  At even a much later day, they were to be distinguished by the smoother surfaces of their fields, the greater growth and more bountiful yield of their orchards, and by the general appearance of a more finished civilization, and of greater age.  Here and there, a hamlet had sprung up; and isolated places, like Cherry Valley and Wyoming, were found, that have since become known to the general history of the country.

Our present tale now leads us to the description of one of those early, personal, or family settlements, that had grown up, in what was then a very remote part of the territory in question, under the care and supervision of an ancient officer of the name of Willoughby.  Captain Willoughby, after serving many years, had married an American wife, and continuing his services until a son and daughter were born, he sold his commission, procured a grant of land, and determined to retire to his new possessions, in order to pass the close of his life in the tranquil pursuits of agriculture, and in the bosom of his family.  An adopted child was also added to his cares.  Being an educated as well as a provident man, Captain Willoughby had set about the execution of this scheme with deliberation, prudence, and intelligence.  On the frontiers, or lines, as it is the custom to term the American boundaries, he had become acquainted with a Tuscarora, known by the English sobriquet of “Saucy Nick.”  This fellow, a sort of half-outcast from his own people, had early attached himself to the whites, had acquired their language, and owing to a singular mixture of good and bad qualities, blended with great native shrewdness, he had wormed himself into the confidence of several commanders of small garrisons, among whom was our captain.  No sooner was the mind of the latter made up, concerning his future course, than he sent for Nick, who was then in the fort; when the following conversation took place: 

“Nick,” commenced the captain, passing his hand over his brow, as was his wont when in a reflecting mood; “Nick, I have an important movement in view, in which you can be of some service to me.”

The Tuscarora, fastening his dark basilisk-like eyes on the soldier, gazed a moment, as if to read his soul; then he jerked a thumb backward, over his own shoulder, and said, with a grave smile ­

“Nick understand.  Want six, two, scalp off Frenchman’s head; wife and child; out yonder, over dere, up in Canada.  Nick do him ­what you give?”

“No, you red rascal, I want nothing of the sort ­it is peace now, (this conversation took place in 1764), and you know I never bought a scalp, in time of war.  Let me hear no more of this.”

“What you want, den?” asked Nick, like one who was a good deal puzzled.

“I want land ­good land ­little, but good.  I am about to get a grant ­a patent ­”

“Yes,” interrupted Nick, nodding; “I know him ­paper to take away Indian’s hunting-ground.”

“Why, I have no wish to do that ­I am willing to pay the red men reasonably for their right, first.”

“Buy Nick’s land, den ­better dan any oder.”

“Your land, knave! ­You own no land ­belong to no tribe ­have no rights to sell.”

“What for ask Nick help, den?”

“What for? ­Why because you know a good deal, though you own literally nothing.  That’s what for.”

“Buy Nick know, den.  Better dan he great fader know, down at York.”

“That is just what I do wish to purchase.  I will pay you well, Nick, if you will start to-morrow, with your rifle and a pocket-compass, off here towards the head-waters of the Susquehannah and Delaware, where the streams run rapidly, and where there are no fevers, and bring me an account of three or four thousand acres of rich bottom-land, in such a way as a surveyor can find it, and I can get a patent for it.  What say you, Nick; will you go?”

“He not wanted.  Nick sell ’e captain, his own land:  here in ’e fort.”

“Knave, do you not know me well enough not to trifle, when I am serious?”

“Nick ser’ous too ­Moravian priest no ser’ouser more dan Nick at dis moment.  Got land to sell.”

Captain Willoughby had found occasion to punish the Tuscarora, in the course of his services; and as the parties understood each other perfectly well, the former saw the improbability of the latter’s daring to trifle with him.

“Where is this land of yours, Nick,” he inquired, after studying the Indian’s countenance for a moment.  “Where does it lie, what is it like, how much is there of it, and how came you to own it?”

“Ask him just so, ag’in,” said Nick, taking up four twigs, to note down the questions, seriatim.

The captain repeated his inquiries, the Tuscarora laying down a stick at each separate interrogatory.

“Where he be?” answered Nick, taking up a twig, as a memorandum.  “He out dere ­where he want him ­where he say. ­One day’s march from Susquehanna.”

“Well; proceed.”

“What he like? ­Like land, to be sure.  T’ink he like water!  Got some water ­no too much ­got some land ­got no tree ­got some tree.  Got good sugar-bush ­got place for wheat and corn.”

“Proceed.”

“How much of him?” continued Nick, taking up another twig; “much as he want ­want little, got him ­want more, got him.  Want none at all, got none at all ­got what he want.”

“Go on.”

“To be sure.  How came to own him? ­How a pale face come to own America? Discover him ­ha! ­Well, Nick discover land down yonder, up dere, over here.”

“Nick, what the devil do you mean by all this?”

“No mean devil, at all ­mean land ­good land. Discover him ­know where he is ­catch beaver dere, three, two year.  All Nick say, true as word of honour; much more too.”

“Do you mean it is an old beaver-dam destroyed?” asked the captain, pricking up his ears; for he was too familiar with the woods, not to understand the value of such a thing.

“No destroy ­stand up yet ­good as ever. ­Nick dere, last season.”

“Why, then, do you tell of it?  Are not the beaver of more value to you, than any price you may receive for the land?”

“Cotch him all, four, two year ago ­rest run away.  No find beaver to stay long, when Indian once know, two time, where to set he trap.  Beaver cunninger ’an pale face ­cunning as bear.”

“I begin to comprehend you, Nick.  How large do you suppose this pond to be?”

“He ’m not as big as Lake Ontario.  S’pose him smaller, what den?  Big enough for farm.”

“Does it cover one or two hundred acres, think you? ­Is it as large as the clearing around the fort?”

“Big as two, six, four of him.  Take forty skin, dere one season.  Little lake; all ’e tree gone.”

“And the land around it ­is it mountainous and rough, or will it be good for corn?”

“All sugar-bush ­what you want better?  S’pose you want corn; plant him.  S’pose you want sugar; make him.”

Captain Willoughby was struck with this description, and he returned to the subject, again and again.  At length, after extracting all the information he could get from Nick, he struck a bargain with the fellow.  A surveyor was engaged, and he started for the place, under the guidance of the Tuscarora.  The result showed that Nick had not exaggerated.  The pond was found, as he had described it to be, covering at least four hundred acres of low bottom-land; while near three thousand acres of higher river-flat, covered with beach and maple, spread around it for a considerable distance.  The adjacent mountains too, were arable, though bold, and promised, in time, to become a fertile and manageable district.  Calculating his distances with judgment, the surveyor laid out his metes and bounds in such a manner as to include the pond, all the low-land, and about three thousand acres of hill, or mountain, making the materials for a very pretty little “patent” of somewhat more than six thousand acres of capital land.  He then collected a few chiefs of the nearest tribe, dealt out his rum, tobacco, blankets, wampum, and gunpowder, got twelve Indians to make their marks on a bit of deer-skin, and returned to his employer with a map, a field-book, and a deed, by which the Indian title was “extinguished.”  The surveyor received his compensation, and set off on a similar excursion, for a different employer, and in another direction.  Nick got his reward, too, and was well satisfied with the transaction.  This he afterwards called “sellin’ beaver when he all run away.”

Furnished with the necessary means, Captain Willoughby now “sued out his patent,” as it was termed, in due form.  Having some influence, the affair was soon arranged; the grant was made by the governor in council, a massive seal was annexed to a famous sheet of parchment, the signatures were obtained, and “Willoughby’s Patent” took its place on the records of the colony, as well as on its maps.  We are wrong as respects the latter particular; it did not take its place, on the maps of the colony, though it took a place; the location given for many years afterwards, being some forty or fifty miles too far west.  In this peculiarity there was nothing novel, the surveys of all new regions being liable to similar trifling mistakes.  Thus it was, that an estate, lying within five-and-twenty miles of the city of New York, and in which we happen to have a small interest at this hour, was clipped of its fair proportions, in consequence of losing some miles that run over obtrusively into another colony; and, within a short distance of the spot where we are writing, a “patent” has been squeezed entirely out of existence, between the claims of two older grants.

No such calamity befell “Willoughby’s Patent,” however.  The land was found, with all its “marked or blazed trees,” its “heaps of stones,” “large butternut corners,” and “dead oaks.”  In a word, everything was as it should be; even to the quality of the soil, the beaver-pond, and the quantity.  As respects the last, the colony never gave “struck measure;” a thousand acres on paper, seldom falling short of eleven or twelve hundred in soil.  In the present instance, the six thousand two hundred and forty-six acres of “Willoughby’s Patent,” were subsequently ascertained to contain just seven thousand and ninety-two acres of solid ground.

Our limits and plan will not permit us to give more than a sketch of the proceedings of the captain, in taking possession; though we feel certain that a minute account of the progress of such a settlement would possess a sort of Robinson Crusoe-like interest, that might repay the reader.  As usual, the adventurers commenced their operations in the spring.  Mrs. Willoughby, and the children, were left with their friends, in Albany; while the captain and his party pioneered their way to the patent, in the best manner they could.  This party consisted of Nick, who went in the capacity of hunter, an office of a good deal of dignity, and of the last importance, to a set of adventurers on an expedition of this nature.  Then there were eight axe-men, a house-carpenter, a mason, and a mill-wright.  These, with Captain Willoughby, and an invalid sergeant, of the name of Joyce, composed the party.

Our adventurers made most of their journey by water.  After finding their way to the head of the Canaideraga, mistaking it for the Otsego, they felled trees, hollowed them into canoes, embarked, and, aided by a yoke of oxen that were driven along the shore, they wormed their way, through the Oaks, into the Susquehanna, descending that river until they reached the Unadilla, which stream they ascended until they came to the small river, known in the parlance of the country, by the erroneous name of a creek, that ran through the captain’s new estate.  The labour of this ascent was exceedingly severe; but the whole journey was completed by the end of April, and while the streams were high.  Snow still lay in the woods; but the sap had started, and the season was beginning to show its promise.

The first measure adopted by our adventurers was to “hut.”  In the very centre of the pond, which, it will be remembered, covered four hundred acres, was an island of some five or six acres in extent.  It was a rocky knoll, that rose forty feet above the surface of the water, and was still crowned with noble pines, a species of tree that had escaped the ravages of the beaver.  In the pond, itself, a few “stubs” alone remained, the water having killed the trees, which had fallen and decayed.  This circumstance showed that the stream had long before been dammed; successions of families of beavers having probably occupied the place, and renewed the works, for centuries, at intervals of generations.  The dam in existence, however, was not very old; the animals having fled from their great enemy, man, rather than from any other foe.

To the island Captain Willoughby transferred all his stores, and here he built his hut.  This was opposed to the notions of his axe-men, who, rightly enough, fancied the mainland would be more convenient; but the captain and the sergeant, after a council of war, decided that the position on the knoll would be the most military, and might be defended the longest, against man or beast.  Another station was taken up, however, on the nearest shore, where such of the men were permitted to “hut,” as preferred the location.

These preliminaries observed, the captain meditated a bold stroke against the wilderness, by draining the pond, and coming at once into the possession of a noble farm, cleared of trees and stumps, as it might be by a coup de main.  This would be compressing the results of ordinary years of toil, into those of a single season, and everybody was agreed as to the expediency of the course, provided it were feasible.

The feasibility was soon ascertained.  The stream which ran through the valley, was far from swift, until it reached a pass where the hills approached each other in low promontories; there the land fell rapidly away to what might be termed a lower terrace.  Across this gorge, or defile, a distance of about five hundred feet, the dam had been thrown, a good deal aided by the position of some rocks that here rose to the surface, and through which the little river found its passage.  The part which might be termed the key-stone of the dam, was only twenty yards wide, and immediately below it, the rocks fell away rapidly, quite sixty feet, carrying down the waste water in a sort of fall.  Here the mill-wright announced his determination to commence operations at once, putting in a protest against destroying the works of the beavers.  A pond of four hundred acres being too great a luxury for the region, the man was overruled, and the labour commenced.

The first blow was struck against the dam about nine o’clock, on the 2d day of May, 1765, and, by evening, the little sylvan-looking lake, which had lain embedded in the forest, glittering in the morning sun, unruffled by a breath of air, had entirely disappeared!  In its place, there remained an open expanse of wet mud, thickly covered with pools and the remains of beaver-houses, with a small river winding its way slowly through the slime.  The change to the eye was melancholy indeed; though the prospect was cheering to the agriculturist.  No sooner did the water obtain a little passage, than it began to clear the way for itself, gushing out in a torrent, through the pass already mentioned.

The following morning, Captain Willoughby almost mourned over the works of his hands.  The scene was so very different from that it had presented when the flats were covered with water, that it was impossible not to feel the change.  For quite a month, it had an influence on the whole party.  Nick, in particular, denounced it, as unwise and uncalled for, though he had made his price out of the very circumstance in prospective; and even Sergeant Joyce was compelled to admit that the knoll, an island no longer, had lost quite half its security as a military position.  The next month, however, brought other changes.  Half the pools had vanished by drainings and evaporation; the mud had begun to crack, and, in some places to pulverize; while the upper margin of the old pond had become sufficiently firm to permit the oxen to walk over it, without miring.  Fences of trees, brush, and even rails, enclosed, on this portion of the flats, quite fifty acres of land; and Indian corn, oats, pumpkins, peas, potatoes, flax, and several other sorts of seed, were already in the ground.  The spring proved dry, and the sun of the forty-third degree of latitude was doing its work, with great power and beneficence.  What was of nearly equal importance, the age of the pond had prevented any recent accumulation of vegetable matter, and consequently spared those who laboured around the spot, the impurities of atmosphere usually consequent on its decay.  Grass-seed, too, had been liberally scattered on favourable places, and things began to assume the appearance of what is termed “living.”

August presented a still different picture.  A saw-mill was up, and had been at work for some time.  Piles of green boards began to make their appearance, and the plane of the carpenter was already in motion.  Captain Willoughby was rich, in a small way; in other words, he possessed a few thousand pounds besides his land, and had yet to receive the price of his commission.  A portion of these means were employed judiciously to advance his establishment; and, satisfied that there would be no scarcity of fodder for the ensuing winter, a man had been sent into the settlements for another yoke of cattle, and a couple of cows.  Farming utensils were manufactured on the spot, and sleds began to take the place of carts; the latter exceeding the skill of any of the workmen present.

October offered its products as a reward for all this toil.  The yield was enormous, and of excellent quality.  Of Indian corn, the captain gathered several hundred bushels, besides stacks of stalks and tops.  His turnips, too, were superabundant in quantity, and of a delicacy and flavour entirely unknown to the precincts of old lands.  The potatoes had not done so well; to own the truth, they were a little watery, though there were enough of them to winter every hoof he had, of themselves.  Then the peas and garden truck were both good and plenty; and a few pigs having been procured, there was the certainty of enjoying a plenty of that important article, pork, during the coming winter.

Late in the autumn, the captain rejoined his family in Albany, quitting the field for winter quarters.  He left sergeant Joyce, in garrison, supported by Nick, a miller, the mason, carpenter, and three of the axe-men.  Their duty was to prepare materials for the approaching season, to take care of the stock, to put in winter crops, to make a few bridges, clear out a road or two, haul wood to keep themselves from freezing, to build a log barn and some sheds, and otherwise to advance the interests of the settlement.  They were also to commence a house for the patentee.

As his children were at school, captain Willoughby determined not to take his family immediately to the Hutted Knoll, as the place soon came to be called, from the circumstance of the original bivouack.  This name was conferred by sergeant Joyce, who had a taste in that way, and as it got to be confirmed by the condescension of the proprietor and his family, we have chosen it to designate our present labours.  From time to time, a messenger arrived with news from the place; and twice, in the course of the winter, the same individual went back with supplies, and encouraging messages to the different persons left in the clearing.  As spring approached, however, the captain began to make his preparations for the coming campaign, in which he was to be accompanied by his wife; Mrs. Willoughby, a mild, affectionate, true-hearted New York woman, having decided not to let her husband pass another summer in that solitude without feeling the cheering influence of her presence.

In March, before the snow began to melt, several sleigh-loads of different necessaries were sent up the valley of the Mohawk, to a point opposite the head of the Otsego, where a thriving village called Fortplain now stands.  Thence men were employed in transporting the articles, partly by means of “jumpers” improvised for the occasion, and partly on pack-horses, to the lake, which was found this time, instead of its neighbour the Canaderaiga.  This necessary and laborious service occupied six weeks, the captain having been up as far as the lake once himself; returning to Albany, however, ere the snow was gone.