THE INN KITCHEN.
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During a journey that I once made through the Nctherlands,
I had arrived one evening at the Pomme d' Or,
the principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after
the hour of the table d'hote, so that I was obliged to make
a solitary supper from the reliques of its ampler board.
The weather was chilly; I was seated alone in one end
of a great gloomy dining-room, and my repast being over,
I had the prospect before me of a long dull evening, without
any visible means of enlivening it. I summoned
mine host, and requested something to read; he brought
me the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch
family-bible, an almanack in the same language, and a
number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over
one of the latter, reading old news and stale criticisms,
my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter
which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Every one
that has travelled on the continent must know how favourite
a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the
middle and inferior order of travellers; particularly in
that equivocal kind of weather, when a fire becomes agreeable
towards evening. I threw aside the newspaper, and
explored my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at the
group that appeared to be so merry. It was composed
partly of travellers who had arrived some hours before in
a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants and hangers-on
of inns. They were seated round a great burnished
stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar, at
which they were worshipping. It was covered with
various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness; among
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which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A
large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group
bringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its
yellow rays partially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying
duskily away into remote corners; except where they
settled into mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of
bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured utensils,
that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping
Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, and a
necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding
priestess of the temple.
Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and
most of them with some kind of evening potation. I found
their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes, which a little
swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large
whiskers, was giving of his love adventures; at the end of
each of which, there was one of those bursts of honest unceremonious
laughter, in which a man indulges in that
temple of true liberty, an inn.
As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious
blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and
listened to a variety of travellers' tales, some very extravagant,
and most very dull. All of them, however, have
faded from my treacherous memory except one, which I
will endeavour to relate. I fear, however, it derived its
chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the
peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a
corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller.
He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling
jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of
overalls, with buttons from the hips to the ancles. He
was of a full rubicund countenance, with a double chin,
aquiline nose, and a pleasant twinkling eye. His hair
was light, and curled from under an old green velvet travelling
cap stuck on one side of his head. He was interrupted
more than once by the arrival of guests, or the
remarks of his auditors; and paused now and then to replenish
his pipe; at which times he had generally a roguish
leer, and a sly joke for the buxom kitchen maid.
I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow lolling
in a huge arm-chair, one arm a-kimbo, the other holding
a curiously twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine e'cume
de mer, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel—his
head cocked on one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye
occasionally, as he related the following story.
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THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM.
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On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald,
a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies
not far from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine,
there stood, many, many years since, the Castle of the
Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay,
and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs; above
which, however, its old watch-tower may still be seen
struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned,
to carry a high head and look down upon the neighbouring
country.
The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of
Katzenellenbogen,[1] and inherited the reliques of the property,
and all the pride of his ancestors. Though the
warlike disposition of his predecessors had much impaired
the family possessions, yet the Baron still endeavoured to
keep up some show of former state. The times were
peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, had abandoned
their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles'
nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient
residences in the valleys; still the Baron remained
proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing with
hereditary inveteracy, all the old family feuds; so that
he was on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbours,
on account of disputes that had happened between their
great great grandfathers.
The Baron had but one child, a daughter: but nature,
when she grants but one child, always compensates by
making it a prodigy; and so it was with the daughter of
the Baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins,
assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty
in all Germany; and who should know better than they?
She had, moreover, been brought up with great care under
the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had
spent some years of their early life at one of the little
German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of
knowledge necessary to the education of a fine lady. Under
their instructions, she became a miracle of
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accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen, she could embroider
to admiration, and had worked whole histories of
the saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression
in their countenances, that they looked like so many souls
in purgatory. She could read without great difficulty,
and had spelled her way through several church legends,
and almost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch.
She had even made considerable proficiency in writing;
could sign her own name without missing a letter, and
so legibly that her aunts could read it without spectacles.
She excelled in making little elegant good-for-nothing
lady-like knicknacks of all kinds; was versed in the most
abstruse dancing of the day; played a number of airs on
the harp and guitar; and knew all the tender ballads of
the Minnielieders by heart.
Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes
in their younger days, were admirably calculated to be
vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of
their niece; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent and
inexorably decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She
was rarely suffered out of their sight; never went beyond
the domains of the castle, unless well attended, or
rather well watched; had continual lectures read to her
about strict decorum and implicit obedience; and, as to
the men—pah! she was taught to hold them at such
distance, and in such absolute distrust, that, unless properly
authorised she would not have cast a glance upon
the handsomest cavalier in the world—no, not if he were
even dying at her feet.
The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent.
The young lady was a pattern of docility and
correctness. While others were wasting their sweetness
in the glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and
thrown aside by every hand; she was coyly blooming into
fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of those
immaculate spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among
guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride
and exultation, and vaunted that though all the other
young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank
Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress
of Katzenellenbogen.
But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might
be provided with children; his household was by no
means a small one; for Providence had enriched him
with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all,
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possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble
relatives; were wonderfully attached to the Baron, and
took every possible occasion to come in swarms and enliven
the castle. All family festivals were commemorated
by these good people at the Baron's expense; and when
they were filled with good cheer, they would declare that
there was nothing on earth so delightful as these family
meetings, these jubilees of the heart.
The Baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and
it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being
the greatest man in the little world about him. He
loved to tell long stories about the stark old warriors
whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls
around, and he found no listeners equal to those who fed
at his expense. He was much given to the marvellous,
and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales with
which every mountain and valley in Germany abounds.
The faith of his guests exceeded even his own: they listened
to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth,
and never failed to be astonished, even though repeated
for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von
Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch
of his little territory, and happy, above all things, in the
persuasion that he was the wisest man of the age.
At the time of which my story treats there was a
great family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the
utmost importance. It was to receive the destined bridegroom
of the Baron's daughter. A negociation had been
carried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria,
to unite the dignity of the two houses by the marriage
of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted
with proper punctilio. The young people were
betrothed without seeing each other; and the time was
appointed for the marriage ceremony. The young Count
Von Altenburgh had been recalled from the army for
the purpose, and was actually on his way to the Baron's
to receive his bride. Missives had even been received
from him from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally
detained, mentioning the day and hour when he might
be expected to arrive.
The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him
a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked
out with uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended
her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning
about every article of her dress. The young lady had
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taken the advantage of their contest to follow the bent
of her own taste; and fortunately it was a good one. She
looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire; and
the flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of her
charms.
The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the
gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost
in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on
in her little heart. The aunts were continually hovering
around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take great
interest in affairs of this nature. They were giving her
a world of staid council how to deport herself, what to
say, and in what manner to receive the expected lover.
The Baron was no less buried in preparations. He
had, in truth nothing exactly to do; but he was naturally
a fuming bustling little man, and could not remain
passive when all the world was in a hurry. He
worried from top to bottom of the castle with an air of
infinite anxiety; he continually called the servants from
their work to exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about
every hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate
as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day.
In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed, the
forests had rung with the clamour of the huntsman; the
kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had
yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wine and Ferne-wein;
and even the great Heidelburg tun had been laid under
contribution. Every thing was ready to receive the distinguished
guests with Saus und Braus in the true spirit
of German hospitality—but the guest delayed to make
his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun that
poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the
Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of the
mountains. The Baron mounted the highest tower, and
strained his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of
the Count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld
them; the sound of horns came floating from the
valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. A number
of horsemen were seen far below, slowly advancing along
the road; but when they had nearly reached the foot of
the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction.
The last ray of sunshine departed—the bats
began to flit by in the twilight—the road grew dimmer
and dimmer to the view; and nothing appeared stirring
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in it, but now and then a peasant lagging homeward from
his labour.
While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of
perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a
different part of the Odenwald.
The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing
his route in that sober jog-trot way, in which a
man travels towards matrimony when his friends have
taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his
hands, and a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a
dinner at the end of his journey. He had encountered
at Wurtzburg, a youthful companion in arms, with whom
he had seen some service on the frontiers; Hermon Von
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest
hearts, of German chivalry, who was now returning from
the army. His father's castle was not far distant from
the old fortress of Landshort, although an hereditary
feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers to each
other.
In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and
the Count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials
with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose
charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions.
As the route of the friends lay in the same direction,
they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together;
and that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from
Wurtzburg, at an early hour, the Count having given directions
for his retinue to follow and overtake him.
They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of
their military scenes and adventures; but the Count was
apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed
charms of his bride, and the felicity that awaited
him.
In this way they had entered among the mountains of
the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely
and thickly wooded passes. It is well known that
the forests of Germany have always been as much infested
by robbers as its castles by spectres; and at this
time, the former were particularly numerous, from the
hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering about the country.
It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that
the Cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers,
in the depth of the forest. They defended themselves
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with bravery, but were nearly overpowered, when the
Count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of
them the robbers fled, but not until the Count had received
a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully
conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned
from a neighbouring convent, who was famous
for his skill in administering to both soul and body:
but half of his skill was superfluous; the moments of
the unfortunate Count were numbered.
With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair
instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the
fatal cause of his not keeping his appointment with his
bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was
one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly
solicitous that this mission should be speedily and courteously
executed. “Unless this is done,” said he, “I
shall not sleep quietly in my grave!” He repeated these
last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a
moment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust
endeavoured to soothe him to calmness; promised
faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his
hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment,
but soon lapsed into delirium—raved about
his bride—his engagements—his plighted word;
ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of
Landshort; and expired in the fancied act of vaulting
into the saddle.
Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh, and a soldier's tear, on
the untimely fate of his comrade; and then pondered on
the awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was
heavy, and his head perplexed; for he was to present
himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to
damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes.
Still there were certain whisperings of curiosity in his
bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen,
so cautiously shut up from the world; for he was a passionate
admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity
and enterprise in his character that made him
fond of all singular adventures.
Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements
with the holy fraternity of the convent for the
funeral solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried
in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious
relatives; and the mourning retinue of the Count
took charge of his remains.
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It is now high time that we should return to the ancient
family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient
for their guest, and still more for their dinner; and to
the worthy little Baron, whom they left airing himself on
the watch-tower.
Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron
descended from the tower in despair. The banquet,
which had been delayed from hour to hour, could no
longer be postponed. The meats were already overdone;
the cook in agony; and the whole household had the
look of a garrison that had been reduced by famine.
The Baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the
feast without the presence of the guest. All were seated
at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the
sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the
approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old
court of the castle with its echoes, and were answered by
the warder from the walls. The Baron hastened to receive
his future son-in-law.
The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger
was before the gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier,
mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale,
but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately
melancholy. The Baron was a little mortified that
he should have come in this simple, solitary style. His
dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to
consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion,
and the important family with which he was to
be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the
conclusion that it must have been youthful impatience
which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his
attendants.
“I am sorry,” said the stranger, “to break in upon
you thus unseasonably—”
Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of compliments
and greetings; for to tell the truth, he prided himself
upon his courtesy and his eloquence. The stranger
attempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words,
but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow
on. By the time the Baron had come to a pause, they
had reached the inner court of the castle; and the stranger
was again about to speak, when he was once more
interrupted by the appearance of the female part of the
family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride.
He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced; it
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seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and
rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts
whispered something in her ear; she made an effort to
speak; her moist blue eye was timidly raised; gave a shy
glance of inquiry on the stranger; and was cast gain on
the ground. The words died away; but there was a
sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling
of the cheek that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory.
It was impossible for a girl at the fond age
of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony,
not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier.
The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no
time for parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred
all particular conversation until the morning, and
led the way to the untasted banquet.
It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around
the walls hung the hard favoured portraits of the
heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen and the trophies
which they had gained in the field and in the chase.
Hacked corslets, splintered jousting spears, and tattered
banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare;
the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned
horribly among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge
pair of antlers branched accidentally over the head of the
youthful bridegroom.
The cavalier took but little notice of the company or
the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but
seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed
in a low tone that could not be overheard—for
the language of love is never loud; but where is the female
ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whisper
of the lover? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity
in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful effect
upon the young lady. Her colour came and went
as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she
made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned
away, she would steal a side-long glance at his romantic
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness.
It was evident that the young couple were completely
enamoured. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the
mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in
love with each at first sight.
The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the
guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend
upon light purses and mountain air. The Baron
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told his best and longest stories, and never had he told
them so well, or with such great effect. If there was
any thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment;
and if any thing facetious, they were sure to
laugh exactly in the right place. The Baron, it is true,
like most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke
but a dull one; it was always enforced, however, by a
bumper of excellent hocheimer; and even a dull joke, at
one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible.
Many good things were said by poorer and keener
wits, that would not bear repeating, except on similar
occasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that
almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a
song or two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced
cousin of the Baron, that absolutely made the maiden
aunts hold up their fans.
Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained
a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance
assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening
advanced; and, strange as it may appear, even the Baron's
jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy.
At times he was lost in thought, and at times
there was a perturbed and restless wandering of the eye
that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations
with the bride became more and more earnest and mysterious.
Louring clouds began to steal over the fair serenity
of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender
frame.
All this could not escape the notice of the company.
Their gaiety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of
the bridegroom; their spirits were infected; whispers
and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs
and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the
laugh grew less and less frequent; there were dreary
pauses in the conversation, which were at length succeeded
by wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismal
story produced another more dismal, and the Baron nearly
frightened some of the ladies into hystericks with the history
of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair
Leonora; a dreadful but true story, which has since been
put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by all
the world.
The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention.
He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Baron,
and as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise
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from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the Baron's
entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a
giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a
deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company.
They were all amazement. The Baron was perfectly
thunderstruck.
“What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why,
every thing was prepared for his reception; a chamber
was ready for him if he wished to retire.”
The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously;
“I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night!”
There was something in this reply, and the tone in
which it was uttered, that made the Baron's heart misgive
him; but he rallied his forces and repeated his hospitable
entreaties.
The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at
every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company,
stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were
absolutely petrified—the bride hung her head, and a tear
stole to her eye.
The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of
the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth,
and snorting with impatience.—When they had reached
the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a
cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the Baron in
a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered
still more sepulchral.
“Now that we are alone,” said he, “I will impart to
you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable
engagement—”
“Why,” said the Baron, “cannot you send some one in
your place?”
“It admits of no substitute—I must attend it in person—
I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral—”
“Ay,” said the Baron, plucking up spirit, “but not
until to-morrow—to-morrow you shall take your bride
there.”
“No! no!” replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity,
“my engagement is with no bride—the worms!
the worms expect me! I am a dead man—I have been
slain by robbers—my body lies at Wurtzburg—at midnight
I am to be buried—the grave is waiting for me—I
must keep my appointment!”
He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the
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drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in
the whistling of the night blast.
The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation,
and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted
outright, others sickened at the idea of having banqueted
with a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that
this might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend.
Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons,
and of other supernatural beings, with which the good people
of Germany have been so grievously harassed since
time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured
to suggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the
young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice
seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage.
This, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole
company, and especially of the Baron, who looked upon
him as little better than an infidel; so that he was fain
to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into
the faith of the true believers.
But whatever may have been the doubts entertained,
they were completely put an end to by the arrival, next
day, of regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the
young Count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg
cathedral.
The dismay at the castle may be well imagined. The
Baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests,
who had come to rejoice with him, could not think of
abandoning him in his distress. They wandered about
the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking
their heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles
of so good a man; and sat longer than ever at table, and
ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping
up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride
was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before
she had even embraced him—and such a husband! if
the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what
must have been the living man? She filled the house with
lamentations.
On the night of the second day of her widowhood she
had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her
aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt,
who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all
Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest,
and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber
was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The
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niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising
moon as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree before
the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled midnight,
when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden.
She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly
to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows
of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight
fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld
the Spectre Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that moment
burst upon her ear, and her aunt who had been awakened
by the music, and had followed her silently to the window,
fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre
had disappeared.
Of the two females, the aunt required the most soothing,
for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As
to the young lady, there was something, even in the spectre
of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still
the semblance of manly beauty; and though the shadow
of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of
a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had,
even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would
never sleep in that chamber again; the niece, for once
was refractory, and declared as strongly, that she would
sleep in no other in the castle: the consequence was, that
she had to sleep in it alone; but she drew a promise from
her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she
should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on
earth—that of inhabiting the chamber over which the
guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils.
How long the good old lady would have observed this
promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the
marvellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to
tell a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the
neighbourhood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy,
that she kept it to herself for a whole week; when she was
suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence
brought to the breakfast table one morning that
the young lady was not to be found. Her room was
empty—the bed had not been slept in—the window was
open, and the bird had flown!
The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence
was received, can only be imagined by those who
have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great
man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations
paused for a moment from the indefatigable labours of the
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trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been struck
speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, “The
goblin! the goblin! she's carried away by the goblin!”
In a few words she related the fearful scene of the
garden, and concluded that the spectre must have carried
off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the
opinion, for they heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs
down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt
that it was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her
away to the tomb. All present were struck with the
direful probability; for events of the kind are extremely
common in Germany, as many well authenticated histories
bear witness.
What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron!
What a heart-rending dilemna for a fond father,
and a member of the great family of Katzenellenbogen!
His only daughter had either been wrapt away to the
grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law,
and, perchance, a troop of goblin grand children!
As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle
in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse,
and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald.
The Baron himself had just drawn on his jackboots,
girded on his sword, and was about to mount his
steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was
brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was
seen approaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended
by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to
the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the Baron's
feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter,
and her companion—the Spectre Bridegroom! The
Baron was astonished. He looked at his daughter, then
at the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his
senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in
his appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits.
His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly
symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy.
His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth,
and joy rioted in his large dark eye.
The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier, (for
in truth, as you must have known all the while, he was
no goblin,) announced himself as Sir Hermon Von Starkenfaust.
He related his adventure with the young
Count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to
deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of
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the Baron had interrupted him in every attempt to tell
his tale. How the sight of the bride had completely
captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her,
he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How
he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent
retreat, until the Baron's goblin stories had suggested
his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility
of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth—had
haunted the garden beneath the young lady's window—
had wooed—had won—had borne away in triumph—
and, in a word, had wedded the fair.
Under any other circumstances, the Baron would
have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal
authority, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but
he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he
rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband
was of a hostile house, yet, thank heaven, he was not a
goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged,
that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity,
in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his
being a dead man; but several old friends present, who
had served in the wars, assured him that every stratagem
was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to
especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper.
Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron
pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at
the castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed
this new member of the family with loving-kindness; he
was so gallant, so generous—and so rich. The aunts, it
is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of
strict seclusion, and passive obedience, should be so badly
exemplified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not
having the windows grated. One of them was particularly
mortified at having her marvellous story marred, and
that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a
counterfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having
found him substantial flesh and blood—and so the story
ends.
eaf222.n1[1] i e. Cat's-Elbow. The name of a family of those ports very
powerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in
compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for a fine arm.
A WEST SUNDAY IN A COUNTRY INN.
It was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month of November.
I had been detained, in the course of a journey, by
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a slight indisposition, from which I was recovering; but
I was still feverish, and was obliged to keep within doors
all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet
Sunday in a country inn! whoever has had the luck to
experience one can alone judge of my situation. The rain
pattered against the casements; the bells tolled for church
with melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest
of something to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had
been placed completely out of the reach of all amusement.
The windows of my bed-room looked out among tiled
roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room
commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know
of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this
world than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was
littered with wet straw that had been kicked about by
travellers and stable-boys. In one corner was a stagnant
pool of water, surrounding an island of muck; there
were several half-drowned fowls crowded together under
a cart, among which was a miserable crest-fallen cock,
drenched out of all life and spirit; his drooping tail matted,
as it were, into a single feather, along which the water
trickled from his back; near the cart was a half-dozing
cow, chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained
on, with wreaths of vapour rising from her recking hide;
a wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable,
was poking his spectral head out of a window, with
the rain dripping on it from the caves; an unhappy
cur, chained to a doghouse hard by, uttered something
every now and then, between a bark and a yelp; a drab
of a kitchen wench tramped backwards and forwards
through the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather
itself; every thing, in short, was comfortless and
forlorn, excepting a crew of hard-drinking ducks, assembled
like boon companions round a puddle, and making
a riotous noise over their liquor.
I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement.
My room soon became insupportable. I abandoned it,
and sought what is technically called the traveller's-room.
This is a public room set apart at most inns for the accommodation
of a class of wayfarers, called travellers, or
riders; a kind of commercial knights errant, who are incessantly
scouring the kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or
by coach. They are the only successors that I know of,
at the present day, to the knights errant of yore. They
lead the same kind of roving adventurous life, only
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changing the lance for a driving-whip, the buckler for a pattern-card,
and the coat of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead
of vindicating the charms of peerless beauty, they rove
about, spreading the fame and standing of some substantial
tradesman, or manufacturer, and are ready at
any time to bargain in his name; it being the fashion
now-a-days to trade, instead of fight, with one another.
As the room of the hostel, in the good old fighting times,
would be hung round at night with the armour of way-worn
warriors, such as coats of mail, falchions, and yawning
helmets; so the travellers' room is garnished with the
harnessing of their successors, with box coats, whips of
all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil cloth covered hats.
I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talk
with, but was disappointed. There were, indeed, two
or three in the room; but I could make nothing of them.
One was just finishing breakfast, quarrelling with his
bread and butter, and huffing the waiter; another buttoned
on a pair of gaiters, with many execrations at Boots
for not having cleaned his shoes well; a third sat drumming
on the table with his fingers, and looking at the
rain as it streamed down the window glass: they all appeared
infected by the weather, and disappeared, one
after the other, without exchanging a word.
I sauntered to the window and stood gazing at the
people, picking their way to the church, with petticoats
hoisted midleg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bell
ceased to toll, and the streets became silent. I then amused
myself with watching the daughters of a tradesman
opposite; who being confined to the house for fear of
wetting their Sunday finery, played off their charms at
the front windows, to fascinate the chance tenants of the
inn. They at length were summoned away by a vigilant
vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further
from without to amuse me.
What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day? I
was sadly nervous and lonely; and every thing about an
inn seems calculated to make a dull day ten times duller
Old newspapers, smelling of beer and tobacco smoke, and
which I had already read half a dozen times. Good for
nothing books, that were worse than rainy weather. I
bored myself to death with an old volume of the Lady's
Magazine. I read all the common-place names of ambitious
travellers scrawled on the panes of glass; the eternal
families of the Smiths and the Browns, and the
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[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
Jacksons, and the Johnsons, and all the other sons; and I
decyphered several scraps of fatiguing inn-window poetry,
which I have met with in all parts of the world.
The day continued lowering and gloomy; the slovenly,
ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along; there was no
variety even in the rain; it was one dull, continued, monotonous
patter—patter—patter, excepting that now and
then I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk shower, from
the rattling of the drops upon a passing umbrella.
It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed
phrase of the day), when, in the course of the
morning, a horn blew, and a stage coach whirled through
the street, with outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering
under cotton umbrellas, and seethed together, and
reeking with the steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjamins.
The sound brought out from their lurking-places a
crew of vagabond boys, and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed
hostler, and that non-descript animal ycleped
Boots, and all the other vagabond race, that infest the
purlieus of an inn; but the bustle was transient; the
coach again whirled on its way; and boy and dog, hostler
and Boots, all slunk back again to their holes; the
street again became silent, and the rain continued to rain
on. In fact, there was no hope of its clearing up, the
barometer pointed to rainy weather; mine hostess's tortoise
shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing
her paws over her ears; and, on referring to the
Almanack, I found a direful prediction stretching from
the top of the page to the bottom through the whole
month, “expect—much—rain—about—this—time!”
AN OBEDIENT HEN-PECKED HUSBAND.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses,
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn
and weather beaten,) there lived many years since, when
the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple
good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle.
He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who
figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant,
and accompanied him to the seige of Fort Christina.
He inherited, however, but little of the martial
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was
a simple good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind
neighbour, and an obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed,
to the latter circumstance might be owing that
meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity;
for those men are most apt to be obsequious and
conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews
at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant
and maleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation,
and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the
world for teaching the virtues of patience and long suffering.
A termagent wife may, therefore, in some respects,
be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Rip Van
Winkle was thrice blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favourite among all
the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable
sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and never
failed, whenever they talked those matters over in their
evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van
Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout
with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their
sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites
and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts,
witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about
the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging
on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing
a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog
would bark at him throughout the neighbourhood.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable
aversion to all kinds of profitable labour. It could
not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy
as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmer,
even though he should not be encouraged by a sinble
nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his
shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and
swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels
or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a
neighbour even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost
man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or
building stone fences; the women of the village, too, used
to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little
odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for
them.—In a word, Rip was ready to attend to any body's
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and
keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his
farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in
the whole country; every thing about it went wrong,
and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were
continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go
astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to
grow quicker in his field than any where else; the rain
always made a point of setting in just as he had some
out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate
had dwindled away under his management acre by
acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch
of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worse conditioned
farm in the neighbourhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they
belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten
in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits with
the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen
trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a
pair of his father's cast off galligaskins, which he had
much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does
her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy
mortals, of foolish, well oiled dispositions, who take the
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be
got with the least thought or trouble, and would rather
starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to
himself he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment;
but his wife kept continually dinning in his
ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he
was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night,
her tongue was incessantly going, and every thing he said
or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence.
Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures
of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had got into a
habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast
up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always
provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was
fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the
house—the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked
husband.
Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who
was as much henpecked as his master; for Dame Van
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness and
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause
of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all
points of spirit befitting an honourable dog, he was as
courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods—but
what courage can withstand the ever-during and all besetting
terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment
Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail dropped to
the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about
with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at
Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick
or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping
precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle
as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never
mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged
tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long
while he used to console himself, when driven from
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages,
philosophers, and other idle personages of the village;
which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn,
designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George
the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of a
long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village
gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing.
But it would have been worth any statesman's money
to have heard the profound discussions that sometimes
took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into
their hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly
they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by
Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned
little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic
word in the dictionary; and how sagely they
would deliberate upon public events some months after
they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled
by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord
of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat
from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid
the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that
the neighbours could tell the hour by his movements as accurately
as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard
to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents,
however, (for every great man has his adherents,)
perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his
opinions. When any thing that was read or related
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[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently,
and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs;
but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and
tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds; and
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting
the fragrant vapour curl about his nose, would gravely
nod his head in token of perfect approbation.
From even this strong hold the unlucky Rip was at
length routed by his termagent wife, who would suddenly
break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and call
the members all to nought; nor was that august personage,
Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring
tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright
with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and
his only alternative, to escape from the labour of the
farm and clamour of his wife, was to take gun in hand
and stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes
seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized
as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. “Poor wolf,”
he would say, “thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it;
but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never
want a friend to stand by thee!” Wolf would wag his
tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can
feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment
with all his heart.
A DESIRABLE MATCH.
Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening
in each week, to receive his (Ichabod Crane's) instructions
in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the
daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer.
She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a
partridge; ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as one of
her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for
her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a
little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her
dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions,
as most suited to set off her charms. She wore
the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother
had brought over from Saardum; the
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tempting stomacher of the olden time; and withal a provokingly
short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and
ankle in the country round.
Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward
the sex; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting
a morsel soon found favour in his eyes; more especially
after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old
Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving,
contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true,
sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries
of his own farm; but within those every thing was snug,
happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his
wealth but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the
hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived,
His strong hold was situated on the banks of the Hudson,
in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in
which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A
great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it; at the
foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest
water, in a little well, formed of a barrel; and then
stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighbouring
brook, that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows.
Hard by the farm house was a vast barn, that might
have served for a church; every window and crevice of
which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the
farm; the flail was busily resounding within from morning
to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering
about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one
eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with
their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms,
and others swelling and cooing and bowing, about their
dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek
unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance
of their pens; from whence sallied forth, now and
then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A
stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining
pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments
of turkeys were gobbling through the farm-yard, and
guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered house-wives,
with their peevish discontented cry. Before the
barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a
husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman; clapping his
burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness
of his heart—sometimes tearing up the earth with his
feet and then generously calling his ever hungry family
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[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he
had discovered.
The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon
this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In
his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every
roasting pig running about with a pudding in its belly,
and an apple in its mouth; the pigeons were snugly put
to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet
of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy;
and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug
married couples, with a decent competency of onion
sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future
sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey,
but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard
under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savoury
sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling
on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws as
if craving that quarter, which his chivalric spirit disdained
to ask while living.
As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands,
the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian
corn, and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit,
which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel,
his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit
these domains, and his imagination expanded with the
idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the
money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle
palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already
realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming
Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted
on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery,
with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld
himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels,
setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows
where.
A RIVAL.
Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring,
roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or according
to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of
the country round, which rung with his feats of strength
and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed,
with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not
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[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and
arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers
of limb, he had received the nick-name of Brom Bones,
by which he was universally known. He was famed for
great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous
on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at
all races and cock-fights; and, with the ascendency which
bodily strength always acquires in rustic life, was the
umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and
giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted
of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either
a fight or a frolic; had more mischief than ill-will in his
composition; and with all his overbearing roughness,
there was a strong dash of waggish good humour at bottom.
He had three or four boon companions of his own
stamp, who regarded him as their model, and at the head
of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene
of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather
he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a
flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at a country
gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance,
whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always
stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would
be heard dashing along past the farm houses at midnight,
with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks;
and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen
for a moment till the hurry-skurry had clattered by, and
then exclaim, “Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his
gang!” The neighbours looked upon him with a mixture
of awe, admiration, and good-will; and when any mad-cap
prank, or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always
shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the
bottom of it.
This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries,
and though his amourous toyings were something like the
gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was
whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes.
Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates
to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his
amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to
Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that
his master was courting, or, as it is termed, “sparking,”
within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried
the war into other quarters.
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Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod
Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter
man than he would have shrunk from the competition,
and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, a happy
mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he
was in form and spirit like a supple jack—yielding, but
tough; though he bent, he never broke; and though he
bowed, beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it
was away, jerk!—he was erect, and carried his head as
high as ever.
Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature,
would fain have carried matters to open warfare,
and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according
to the mode of those most consise and simple reasoners,
the knights-errant of yore—by single combat; but Ichabod
was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary
to enter the lists against him: he had overheard the
boast of Bones, that he would “double the schoolmaster
up, and put him on a shelf;” and he was too wary to
give him an opportunity. There was something extremely
provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left
Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic
waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish
practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object
of whimsical persecution to Bones, and his gang of
rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains;
smoked out his singing school, by stopping up
the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in
spite of his formidable fastenings of withes and window
stakes, and turned every thing topsy-turvy; so that the
poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the
country held their meetings there. But what was still
more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning
him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a
scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous
manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's
to instruct her in psalmody.
AN INVITATION.
In this way matters went on for some time, without
producing any material effect on the relative situations of
the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon,
Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool
from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his
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little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule,
that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed
on three nails, behind a throne, a constant terror
to evil doers; while on the desk before him might be seen
sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected
upon the persons of idle urchins; such as half-munched
apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole
legions of rampant little paper game cocks. Apparently
there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted,
for his scholars were all busily intent upon their
books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept
upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned
throughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted
by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers,
a round crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of
Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild,
half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way
of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with
an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry meeting, or
“quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at Mynheer
Van Tassel's; and having delivered his message with that
air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a
negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he
dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up
the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.
All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room.
The scholars were hurried through their lessons,
without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble, skipped
over half with impunity, and those who were tardy,
had a smart application now and then in the rear, to
quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books
were flung aside, without being put away on the shelves;
inkstands were overturned; benches thrown down; and
the whole school was turned loose an hour before the
usual time; bursting forth like a legion of young imps,
yelping and racketting about the green, in joy at their early
emancipation.
A DUTCH ENTERTAINMENT.
Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and
“sugared suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of
a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled
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his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of
the Tappaan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting
that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged
the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few
amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air
to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint,
changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from
that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting
ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that
overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to
the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop
was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with
the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and
as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water,
it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.
It was towards evening that Ichabod arrived at the
castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged
with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old
farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats
and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent
pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in
close crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats,
with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets
hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as
antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat,
a fine riband, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms
of city innovations. The sons, in short square-skirted
coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their
hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially
if they could procure an eelskin for the purpose, it
being esteemed throughout the country, as a potent
nourisher and strengthener of the hair.
Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having
come to the gathering on his favourite steed Dare-devil,
a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief,
and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in
fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all
kinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of
his neck, for he held a tractable well broken horse as unworthy
a lad of spirit.
Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he
entered the state parlour of Van Tassel's mansion. Not
those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious
display of red and white; but the ample charms of a
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genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of
autumn. Such heaped up platters of cakes, of various and
almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced
Dutch housewives! There was the doughty dough-nut,
the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller;
sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey
cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were
apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; besides slices
of ham and smoke beef; and moreover delectable dishes
of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces;
not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together
with bowls of milk and cream; all mingled higgeldy-piggeldy,
pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the
motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapour from the
midst—Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time
to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager
to get on with my story. Happily Ichabod Crane was not
in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice
to every dainty.
He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated
in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer; and
whose spirits rose with eating as some men's do with
drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes
round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility
that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost
unimaginable luxury and splendour. Then, he thought,
how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school house;
snap his finger in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every
other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue
out of doors that should dare to call him comrade!
Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests
with a face dilated with content and good humour, round
and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions
were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of
the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a
pressing invitation to “fall to, and help themselves.”
Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as
upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him
was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full
motion, and clattering about the room, you would have
thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the
dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the
admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all
ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighbourhood, stood
forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and
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window; gazing with delight at the scene; rolling their
white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory from
ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise
than animated and joyous? the lady of his heart
was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply
to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely
smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in
one corner.
WAR.
The first conflict between man and man was the mere
exertion of physical force, unaided by auxiliary weapons,—
his arm was his buckler, his fist was his mace, and a
broken head the catastrophe of his encounters. The battle
of unassisted strength was succeeded by the more rugged
one of stones and clubs, and war assumed a sanguinary
aspect. As man advanced in refinement, as his faculties
expanded, and his sensibilities became more exquisite,
he grew rapidly more ingenious and experienced in
the art of murdering his fellow beings. He invented a
thousand devices to defend and to assault—the helmet,
the cuirass, and the buckler, the sword, the dart, and the
javelin, prepared him to elude the wound, as well as to
launch the blow. Still urging on, in the brilliant and
philanthropic career of invention, he enlarges and heightens
his powers of defence and injury.—The aries, the
scorpio, the balista, and the catapulta, give a horror and
sublimity to war; and magnify its glory, by increasing its
desolation. Still insatiable, though armed with machinery
that seemed to reach the limits of destructive invention,
and to yield a power of injury, commensurate even with
the desires of revenge—still deeper researches must be
made in the diabolical arcana. With furious zeal he dives
into the bowels of the earth; he toils midst poisonous minerals
and deadly salts—the sublime discovery of gunpowder
blazes upon the world—and, finally, the dreadful art
of fighting by proclamation seems to endow the demon
of war with ubiquity and omnipotence.
This, indeed, is grand!—this, indeed, marks the powers
of mind, and bespeaks that divine endowment of reason,
which distinguishes us from the animals, our inferiors.
The unenlightened brutes content themselves with the
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native force which providence has assigned them. The
angry bull butts with his horns, as did his progenitors before
him—the lion, the leopard, and the tiger, seek only
with their talons and their fangs to gratify their sanguinary
fury; and even the subtle serpent darts the same venom,
and uses the same wiles as did his sire before the flood.
Man alone, blessed with the inventive mind, goes on from
discovery to discovery—enlarges and multiplies his powers
of destruction; arrogates the tremendous weapons of Deity
itself, and tasks creation to assist him in murdering his
brother worm.
ENGLISH STAGE COACHMEN.
And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my
untravelled readers to have a sketch that may serve as a
general representation of this very numerous and important
class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner,
a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent
throughout the fraternity: so that, wherever an English
stage Coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for
one of any other craft or mystery.
He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding
into every vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions
by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his
bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats, in
which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching
to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed low-crowned
hat; a huge roll of coloured handkerchief about his
neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and
has, in summer time, a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole;
the present, most probably, of some enamoured
country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright
colour, striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the
knees, to meet a pair of jocky boots which reach about
half way up his legs.
All this costume is maintained with much precision;
he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials;
and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance,
there is still discernible that neatness and propriety
of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman.
He enjoys great consequence and consideration along the
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road; has frequent conferences with the village house-wives,
who look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence;
and he seems to have a good understanding
with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he
arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws
down the reins with something of an air, and abandons
the cattle to the care of the hostler; his duty being merely
to drive from one stage to another. When off the box,
his hands are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and
he rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most absolute
lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring
throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those
nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and
run errands, and do all kind of odd jobs for the privilege
of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage
of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an
oracle; treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions
about horses and other topics of jocky lore; and above all,
endeavour to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin
that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in
the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo
Coachey.
THE WALTZ.
As many of the retired matrons of this city, unskilled
in “gestic lore,” are doubtless ignorant of the movements
and figures of this modest exhibition, I will endeavour
to give some account of it in order that they may learn
what odd capers their daughters sometimes cut when from
under their guardian wings.—On a signal being given by
the music, the gentleman seizes the lady round her waist;
the lady scorning to be out-done in courtesy, very politely
takes the gentleman round the neck, with one arm resting
against his shoulder to prevent encroachments. Away
then they go, about, and about, and about—“About what,
sir?”—About the room, madam, to be sure. The whole
economy of this dance consists in turning round and
round the room in a certain measured step, and it is truly
astonishing that this continued revolution does not set all
their heads swimming like a top; but I have been positively
assured that it only occasions a gentle sensation
which is marvellously agreeable. In the course of this
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circumnavigation, the dancers, in order to give the charm
of variety are continually changing their relative situations,—
now the gentleman, meaning no harm in the world,
I assure you, madam, carelessly flings his arm about the
lady's neck, with an air of celestial impudence; and anon,
the lady, meaning as little harm as the gentleman, takes
him round the waist with most ingenious modest languishment,
to the great delight of numerous spectators
and amateurs, who generally form a ring, as the mob do
about a pair of amazons pulling caps, or a couple of fighting
mastiffs.—After continuing this divine interchange
of hands, arms, et cetera, for half an hour or so, the lady
begins to tire, and “with eyes upraised,” in most bewitching
languor, petitions her partner for a little more support.
This is always given without hesitation. The lady leans
gently on his shoulder; their arms entwine in a thousand
seducing, mischievous curves—don't be alarmed, madam—
closer and closer they approach each other, and in conclusion,
the parties being overcome with ecstatic fatigue, the lady
seems almost sinking into the gentleman's arms, and then—
“Well, sir! what then!—Lord! madam how
should I know.
DUTCH TEA PARTIES.
These fashionable parties were generally consigned to
the higher classes, or noblesse, that is to say, such as
kept their own cows, and drove their own wagons. The
company commonly assembled at three o'clock, and went
away about six, unless it was in winter time, when the
fashionable hours were a little earlier, that the ladies
might get home before dark. I do not find that they
ever treated their company to iced creams, jellies, or
syllabubs; or regaled them with musty almonds, mouldy
raisins, or sour oranges, as is often done in the present
age of refinement. Our ancestors were fond of more
sturdy, substantial fare. The tea-table was crowned
with a huge earthen dish, well stored with slices of fat
pork, fried brown, cut up into morsels, and swimming
in gravy. The company being seated round the genial
board, and each furnished with a fork, evinced their
dexterity in launching at the fattest pieces in this mighty
dish, in much the same manner as sailors harpoon
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perpoises at sea, or our Indians spear salmon in the lakes.
Sometimes the table was graced with immense apple
pies, or saucers full of preserved peaches and pears; but
it was always sure to boast an enormous dish of balls of
sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat, and called dough
nuts, or oly keoks: a delicious kind of cake, at present
scarce known in this city, excepting in genuine Dutch
families.
The tea was served out of a majestic delft tea-pot,
ornamented with paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds
and shepherdesses, tending pigs—with boats sailing in
the air, and houses built in the clouds, and sundry other
ingenious Dutch fantasies. The beaux distinguished
themselves by their adroitness in replenishing this pot,
from a hugh copper tea-kettle, which would have made
the pigmy macaronies of these degenerate days sweat,
merely to look at it. To sweeten the beverage, a lump
of sugar was laid beside each cup—and the company,
alternately nibbled and sipped with great decorum, until an
improvement was introduced by a shrewd and economic
old lady, which was, to suspend a large lump directly over
the tea table, by a string from the ceiling, so that it could
be swung from mouth to mouth,—an ingenious expedient,
which is still kept up by some families in Albany; but
which prevails without exception in Communipaw, Bergen,
Flat-Bush, and all our uncontaminated Dutch villages.
At these primitive tea-parties the utmost propriety and
dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting nor coquetting—
no gambling of old ladies, nor hoyden chattering
and romping of young ones—no self-satisfied struttings
of wealthy gentlemen, with their brains in their pockets;
nor amusing conceits, and monkey divertisements of
smart young gentlemen with no brains at all. On the
contrary, the young ladies seated themselves demurely in
their rush-bottomed chairs, and knit their own woollen
stockings; nor ever opened their lips, excepting to say
yah Mynheer, or yah ya Vrouw, to any question that was
asked them; behaving, in all things, like decent well
educated damsels. As to the gentlemen, each of them
tranquilly smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation
of the blue and white tiles, with which the fire
places were decorated; wherein sundry passages of
scripture were piously pourtrayed: Tobet and his dog
figured to great advantage; Haman swung conspicuously
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on his gibbet; and Jonah appeared most manfully bouncing
out of the whale, like harlequin through a barrel of
fire.
The parties broke up without noise and without confusion.
They were carried home by their own carriages,
that is to say, by the vehicles nature had provided
them, excepting such of the wealthy as could afford to keep
a wagon. The gentlemen gallantly attended their fair
ones to their respective abodes, and took leave of them
with a hearty smack at the door: which, as it was an
established piece of etiquette, done in perfect simplicity
and honesty of heart, occasioned no scandal at that time,
nor should it at the present—if our great grandfathers
approved of the custom, it would argue a great want of
reverence in their descendants to say a word against it.
COSMOGONY, Or Creation of the World; with a multitude of excellent Theories, by which the Creation of a World is shown to be no such difficult Matter as common Folks would imagine.
Having thus briefly introduced my reader into the world,
and given him some idea of its form and situation, he will
naturally be curious to know from whence it came, and
how it was created. And indeed the clearing up of these
points is absolutely essential to my history, masmuch as
if this world had not been formed, it is more than probable,
that this renowned island, on which is situated the
city of New-York, would never have had an existence.
The regular course of my history, therefore, requires that
I should proceed to notice the cosmogony or formation of
this our globe.
And now I give my readers fair warning, that I am
about to plunge for a chapter or two, into as complete a
labyrinth as ever historian was perplexed withal; therefore,
I advise them to take fast hold of my skirts, and keep
close at my heels, venturing neither to the right hand nor
to the left, lest they get bemired in a slough of unintelligible
learning, or have their brains knocked out by some of
those hard Greek names which will be flying about in all
directions. But should any of them be too indolent or
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chicken-hearted to accompany me in this perilous undertaking,
they had better take a short cut round, and wait for
me at the beginning of some smoother chapter.
Of the creation of the world we have a thousand contradictory
accounts; and though a very satisfactory one
is furnished by divine revelation, yet every philosopher
feels himself in honour bound to furnish us with a better.
As an impartial historian, I consider it my duty to notice
their several theories by which mankind have been so
exceedingly edified and instructed.
Thus it was the opinion of certain ancient sages, that
the earth and the whole system of the universe was the
deity himself;[2] a doctrine most strenuously maintained
by Zenophanes and the whole tribe of Eleatics, as also by
Strato and the sect of peripatetic philosophers. Pythagoras
likewise inculcated the famous numerical system of
the monad, dyad, and tryad; and by means of his sacred
quaternary elucidated the formation of the world, the
arcana of nature, and the principles both of music and
morals.† Other sages adhered to the mathematical system
of squares and triangles; the cube, the pyramid, and
the sphere; the tetrahedron, the octahedron, the icosahedron,
and the dodecahedron.‡ While others advocated
the great elementary theory, which refers the construction
of our globe and all that it contains to the combinations
of four material elements, air, earth, fire, and water;
with the assistance of a fifth, an immaterial and vivifying
principle.
Nor must I omit to mention the great atomic system
taught by old Moschus before the siege of Troy; revived
by Democritus of laughing memory; improved by Epicurus,
that king of good fellows; and modernized by the
fanciful Descartes. But I decline inquiring whether the
atoms, of which the earth is said to be composed, are
eternal or recent; whether they are animate or inanimate;
whether, agreeably to the opinions of Atheists, they were
fortuitously aggregated; or, as the Theists maintain,
were arranged by a supreme intelligence.&verbar2;
Whether, in
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fact, the earth be an insensate clod, or whether it be animated
by a soul;[3] which opinion was strenuously maintained
by a host of philosophers, at the head of whom
stands the great Plato, that temperate sage, who threw
the cold water of philosophy on the form of sexual intercourse,
and inculcated the doctrine of Platonic love—an
exquisitely refined intercourse, but much better adapted
to the ideal inhabitants of his imaginary island of Atlantis
than to the sturdy race, composed of rebellious flesh
and blood, which populates the little matter of fact island
we inhabit.
Besides these systems, we have, moreover, the poetical
theogony of old Hesiod, who generated the whole universe
in the regular mode of procreation, and the plausible
opinion of others, that the earth was hatched from the
great egg of night, which floated in chaos, and was cracked
by the horns of the celestial bull. To illustrate this last
doctrine, Burnet, in his theory of the earth,† has favoured
us with an accurate drawing and description both of the
form and texture of this mundane egg; which is found
to bear a near resemblance to that of a goose. Such of
my readers as take a proper interest in the origin of this
our planet will be pleased to learn, that the most profound
sages of antiquity, among the Egyptians, Chaldeans, Persians,
Greeks, and Latins, have alternately assisted at the
hatching of this strange bird; and that their cacklings
have been caught and continued, in different tones and
inflections, from philosopher to philosopher, unto the present
day.
But while briefly noticing long celebrated systems of
ancient sages, let me not pass over, with neglect, those of
other philosophers; which, though less universal than renowned,
have equal claims to attention, and equal chance
for correctness. Thus it is recorded by the Brahmins, in
the pages of their inspired Shastah, that the angel Bistnoo
transformed himself into a great boar, plunged into
the watery abyss, and brought up the earth on his tusks.
Then issued from him a mighty tortoise, and a mighty
snake; and Bistnoo placed the snake erect upon the back
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of the tortoise, and he placed the earth upon the head of
the snake.[4]
The negro philosophers of Congo affirm, that the world
was made by the hands of angels, excepting their own
country, which the supreme being constructed himself,
that it might be supremely excellent. And he took great
pains with the inhabitants, and made them very black and
beautiful; and when he had finished the first man, he was
well pleased with him, and smoothed him over the face,
and hence his nose, and the nose of all his descendants,
became flat.
The Mohawk philosophers tell us, that a pregnant woman
fell down from heaven, and that a tortoise took her
upon its back, because every place was covered with
water; and, that the woman, sitting upon the tortoise,
paddled with her hands in the water, and raked up the
earth, whence it finally happened that the earth became
higher than the water.†
But I forbear to quote a number more of these ancient
and outlandish philosophers, whose deplorable ignorance,
in despite of all their erudition, compelled them to write
in languages, which but few of my readers can understand;
and I shall proceed briefly to notice a few more intelligible
and fashionable theories of their modern successors.
And first I shall mention the great Buffon, who conjectures
that this globe was originally a globe of liquid
fire, scintillated from the body of the sun, by the percussion
of a comet, as a spark of generated by the collision of
flint and steel. That at first it was surrounded by gross
vapours, which cooling and condensing in process of time,
constituted, according to their densities, earth, water, and
air; which gradually arranged themselves, according to
their respective gravities, round the burning or vitrified
mass that formed their centre.
Hutton, on the contrary, supposes that the waters at
first were universally paramount; and he terrifies himself
with the idea that the earth must be eventually washed
away by the force of rains, rivers, and mountain torrents,
until it is confounded with the ocean, or, in other words,
absolutely dissolves into itself.—Sublime idea! far sur
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
passing that of the tender hearted damsel of antiquity,
who wept herself into a fountain; or the good dame of
Narbonne in France, who, for a volubility of tongue unusual
in her sex, was doomed to peel five hundred thousand
and thirty-nine ropes of onions, and actually ran out
at her eyes before half the hideous task was accomplished.
Whiston, the same ingenious philosopher who rivalled
Ditton in his researches after the longitude, (for which the
mischief-loving Swift discharged on their heads, a most
savoury stanza,) has distinguished himself by a very admirable
theory respecting the earth. He conjectures that
it was originally a chaotic comet, which, being selected for
the abode of man, was removed from its eccentric orbit,
and whirled round the sun in its present regular motion;
by which change of direction, order succeeded to confusion
in the arrangement of its component parts. The
philosopher adds, that the deluge was produced by an uncourteous
salute from the watery tail of another comet;
doubtless through sheer envy of its improved condition;
thus furnishing a melancholy proof that jealousy may
prevail, even among the heavenly bodies, and discord interrupt
that celestial harmony of the spheres, so melodiously
sung by the poets.
But I pass over a variety of excellent theories, among
which are those of Burnet, and Woodward, and White-hurst;
regretting extremely that my time will not suffer
me to give them the notice they deserve—And shall conclude
with that of the renowned Dr. Darwin. This
learned Theban, who is as much distinguished for rhyme
as reason, and for good natured credulity as serious research;
and who has recommended himself wonderfully
to the good graces of the ladies, by letting them into all
the gallantries, amours, debaucheries, and other topics of
scandal of the court of Flora, has fallen upon a theory
worthy of his combustible imagination. According to his
opinion, the huge mass of choas took a sudden occasion
to explode, like a barrel of gunpowder, and, in that act,
exploded the sun—which, in its flight, by a similar convulsion
exploded the earth—which in like guise exploded
the moon—and thus, by a concatenation of explosions, the
whole solar system was produced, and set most systematically
in motion.[5]
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
By the great variety of theories here alluded to, every
one of which, if thoroughly examined, will be found surprisingly
consistent in all its parts, my unlearned readers
will perhaps be led to conclude, that the creation of a
world is not so difficult a task as they at first imagined.
I have shown at least a score of ingenious methods in
which a world could be constructed; and, I have no
doubt, that had any of the philosophers above quoted the
use of a good manageable comet, and the philosophical
warehouse, chaos, at his command, he would engage to
manufacture a planet, as good, or, if you would take his
word for it, better than this we inhabit.
And here I cannot help noticing the kindness of providence,
in creating comets for the great relief of bewildered
philosophers. By their assistance more sudden evolutions
and transitions are effected in the system of nature, than
are wrought in a pantomimic exhibition, by the wonder-working
sword of harlequin. Should one of our modern
sages, in his theoretical flights among the stars, ever find
himself lost in the clouds, and in danger of tumbling into
the abyss of nonsense and absurdity, he has but to seize a
comet by the beard, mount astride of its tail, and away
he gallops in triumph, like an enchanter on his hippogriff,
or a Connecticut witch on her broomstick, “to sweep the
cobwebs out of the sky.”
It is an old and vulgar saying, about a “beggar on
horseback,” which I would not for the world have applied
to these reverend philosophers: but I must confess, that
some of them, when they are mounted on one of those
fiery steeds, are as wild in their curvettings as was Phæ
ton, of yore, when he aspired to manage the chariot of
Phœbus. One drives his comet at full speed against the
sun, and knocks the world out of him with mighty
concussion; another, more moderate, makes his comet a
kind of beast of burden, carrying the sun a regular supply
of food and faggots; a third of more combustible disposition,
threatens to throw his comet, like a bombshell, into
the world, and blow it up like a powder magazine; while
a fourth, with no great delicacy to this planet and its inhabitants,
insinuates that some day or other his comet—
my modest pen blushes while I write it—shall absolutely
turn tail upon the world and deluge it with water!—
Surely, as I have already observed, comets were bountifully
provided by providence for the benefit of philosophers
to assist them in manufacturing theories.
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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
And now, having adduced several of the most prominent
theories that occur to my recollection, I leave my judicious
readers at full liberty to choose among them. They
are all serious speculations of learned men—all differ essentially
from each other—and all have the same title to
belief. It has ever been the task of one race of philosophers
to demolish the works of their predecessors, and
elevate more splendid fantasies in their stead, which, in
their turn, are demolished and replaced by the air-castles
of a succeeding generation. Thus it would seem that
knowledge and genius, of which we make such great parade,
consist but in detecting the errors and absurdities of
those who have gone before, and devising new errors and
absurdities, to be detected by those who are to come after
us. Theories are the mighty soap-bubbles with which
the grown-up children of science amuse themselves; while
the honest vulgar stand gazing in stupid admiration, and
dignify these learned vagaries with the name of wisdom!—
Surely Socrates was right in his opinion, that philosophers
are but a soberer sort of madmen, busying themselves
in things totally incomprehensible, or which, if
they could be comprehended, would be found not worthy
the trouble of discovery.
For my own part, until the learned have come to an
agreement among themselves, I shall content myself with
the account handed down to us by Moses; in which I do
but follow the example of our ingenious neighbours of
Connecticut; who at their first settlement proclaimed,
that the colony should be governed by the laws of God—
until they had time to make better.
One thing however appears certain—from the unanimous
authority of the before quoted philosophers, supported
by the evidence of our own senses, (which, though
very apt to deceive us, may be cautiously admitted as additional
testimony,) it appears, I say, and I make the assertion
deliberately, without fear of contradiction, that
this globe really was created, and that it is composed of
land and water. It further appears that it is curiously
divided and parcelled out into continents and islands,
among which I boldly declare the renowned ISLAND OF
NEW-YORK will be found by any one who seeks for it in
its proper place.
eaf222.n2[2] Aristot. ap. Cic. lib. i. cap. 3.
eaf222.dag1† Aristot. Metaph. lib. i. cap. 5. Idem de Cœlo, 1. iii. c. 1. Rousseau.
Mém. sur. Musique Ancien. p. 39. Plutarch de Plac. Philos.
lib i. cap. 3.
eaf222.ddag1‡ Tim. Locr. ap. Plato t. iii. p.
90.
verb1&verbar2; Aristot. Nat. Ascult. I. ii. cap. 6. Aristoph. Metaph. lib. i. cap.
3. Cic. de Nat. Deor. lib. i. cap. 10. Justin Mart. Orat. ad Gent.
p. 20.
eaf222.n3[3] Mosheim in Cudw. lib. i. cap. 4. Tim. de Anim. Mund. ap, Pit
lib. iii. Mem. de Acad, des Beiles Lettres, t. xxxii. p. 19 et al.
eaf222.dag2† Book i. ch. 5.
eaf222.n4[4] Holwell, Gent. Philosophy.
eaf222.dag3† Johannes Megapolensis, jun. Account of Maquaas or Mohawk
Indians. 1644.
eaf222.n5[5] Darw. Bot. garden. Part I cant. i. l. 105.
-- 051 -- p222-056
DUTCH LEGISLATORS.
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
And now the infant settlement having advanced in age
and stature, it was thought high time it should receive an
honest Christian name, and it was accordingly called New-Amsterdam.
It is true there were some advocates for the
original Indian name, and many of the best writers of the
province did long continue to call it by the title of “The
Manhattoes,” but this was discountenanced by the authorities,
as being heathenish and savage. Besides, it was
considered an excellent and praiseworthy measure to
name it after a great city of the old world; as by that
means it was induced to emulate the greatness and renown
of its namesake—in the manner that little snivelling
urchins are called after great statesmen, saints, and worthies,
and renowned generals of yore, upon which they all
industriously copy their examples, and come to be very
mighty men in their day and generation.
The thriving state of the settlement and the rapid increase
of houses gradually awakened the good Oloffe
from a deep lethargy, into which he had fallen after the
building of the fort. He now began to think it was time
some plan should be devised on which the increasing
town should be built. Summoning, therefore, his counsellors
and coadjutors together, they took pipe in mouth,
and forthwith sunk into a very sound deliberation on the
subject.
At the very outset of the business an unexpected difference
of opinion arose, and I mention it with much sorrowing,
as being the first altercation on record in the
councils of New-Amsterdam. It was a breaking forth of
the grudge and heartburning that had existed between
those two eminent burghers, Mynheers Tenbroeck and
Hardenbroeck, ever since their unhappy altercation on
the coast of Bellevue. The great Hardenbroeck had
waxed very wealthy and powerful from his domains,
which embraced the whole chain of Apulean mountains
that stretch along the gulf of Kip's Bay, and from part of
which his descendants have been expelled in latter ages
by the powerful clans of the Joneses and the Schermerhornes.
An ingenious plan for the city was offered by Mynheer
Tenbroeck, who proposed that it should be cut up and
intersected by canals, after the manner of the most
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[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
admired cities in Holland. To this Mynheer Hardenbroeck
was diametrically opposed, suggesting in place thereof
that they should run out docks and wharfs by means of
piles, driven into the bottom of the river, on which the
town should be built. “By these means,” said he triumphantly,
“shall we rescue a considerable space of territory
from these immense rivers, and build a city that
shall rival Amsterdam, Venice, or any amphibious city
in Europe.” To this proposition Tenbroeck (or Ten
Breeches) replied, with a look of as much scorn as he
could possibly assume. He cast the utmost censure
upon the plan of his antagonist as being preposterous,
and against the very order of things, as he would leave to
every true Hollander. “For what,” said he, “is a town
without canals?—It is like a body without veins and arteries,
and must perish for want of a free circulation of the
vital fluid.” Tough Breeches, on the contrary, retorted
with a sarcasm upon his antagonist, who was somewhat of
an arid, dry boned habit; he remarked, that as to the circulation
of the blood being necessary to existence, Mynheer
Ten Breeches was a living contradiction to his own
assertion; for every body knew there had not a drop of
blood circulated through his wind-dried carcass for good
ten years, and yet there was not a greater busybody in the
whole colony. Personalities have seldom much effect in
making converts in argument; nor have I ever seen a man
convinced of error by being convicted of deformity. At
least, such was not the case at present. Ten Breeches
was very acrimonious in reply, and Tough Breeches, who
was a sturdy little man, and never gave up the last word,
rejoined with increasing spirit—Ten Breeches had the advantage
of the greatest volubility, but Tough Breeches
had that invaluable coat of mail in argument called obstinacy—
Ten Breeches had, therefore, the most metal, but
Tough Breeches the best bottom—so that though Ten
Breeches made a dreadful clattering about his ears, and
battered and belaboured him with hard words and sound
arguments; yet Tough Breeches hung on most resolutely
to the last. They parted, therefore, as is usual in all
arguments where both parties are in the right, without
coming to any conclusion; but they hated each other
most heartily for ever after, and a similar breach with
that between the houses of Capulet and Montague did
ensue between the families of Ten Breeches and Tough
Breeches.
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I would not fatigue my reader with these dull matters
of fact, but that my duty as a faithful historian requires
that I should be particular; and, in truth, as I am now
treating of the critical period, when our city, like a young
twig first received the twists and turns, that have since
contributed to give it the present picturesque irregularity
for which it is celebrated, I cannot be too minute in detailing
their first causes.
After the unhappy altercation I have just mentioned, I
do not find that any thing further was said on the subject
worthy of being recorded. The council, consisting of the
largest and oldest heads in the community, met regularly
once a-week, to ponder on this monstrous subject; but
either they were deterred by the war of words they had
witnessed, or they were naturally averse to the exercise
of the tongue, and the consequent exercise of the brain—
certain it is, the most profound silence was maintained—
the question, as usual, lay on the table—the members
quietly smoked their pipes, making but few laws, without
ever enforcing any, and in the mean time the affairs of
the settlement went on—as it pleased God.
As most of the council were but little skilled in the
mystery of combining pothooks and hangers, they determined,
most judiciously, not to puzzle either themselves
or posterity with voluminous records. The secretary
however, kept the minutes of the council with tolerable
precision, in a large vellum folio, fastened with massy
brass clasps; the journal of each meeting consisted but of
two lines, stating in Dutch. that “the council sat this
day, and smoked twelve pipes on the affairs of the colony.”
By which it appears that the first settlers did not
regulate their time by hours, but pipes, in the same manner
as they measure distances in Holland at this very time;
an admirably exact measurement, as the pipe in the mouth
of a true born Dutchman is never liable to those accidents
and irregularities that are continually putting our clocks
out of order.
In this manner did the profound council of New-Amsterdam
smoke, and doze, and ponder, from week to
week, month to month, and year to year, in what manner
they should construct their infant settlement: meanwhile,
the town took care of itself, and like a sturdy brat
which is suffered to run about wild, unshackled by clouts
and bandages, and other abominations, by which your
notable nurses and sage old women cripple and disfigure
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[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
the children of men, increased so rapidly in strength and
magnitude, that before the honest burgomasters had determined
upon a plan, it was too late to put it in execution—
whereupon they wisely abandoned the subject altogether.
THE LITTLE MAN IN BLACK.
The following story has been handed down by a family
tradition for more than a century. It is one on which
my cousin Christopher dwells with more than usual prolixity;
and, being in some measure connected with a personage
often quoted in our work, I have thought it worthy
of being laid before my readers.
Soon after my grandfather, Mr. Lemuel Cockloft, had
quietly seated himself at the Hall, and just about the
time that the gossips of the neighbourhood, tired of prying
into his affairs, were anxious for some new tea-table
topic, the busy community of our little village was thrown
into a grand turmoil of curiosity and conjecture—a situation
very common to little gossiping villages—by the
sudden and unaccountable appearance of a mysterious
individual.
The object of this solicitude was a little black-looking
man, of a foreign aspect, who took possession of an old
building, which having long had the reputation of being
haunted, was in a state of ruinous desolation, and an object
of fear to all true believers in Ghosts. He usually
wore a high sugar-loaf hat with a narrow brim, and a
little black cloak, which, short as he was, scarcely reached
below his knees. He sought no intimacy or acquaintance
with any one—appeared to take no interest in the pleasures
or the little broils of the village—nor ever talked, except
sometimes to himself in an outlandish tongue. He commonly
carried a large book, covered with sheepskin, under
his arm, appeared always to be lost in meditation—and was
often met by the peasantry, sometimes watching the dawning
of the day, sometimes at noon seated under a tree
poring over his volume, and sometimes at evening gazing,
with a look of sober tranquillity, at the sun as it gradually
sunk below the horizon.
The good people of the vicinity beheld something prodigiously
singular in all this: a profound mystery
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[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
seemed to hang about the stranger, which, with all their sagacity,
they could not penetrate; and in the excess of worldly
charity they pronounced it a sure sign “that he was
no better than he should be;” a phrase innocent enough
in itself; but which, as applied in common, signifies nearly
every thing that is bad. The young people thought
him a gloomy misanthrope, because he never joined in
their sports; the old men thought still more hardly of
him, because he followed no trade, nor ever seemed ambitious
of earning a farthing; and as to the old gossips,
baffled by the inflexible taciturnity of the stranger, they
unanimously declared that a man who could not or would
not talk was no better than a dumb beast. The little
man in black, careless of their opinions, seemed resolved
to maintain the liberty of keeping his own secret; and the
consequence was, that, in a little while, the whole village
was in an uproar; for in little communities of this description,
the members have always the privilege of being thoroughly
versed, and even of meddling in all the affairs of
each other.
A confidential conference was held one Sunday morning
after sermon, at the door of the village church, and
the character of the unknown fully investigated. The
schoolmaster gave as his opinion that he was the wandering
Jew; the sexton was certain that he must be a free-mason
from his silence; a third maintained, with great
obstinacy, that he was a High German Doctor, and that
the book which he carried about with him contained the
secrets of the black art; but the most prevailing opinion
seemed to be that he was a witch—a race of beings at that
time abounding in those parts: and a sagacious old matron,
from Connecticut, proposed to ascertain the fact by sousing
him into a kettle of hot water.
Suspicion, when once afloat, goes with wind and tide,
and soon becomes certainty. Many a stormy night was
the little man in black seen by the flashes of lightning,
frisking and curvetting in the air upon a broomstick; and
it was always observed, that at those times the storm did
more mischief than at any other. The old lady in particular,
who suggested the humane ordeal of the boiling
kettle, lost, on one of these occasions, a fine brindle cow;
which accident was entirely ascribed to the vengeance of
the little man in black. If ever a mischievous hireling
rode his master's favourite horse to a distant frolic, and
the animal was observed to be lame and jaded in the
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
morning,—the little man in black was sure to be at the
bottom of the affair; nor could a high wind howl through
the village at night, but the old women shrugged up their
shoulders, and observed, “the little man in black was in
his tantrums.” In short, he became the bugbear of every
house; and was as effectual in frightening little children
into obedience and hysterics, as the redoubtable Raw-head-and-bloody-bones
himself; nor could a housewife of
the village sleep in peace, except under the guardianship
of a horse-shoe nailed to the door.
The object of these direful suspicions remained for
some time totally ignorant of the wonderful quandary he
had occasioned; but he was soon doomed to feel its effects.
An individual who is once so unfortunate as to
incur the odium of a village, is in a great measure out-lawed
and proscribed, and becomes a mark for injury and
insult; particularly if he has not the power or the disposition
to recriminate.—The little venomous passions,
which in the great world are dissipated and weakened by
being widely diffused, act in the narrow limits of a country
town with collected vigour, and become rancorous in
proportion as they are confined in their sphere of action.
The little man in black experienced the truth of this;
every mischievous urchin returning from school had full
liberty to break his windows; and this was considered as
a most daring exploit; for in such awe did they stand of
him, that the most adventurous schoolboy was never seen
to approach his threshold, and at night would prefer going
round by the cross-roads, where a traveller had been murdered
by the Indians, rather than pass by the door of his
forlorn habitation.
The only living creature that seemed to have any care
or affection for this deserted being was an old turnspit,—
the companion of this lonely mansion and his solitary
wanderings;—the sharer of his scanty meals, and, sorry
am I to say it,—the sharer of his persecutions. The
turnspit, like his master, was peaceable and inoffensive;
never known to bark at a horse, to growl at a traveller,
or to quarrel with the dogs of the neighbourhood. He
followed close by his master's heels when he went out,
and when he returned stretched himself in the sunbeams
at the door; demeaning himself in all things like a civil
and well disposed turnspit. But notwithstanding his
exemplary deportment, he fell likewise under the ill report
of the village; as being the familiar of the little man
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[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
in black, and the evil spirit that presided at his incantations.
The old hovel was considered as the scene of their
unhallowed rites, and its harmless tenants regarded with
a detestation which their inoffensive conduct never merited.
Though pelted and jeered at by the brats of the village,
and frequently abused by their parents, the little
man in black never turned to rebuke them; and his faithful
dog, when wantonly assaulted, looked up wistfully in
his master's face, and there learned a lesson of patience
and forbearance.
The movements of this inscrutable being had long been
the subject of speculation at Cockloft-hall, for its inmates
were full as much given to wondering as their descendants.
The patience with which he bore his persecutions
particularly surprised them—for patience is a virtue but
little known in the Cockloft family. My grandmother,
who, it appears, was rather superstitious, saw, in this
humility, nothing but the gloomy sullenness of a wizard,
who restrained himself for the present, in hopes of midnight
vengeance—the parson of the village, who was a
man of some reading, pronounced it the stubborn insensibility
of a stoic philosopher—my grandfather, who,
worthy soul, seldom wandered abroad in search of conclusions,
took datum from his own excellent heart, and
regarded it as the humble forgiveness of a Christian. But
however different were their opinions as to the character
of the stranger, they agreed in one particular, namely, in
never intruding upon his solitude; and my grandmother,
who was at that time nursing my mother, never left the
room without wisely putting the large family bible in the
cradle—a sure talisman, in her opinion, against witchcraft
and necromancy.
One stormy windy night, when a bleak north-east
wind moaned about the cottages, and howled around the
village steeple, my grandfather was returning from club
preceded by a servant with a lantern. Just as he arrived
opposite the desolate abode of the little man in black, he
was arrested by the piteous howling of a dog, which,
heard in the pauses of a storm, was exquisitely mournful;
and he fancied now and then that he caught the low
and broken groans of some one in distress. He stopped for
some minutes, hesitating between the benevolence of his
heart and a sensation of genuine delicacy, which, in spite
of his eccentricity, he fully possessed,—and which forbade
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
him to pry into the concerns of his neighbours. Perhaps,
too, this hesitation might have been strengthened
by a little taint of superstition; or surely, if the unknown
had been addicted to witchcraft, this was a most propitious
night for his vagaries. At length the old gentleman's
philanthropy predominated; he approached the
hovel, and pushing open the door,—for poverty has no
occasion for locks and keys,—beheld, by the light of the
lantern, a scene that smote his generous heart to the core.
On a miserable bed, with pallid and emaciated visage
and hollow eyes; in a room destitute of every convenience;
without fire to warm or friend to console him, lay
this helpless mortal, who had been so long the terror and
wonder of the village. His dog was crouching on the
scanty coverlet, and shivering with cold. My grandfather
stepped softly and hesitatingly to the bedside, and accosted
the forlorn sufferer in his usual accents of kindness.
The little man in black, seemed recalled by the tones of
compassion from the lethargy into which he had fallen;
for, though his heart was almost frozen, there was yet
one chord that answered to the call of the good old man
who bent over him;—the tones of sympathy, so novel to
his ear, called back his wandering senses, and acted like a
restorative to his solitary feelings.
He raised his eyes, but they were vacant and haggard;—
he put forth his hand, but it was cold; he essayed to
speak, but the sound died away in his throat;—he pointed
to his mouth with an expression of dreadful meaning,
and, sad to relate! my grandfather understood that the
harmless stranger, deserted by society, was perishing with
hunger!—With the quick impulse of humanity he despatched
the servant to the hall for refreshment. A little
warm nourishment renovated him for a short time, but not
long: it was evident his pilgrimage was drawing to a close,
and he was about entering that peaceful asylum where
“the wicked cease from troubling.”
His tale of misery was short, and quickly told;—infirmities
had stolen upon him, heightened by the rigours
of the season; he had taken to his bed without strength to
rise and ask for assistance; “and if I had,” said he, in a
tone of bitter despondency, “to whom should I have applied?
I have no friend that I know of in the world!—
the villagers avoid me as something loathsome and dangerous;
and here, in the midst of Christians, should I have
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
perished without a fellow being to sooth the last moments
of existence, and close my dying eyes, had not the howlings
of my faithful dog excited your attention.”
He seemed deeply sensible of the kindness of my grandfather;
and at one time as he looked up into his old benefactor's
face, a solitary tear was observed to steal
adown the parched furrows of his cheek.—Poor outcast!—
it was the last tear he shed; but I warrant it was not
the first by millions! My grandfather watched by him
all night. Towards morning he gradually declined; and
as the rising sun gleamed through the windows, he begged
to be raised in his bed, that he might look at it for the
last time. He contemplated it for a moment with a kind
of religious enthusiasm, and his lips moved as if engaged
in prayer. The strange conjecture concerning him rushed
on my grandfather's mind. “He is an idolater!”
thought he, “and is worshipping the sun!” He listened
a moment, and blushed at his own uncharitable suspicion;
he was only engaged in the pious devotions of a Christian.
His simple orison being finished, the little man in black
withdrew his eyes from the east, and taking my grandfather's
hand in one of his, and making a motion with the
other towards the sun—“I love to contemplate it,” said
he; “'tis an emblem of the universal benevolence of a
true Christian;—and it is the most glorious work of him
who is philanthropy itself!” My grandfather blushed
still deeper at his ungenerous surmises; he had pitied the
stranger at first, but now he revered him:—he turned
once more to regard him, but his countenance had undergone
a change; the holy enthusiasm that had lighted up
each feature had given place to an expression of mysterious
import:—a gleam of grandeur seemed to steal across
his gothic visage, and he appeared full of some mighty
secret which he hesitated to impart. He raised the tattered
nightcap that had sunk almost over his eyes, and
waving his withered hand with a slow and feeble expression
of dignity—“In me,” said he, with a laconic solemnity,—
“In me you behold the last descendant of the renowned
Linkum Fidelius!” My grandfather gazed at
him with reverence; for though he had never heard of
the illustrious personage thus pompously announced, yet
there was a certain black-letter dignity in the name that
peculiarly struck his fancy and commanded his respect.
“You have been kind to me,” continued the little man
in black, after a momentary pause, “and richly will I
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requite your kindness by making you heir to my treasures!
In yonder large deal box are the volumes of my
illustrious ancestor, of which I alone am the fortunate
possessor. Inherit them—ponder over them, and be
wise!” He grew faint with the exertion he had made,
and sunk back almost breathless on his pillow. His hand,
which, inspired with the importance of his subject, he had
raised to my grandfather's arm, slipped from its hold and
fell over the side of the bed, and his faithful dog licked
it; as if anxious to sooth the last moments of his master,
and testify his gratitude to the hand that had so often cherished
him. The untaught caresses of the faithful animal
were not lost upon his dying master; he raised his languid
eyes,—turned them on the dog, then on my grandfather;
and having given this silent recommendation—
closed them for ever.
The remains of the little man in black, notwithstanding
the objections of many pious people, were decently interred
in the church-yard of the village; and his spirit,
harmless as the body it once animated, has never been
known to molest a living being. My grandfather complied
as far as possible with his last request; he conveyed
the volumes of Linkum Fidelius to his library;—he pondered
over them frequently; but whether he grew wiser,
the family tradition doth not mention. This much is
certain, that his kindness to the poor descendant of Fidelius
was amply rewarded by the approbation of his own
heart, and the devoted attachment of the old turnspit;
who, transferring his affection from his deceased master
to his benefactor, became his constant attendant, and was
father to a long tribe of runty curs that still flourish in the
family. And thus was the Cockloft library enriched by
the invaluable folios of the sage Linkum Fidelius.
MY AUNT CHARITY.
My aunt Charity departed this life in the fifty-ninth
year of her age, though she never grew older after twenty-five.
In her teens she was, according to her own
account, a celebrated beauty,—though I never could meet
with any body that remembered when she was handsome.
On the contrary, Evergreen's father, who used to gallant
her in his youth, says she was as knotty a little piece
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of humanity as he ever saw; and that, if she had been
possessed of the least sensibility, she would, like poor old
Acco, have most certainly run mad at her own figure and
face the first time she contemplated herself in a looking-glass.
In the good old times that saw my aunt in the
hey-day of youth, a fine lady was a most formidable animal,
and required to be approached with the same awe and
devotion that a Tartar feels in the presence of his grand
Lama. If a gentleman offered to take her hand, except
to help her into a carriage, or lead her into a drawing-room,
such frowns! such a rustling of brocade and taffeta!
Her very paste shoe buckles sparkled with indignation,
and for a moment assumed the brilliancy of diamonds!
In those days the person of a belle was sacred—it
was unprofaned by the sacrilegious grasp of a stranger:—
simple souls:—they had not the waltz among them yet!
My good aunt prided herself on keeping up this buckram
delicacy; and if she happened to be playing at the old
fashioned game of forfeits, and was fined a kiss, it was
always more trouble to get it than it was worth; for she
made a most gallant defence, and never surrendered until
she saw her adversary inclined to give over his attack.
Evergreen's father says he remembers once to
have been on a sleighing party with her, and when they
came to Kissing-Bridge, it fell to his lot to levy contributions
on Miss Charity Cockloft, who after squalling at a
hideous rate, at length jumped out of the sleigh plump into
a snow-bank, where she stuck fast like an icicle, until he
came to her rescue. This Latonian feat cost her a rheumatism,
which she never thoroughly recovered.
It is rather singular that my aunt, though a great
beauty, and an heiress withal, never got married.—The
reason she alleged was, that she never met with a lover
who resembled Sir Charles Grandison, the hero of her
nightly dreams and waking fancy; but I am privately of
opinion that it was owing to her never having had an
offer. This much is certain, that for many years previous
to her decease she declined all attentions from the gentlemen,
and contented herself with watching over the
welfare of her fellow creatures. She was, indeed, observed
to take a considerable lean towards methodism, was frequent
in her attendance at love-feasts, read Whitfield and
Wesley, and even went so far as once to travel the distance
of five and twenty miles to be present at a camp-meeting.
This gave great offence to my cousin Christopher, and
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his good lady, who, as I have already mentioned, are rigidly
orthodox;—and had not my aunt Charity been of
a most pacific disposition, her religious whim-wham
would have occasioned many a family altercation. She
was indeed, as the Cockloft family ever boasted—a lady
of unbounded loving-kindness, which extended to man,
woman, and child; many of whom she almost killed
with good nature. Was any acquaintance sick?—in
vain did the wind whistle and the storm beat—my aunt
would waddle through mud and mire, over the whole
town, but what she would visit them. She would
sit by them for hours together with the most persevering
patience; and tell a thousand melancholy stories
of human misery, to keep up their spirits. The
whole catalogue of yerb teas was at her fingers' ends,
from formidable wormwood down to gentle balm; and
she would descant by the hour on the healing qualities of
hoar-hound, catnip, and penny-royal. Wo be to the patient
that came under the benevolent hand of my aunt
Charity; he was sure, willy nilly, to be drenched with a
deluge of decoctions; and full many a time has my cousin
Christopher borne a twinge of pain in silence, through
fear of being condemned to suffer the martyrdom of her
materia-medica. My good aunt had, moreover, considerable
skill in astronomy; for she could tell when the sun
rose and set every day in the year;—and no woman in the
whole world was able to pronounce, with more certainty,
at what precise minute the moon changed. She held the
story of the moon's being made of green cheese as an
abominable slander on her favourite planet; and she had
made several valuable discoveries in solar eclipses, by
means of a bit of burnt glass, which entitled her at least
to an honorary admission in the American Philosophical
Society. “Hutching's Improved” was her favourite
book; and I shrewdly suspect that it was from this valuable
work she drew most of her sovereign remedies for
colds, coughs, corns, and consumptions.
But the truth must be told; with all her good qualities,
my aunt Charity was afflicted with one fault, extremely
rare among her gentle sex—it was curiosity.
How she came by it, I am at a loss to imagine, but it
played the very vengeance with her, and destroyed the
comfort of her life. Having an invincible desire to know
every body's character, business, and mode of living, she
was for ever prying into the affairs of her neighbours;
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and got a great deal of ill-will from people towards whom
she had the kindest disposition possible. If any family
on the opposite side of the street gave a dinner, my aunt
would mount her spectacles, and sit at the window until
the company were all housed, merely that she might know
who they were. If she heard a story about any of her acquaintance,
she would forthwith, set off full sail, and never
rest, until, to use her usual expression, she had got “to the
bottom of it;” which meant nothing more than telling it
to every one she knew.
I remember one night my aunt Charity happened to
hear a most precious story about one of her good friends,
but unfortunately too late to give it immediate circulation.
It made her absolutely miserable; and she hardly slept a
wink all night; for fear her bosom friend, Mrs. Sipkins,
should get the start of her in the morning, and blow the
whole affair.—You must know there was always a contest
between these two ladies, who should first give currency
to the good-natured things said about every body;
and this unfortunate rivalship at length proved fatal to
their long and ardent friendship. My aunt got up full
two hours that morning before her usual time; put on her
pompadour taffeta gown, and sallied forth to lament the
misfortune of her dear friend.—Would you believe it!—
wherever she went, Mrs. Sipkins had anticipated her;
and instead of being listened to with uplifted hands and
open-mouthed wonder, my unhappy aunt was obliged to
sit down quietly and listen to the whole affair, with numerous
additions, alterations, and amendments! Now
this was too bad; it would almost have provoked Patient
Grizzle or a saint; it was too much for my aunt, who
kept her bed three days afterwards, with a cold as she
pretended; but I have no doubt it was owing to this affair
of Mrs. Sipkins, to whom she never would be reconciled.
But I pass over the rest of my aunt Charity's life chequered
with the various calamities and misfortunes and
mortifications, incident to those worthy old gentlewomen
who have the domestic cares of the whole community upon
their minds; and I hasten to relate the melancholy incident
that hurried her out of existence in the full bloom of
antiquated virginity.
In their frolicsome malice the fates had ordered that
a French boarding-house, or Pension Francaise, as it was
called, should be established directly opposite my aunt's
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residence. Cruel event! unhappy aunt Charity!—it
threw her into that alarming disorder denominated the
fidgets: she did nothing but watch at the window day
after day, but without becoming one whit the wiser at the
end of a fortnight than she was at the beginning; she
thought that neighbour Pension had a monstrous large family,
and somehow or other they were all men! She
could not imagine what business neighbour Pension followed
to support so numerous a household; and wondered
why there was always such a scraping of fiddles in the
parlour, and such a smell of onions from neighbour Pension's
kitchen: in short, neighbour Pension was continually
uppermost in her thoughts, and incessantly on the outer
edge of her tongue. This was, I believe, the very first
time she had ever failed “to get at the bottom of a thing;”
and the disappointment cost her many a sleepless night, I
warrant you. I have little doubt, however, that my aunt
would have ferretted neighbour Pension out, could she
have spoken or understood French; but in those times
people in general could make themselves understood in
plain English; and it was always a standing rule in the
Cockloft family, which exists to this day, that not one of
the females should learn French.
My aunt Charity had lived at her window, for some
time in vain; when one day she was keeping her usual
look-out, and suffering all the pangs of unsatisfied curiosity,
she beheld a little meagre, weazel-faced Frenchman,
of the most forlorn, diminutive, and pitiful proportions,
arrive at neighbour Pension's door. He was dressed in
white, with a little pinch-up cocked hat; he seemed to
shake in the wind, and every blast that went over him
whistled through his bones, and threatened instant annihilation.
This embodied spirit of famine was followed
by three carts, lumbered with crazy trunks, chests, band-boxes,
bidets, medicine-chests, parrots, and monkeys;
and at his heels ran a yelping pack of little black-nosed
pug-dogs. This was the one thing wanting to fill up
the measure of my aunt Charity's afflictions; she could
not conceive, for the soul of her, who this mysterious
little apparition could be that made so great a display;—
what he could possibly do with so much baggage, and
particularly with his parrots and monkeys; or how so
small a carcass could have occasion for so many trunks of
clothes. Honest soul! she never had a peep into a Frenchman's
wardrobe—that depot of old coasts, hats, and
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breeches, of the growth of every fashion he has followed
in his life.
From the time of this fatal arrival my poor aunt was in a
quandary;—all her inquiries were fruitless; no one could
expound the history of this mysterious stranger: she
never held her head up afterwards—drooped daily, took to
her bed in a fortnight, and in “one little month,” I saw
her quietly deposited in the family vault—being the seventh
Cockloft that has died of a whim-wham!
Take warning, my fair countrywomen! and you, O! ye
excellent ladies, whether married or single, who pry into
other people's affairs and neglect those of your own household;
who are so busily employed in observing the faults
of others that you have no time to correct your own; remember
the fate of my dear aunt Charity and eschew the
evil spirit of curiosity.
WILL WIZARD.
I WAS not a little surprised the other morning at a request
from Will Wizard, that I would accompany him
that evening to Mrs. —'s ball. The request was
simple enough in itself, it was only singular as coming
from Will;—of all my acquaintance, Wizard, is the least
calculated and disposed for the society of ladies—not that
he dislikes their company; on the contrary, like every
man of pith and marrow, he is a professed admirer of
the sex; and had he been born a poet, would undoubtedly
have bespattered and be-rhymed some hard
named goddess; until she became as famous as Petrach's
Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa; but Will is such a confounded
bungler at a bow, has so many odd bachelor
habits, and finds it so troublesome to be gallant, that he
generally prefers smoking his cigar and telling his story
among cronies of his own gender:—and thundering long
stories they are, let me tell you: set Will once a-going
about China or Crim Tartary, or the Hottentots, and
heaven help the poor victim who has to endure his prolixity;
he might better be tied to the tail of a jack- o'lanthern.
In one word, Will talks like a traveller. Being
well acquainted with his character, I was the more
alarmed at his inclination to visit a party; since he has
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often assured me, that he considered it as equivalent
to being stuck up for three hours in a steam-engine. I
even wondered how he had received an invitation;—this
he soon accounted for. It seems Will, on his last arrival
from Canton, had made a present of a case of tea to a
lady, for whom he had once entertained a sneaking kindness
when at grammar-school; and she in return had
invited him to come and drink some of it: a cheap way
enough of paying off little obligations. I readily acceded
to Will's proposition, expecting much entertainment
from his eccentric remarks; and as he has been absent
some few years, I anticipated his surprise at the splendour
and elegance of a modern rout.
On calling for Will in the evening, I found him full
dressed, waiting for me. I contemplated him with absolute
dismay. As he still retained a spark of regard for the
lady who once reigned in his affections, he had been at
unusual pains in decorating his person, and broke upon
my sight arrayed in the true style that prevailed among
our beaux some years ago. His hair was turned up and
tufted at the top, frizzled out at the ears, a profusion of
powder puffed over the whole, and a long plaited club
swung gracefully from shoulder to shoulder, describing
a pleasing semi-circle of powder and pomatum. His
claret-coloured coat was decorated with a profusion of
gilt buttons, and reached to his calves. His white cassimere
small-clothes were so tight that he seemed to have
grown up in them; and his ponderous legs, which are
the thickest part of his body, were beautifully clothed in
sky-blue silk stockings, once considered so becoming.
But above all, he prided himself upon his waistcoat of
China silk, which might almost have served a good house-wife
for a short-gown; and he boasted that the roses and
tulips upon it were the work of Nang-Fou, daughter of
the great Chin-Chin-Fou, who had fallen in love with the
graces of his person, and sent it to him as a parting present;
he assured me she was a perfect beauty, with
sweet obliquity of eyes, and a foot no longer than the
thumb of an alderman;—he then dilated most copiously
on his silver sprigged dicky, which he assured me was
quite the rage among the dashing young mandarins of
Canton.
I hold it an ill-natured office to put any man out of
conceit with himself; so, though I would willingly have
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made a little alteration in my friend Wizard's pictu
esque costume, yet I politely complimented him on his
rakish appearance.
On entering the room I kept a good look out on Will,
expecting to see him exhibit signs of surprise; but he is
one of those knowing fellows who are never surprised at
any thing, or at least will never acknowledge it. He
took his stand in the middle of the floor, playing with
his great steel watch-chain; and looking round on the
company, the furniture, and the pictures, with the air of
a man “who had seen d—d finer things in his time;”
and to my utter confusion and dismay, I saw him coolly
pull out his villanous old japanned tobacco-box, ornamented
with a bottle, a pipe, and a scurvy motto, and
help himself to a quid in face of all the company.
I knew it was all in vain to find fault with a fellow
of Will's socratic turn, who is never to be put out of
humour with himself; so, after he had given his box its
prescriptive rap, and returned it to his pocket, I drew
him into a corner where he might observe the company
without being prominent objects ourselves.
“And pray who is that stylish figure,” said Will,
“who blazes away in red, like a volcano, and who
seems wrapped in flames like a fiery dragon?”—That,
cried I, is Miss Laurelia Dashaway:—she is the highest
flash of the ton—has much whim and more eccentricity,
and has reduced many an unhappy gentleman to
stupidity by her charms; you see she holds out the red
flag in token of “no quarter.” “Then keep me safe
out of the sphere of her attractions,” cried Will: “I
would not e'en come in contact with her train, lest it
should scorch me like the tail of a comet.—But who, I
beg of you, is that amiable youth who is handing along
a young lady, and at the same time contemplating his
sweet person in a mirror, as he passes?” His name,
said I, is Billy Dimple;—he is a universal smiler, and
would travel from Dan to Beersheba, and smile on every
body as he passed. Dimple is a slave to the ladies—a
hero at tea-parties, and is famous at the pirouet and the
pigeon-wing; a fiddle-stick is his idol, and a dance his
elysium. “A very pretty young gentleman, truly,”
cried Wizard; “he reminds me of a contemporary beau
at Hayti. You must know that the magnanimous Dessalines
gave a great ball to his court one fine sultry summer's
evening; Dessy and I were great cronies;—hand
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and glove:—one of the most condescending great men I
ever knew.—Such a display of black and yellow beauties!
such a show of Madras handkerchiefs, red beads, cocks'
tails, and peacocks' feathers!—it was, as here, who should
wear the highest top-knot, drag the longest tails, or exhibit
the greatest variety of combs, colours, and gew-gaws.
In the middle of the rout, when all was buzz,
slip-slop, clack, and perfume, who should enter but Tucky
Squash! The yellow beauties blushed blue, and the
black ones blushed as red as they could, with pleasure;
and there was a universal agitation of fans: every eye
brightened and whitened to see Tucky; for he was the
pride of the court, the pink of courtesy, the mirror of
fashion, the adoration of all the sable fair ones of Hayti.
Such breadth of nose, such exuberance of lip! his shins
had the true cucumber curve;—his face in dancing shone
like a kettle; and provided you kept to windward of him
in summer, I do not know a sweeter youth in all Hayti
than Tucky Squash. When he laughed, there appeared
from ear to ear a chevaux-de-frize of teeth, that rivalled
the shark's in whiteness; he could whistle like a north-wester;
play on a three-stringed fiddle like Apollo;
and, as to dancing, no Long-Island negro could shuffle
you “double-trouble,” or “hoe corn and dig potatoes,”
more scientifically: in short, he was a second Lothario.
And the dusky nymphs of Hayti, one, and all, declared
him a perpetual Adonis. Tucky walked about, whistling
to himself, without regarding any body; and his nonchalance
was irresistible.”
I found Will had got neck and heels into one of his
traveller's stories; and there is no knowing how far he
would have run his parallel between Billy Dimple and
Tucky Squash, had not the music struck up from an
adjoining apartment, and summoned the company to the
dance. The sound seemed to have an inspiring effect on
honest Will, and he procured the hand of an old acquaintance
for a country dance. It happened to be the fashionable
one of “The devil among the Tailors,” which is
so vociferously demanded at every ball and assembly: and
many a torn gown, and many an unfortunate toe, did rue
the dancing of that night; for Will thundered down the
dance like a coach and six, sometimes right and sometimes
wrong; now running over half a score of little Frenchmen,
and now making sad inroads into ladies' cobweb muslins
and spangled tails. As every part of Will's body
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partook of the exertion, he shook from his capacious head
such volumes of powder, that like pious Eneas on the first
interview with Queen Dido, he might be said to have
been enveloped in a cloud. Nor was Will's partner an
insignificant figure in the scene; she was a young lady
of most voluminous proportions, that quivered at every
skip; and being braced up in the fashionable style with
whalebone, stay-tape and buckram, looked like an apple
pudding tied in the middle; or, taking her flaming dress
into consideration, like a bed and bolsters rolled up in a
suit of red curtains. The dance finished.—I would
gladly have taken Will off, but no;—he was now in one
of his happy moods, and there was no doing any thing
with him. He insisted on my introducing him to Miss
Sparkle, a young lady unrivalled for playful wit and innocent
vivacity, and who, like a brilliant, adds lustre to
the front of fashion. I accordingly presented him to her,
and began a conversation, in which, I thought, he might
take a share; but no such thing. Will took his stand before
her, straddling like a colossus, with his hands in his
pockets, and an air of the most profound attention; nor
did he pretend to open his lips for some time, until, upon
some lively sally of hers, he electrified the whole company
with a most intolerable burst of laughter. What was to
be done with such an incorrigible fellow?—To add to my
distress, the first word he spoke was to tell Miss Sparkle
that something she said reminded him of a circumstance
that happened to him in China;—and at it he went, in
the true traveller style,—described the Chinese mode of
eating rice with chop-sticks;—entered into a long eulogium
on the succulent qualities of boiled birds' nests: and
I made my escape at the very moment when he was on
the point of squatting down on the floor, to show how the
little Chinese Joshes sit cross-legged.
STYLE.
In no instance have I seen this grasping after style
more whimsically exhibited than in the family of my old
acquaintance Timothy Giblet. I recollect old Giblet
when I was a boy, and he was the most surly curmudgeon
I ever knew. He was a perfect scare-crow to the small-fry
of the day, and inherited the hatred of all these
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unlucky little shavers; for never could we assemble about
his door of an evening to play, and make a little hubbuh,
but out he sallied from his nest like a spider, flourished
his formidable horse-whip, and dispersed the whole crew
in the twinkling of a lamp. I perfectly remember a bill
he sent in to my father for a pane of sound glass I had
accidentally broken, which came well nigh getting me a
flogging; and I remember, as perfectly, that the next night
I revenged myself by breaking half-a-dozen. Giblet was
as arrant a grub-worm as ever crawled; and the only rules
of right and wrong he cared a button for, were the rules
of multiplication and addition; which he practised much
more successfully than he did any of the rules of religion
or morality. He used to declare they were the true golden
rules; and he took special care to put Cocker's arithmetic
in the hands of his children, before they had
read ten pages in the bible or the prayer book. The practice
of these favourite maxims was at length crowned
with the harvest of success; and after a life of incessant
self-denial, and starvation, and after enduring all the
pounds, shillings and pence miseries of a miser, he had the
satisfaction of seeing himself worth a plum, and of dying
just as he had determined to enjoy the remainder of his
days in contemplating his great wealth and accumulating
mortgages.
His children inherited his money; but they buried
the disposition, and every other memorial of their father
in his grave. Fired with a noble thirst for style, they
instantly emerged from the retired lane in which themselves
and their accomplishments had hitherto been buried;
and they blazed, and they whizzed, and they cracked
about town, like a nest of squibs and devils in a fire-work.
I can liken their sudden eclat to nothing but that
of the locust, which is hatched in the dust, where it increases
and swells up to maturity, and after feeling for
a moment the vivifying rays of the sun, bursts forth a
mighty insect, and flutters and rattles, and buzzes from
every tree. The little warblers, who have long cheered
the woodlands with their dulcet notes, are stunned by
the discordant racket of these upstart intruders, and contemplate,
in contemptuous silence, their tinsel and their
noise.
Having once started, the Giblets were determined that
nothing should stop them in their career, until they
had run their full course and arrived at the very tip-top
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of style. Every tailor, every shoemaker, every coachmaker,
every milliner, every mantua-maker, every paper-hanger,
every piano-teacher, and every dancing-master in
the city, were enlisted in their service; and the willing
wights most courteously answered their call, and fell to
work to build up the fame of the Giblets, as they had
done that of many an aspiring family before them. In
a little time the young ladies could dance the waltz, thunder
Lodoiska, murder French, kill time, and commit violence
on the face of nature in a landscape in water-colours,
equal to the best lady in the land, and the young
gentlemen were seen lounging at corners of streets, and
driving tandem; heard talking loud at the theatre, and
laughing in church, with as much ease and grace, and
modesty, as if they had been gentlemen all the days of
their lives.
And the Giblets arrayed themselves in scarlet, and in
fine linen, and seated themselves in high places; but no
body noticed them except to honour them with a little
contempt. The Giblets made a prodigious splash in
their own opinion; but nobody extolled them except the
tailors, and the milliners, who had been employed in manufacturing
their paraphernalia. The Giblets thereupon
being, like Caleb Quotem, determined to have “a place
at the review,” fell to work more fiercely than ever;—
they gave dinners, and they gave balls; they hired cooks;
they hired confectioners; and they would have kept a
newspaper in pay, had they not been all bought up at that
time for the election. They invited the dancing men,
and the dancing women, and the gormandizers, and the
epicures of the city, to come and make merry at their
expense; and the dancing men, and the dancing women,
and the epicures, and the gormandizers, did come; and
they did make merry at their expense; and they eat, and
they drank, and they capered, and they danced, and they—
laughed at their entertainers.
Then commenced the hurry and the bustle, and the
mighty nothingness of fashionable life;—such rattling in
coaches! such flaunting in the streets! such slamming of
box-doors at the theatre! such a tempest of bustle and unmeaning
noise wherever they appeared! The Giblets were
seen here and there and every where;—they visited every
body they knew, and every body they did not know;
and there was no getting along for the Giblets. Their
plan at length succeeded. By dint of dinners, of feeding
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and frolicking the town, the Giblet family worked
themselves into notice, and enjoyed the ineffable pleasure
of being for ever pestered by visiters, who cared nothing
about them; of being squeezed, and smothered, and parboiled
at nightly balls, and evening tea-parties; they
were allowed the privilege of forgetting the very few old
friends they once possessed;—they turned their noses up
in the wind at every thing that was not genteel; and
their superb manners and sublime affectation at length
left it no longer a matter of doubt that the Giblets were
perfectly in the style.
FRENCHMEN.
In my mind there's no position more positive and unexceptionable
than that most Frenchmen, dead or alive,
are born dancers. I came pounce upon this discovery
at the assembly, and I immediately noted it down in my
register of indisputable facts—the public shall know all
about it. As I never dance cotillions, holding them to
be monstrous distorters of the human frame, and tantamount
in their operations to being broken and dislocated
on the wheel, I generally take occasion, while they are
going on, to make my remarks on the company. In the
course of these observations I was struck with the energy
and eloquence of sundry limbs, which seemed to be
flourishing about without appertaining to any body.
After much investigation and difficulty, I, at length,
traced them to their respective owners, whom I found
to be all Frenchmen to a man. Art may have meddled
somewhat in these affairs, but nature certainly did more.
I have since been considerably employed in calculations
on this subject; and by the most accurate computation
I have determined, that a Frenchman passes at least
three fifths of his time between the heavens and the
earth, and partakes eminently of the nature of a gossam
or soap bubble. One of these jack-a-lantern heroes, in
taking a figure, which neither Euclid nor Pythagoras
himself could demonstrate, unfortunately wound himself—
I mean his foot—his better part—into a lady's cobweb
muslin robe; but perceiving it at the instant, he set
himself a spinning the other way, like a top, unravelled
his step, without omitting one angle or curve, and
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extricated himself without breaking a thread of the lady's
dress! he then sprung up like a sturgeon, crossed his
feet four times, and finished this wonderful evolution by
quivering his left leg, as a cat does her paw when she
has accidentally dipped it in water. No man of
“woman born,” who was not a Frenchman, or a mountebank,
could have done the like.
THE WIFE.
I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude with
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of
fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit
of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth
all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity
and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches
to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold
a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness
and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness
while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising
in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of
her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking
firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity.
As the vine which has long twined its graceful foliage
about the oak, and been lifted by it in sunshine, will,
when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling
round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered
boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence,
that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament
of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace
when smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into
the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the
drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.
I was once congratulating a friend, who had around
him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection.
“I can wish you no better lot,” said he, with
enthusiasm, “than to have a wife and children.—If you
are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity;
if otherwise, there they are to comfort you.” And, indeed,
I have observed that a married man falling into
misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the
world than a single one; partly because he is more stimulated
to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and
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beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence; but
chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic
endearments, and his self respect kept alive by
finding, that, though all abroad is darkness and humiliation,
yet there is still a little world of love at home, of
which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt
to run to waste and self neglect; to fancy himself lonely
and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some
deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant.
These observations call to mind a little domestic story,
of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend,
Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl,
who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life.
She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was
ample; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging
her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those
delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery
about the sex.—“Her life,” said he, “shall be like a fairy
tale.”
The very difference in their characters produced an
harmonious combination: he was of a romantic and somewhat
serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have
often noticed the mute rapture with which he would
gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers
made her the delight; and how, in the midst of applause,
her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she
sought favour and acceptance. When leaning on his
arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly
person. The fond confiding air with which she looked
up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride
and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely
burthen for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set
forward on the flowery path of early and well-suited marriage
with a fairer prospect of felicity.
It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have
embarked his property in large speculations; and he had
not been married many months, when, by a succession
of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found
himself reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept
his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard
countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a
protracted agony; and what rendered it more insupportable
was the keeping up a smile in the presence of his
wife; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her
with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes
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of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked
his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be
deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness.
She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments
to win him back to happiness; but she only drove
the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause
to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he
was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he,
and the smile will vanish from that cheek—the song will
die away from those lips—the lustre of those eyes will be
quenched with sorrow; and the happy heart, which now
beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like
mine, by the cares and miseries of the world.
At length he came to me one day, and related his whole
situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard
him through, I inquired, “Does your wife know all this?”—
At the question he burst into an agony of tears. “For
God's sake!” cried he, “if you have any pity on me,
don't mention my wife; it is the thought of her that
drives me almost to madness!”
“And why not?” said I. “She must know it sooner
or later: you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence
may break upon her in a more startling manner
than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those
we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides you are
depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy;
and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond
that can keep hearts together—an unreserved community
of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that
something is secretly preying upon your mind; and true
love will not brook reserve; it feels undervalued and
outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are
concealed from it.”
“Oh, but, my friend! to think what a blow I am to
give to all her future prospects—how I am to strike her
very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is
a beggar! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life—
all the pleasures of society—to shrink with me into indigence
and obscurity! To tell her that I have dragged
her down from the sphere in which she might have continued
to move in constant brightness—the light of every
eye—the admiration of every heart!—how can she bear
poverty? she has been brought up in all the refinement
of opulence- How can she bear neglect? she has
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been the idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart—
it will break her heart!—”
I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow;
for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm
had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed
the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation
at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully,
but positively.
“But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary
she should know it, that you may take the steps
proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You
must change your style of living—nay,” observing a
pang to pass across his countenance, “don't let that afflict
you. I am sure you have never placed your happiness in
outward show—you have yet friends, warm friends, who
will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly
lodged; and surely it does not require a palace to be happy
with Mary—”
“I could be happy with her,” cried he, convulsively,
“in a hovel!—I could go down with her into poverty and
the dust!—I could—I could—God bless her!—God bless
her!” cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness.
“And believe me, my friend,” said I, stepping up, and
grasping him warmly by the hand, “believe me she can
be the same with you. Ay, more: it will be a source of
pride and triumph to her—it will call forth all the latent
energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for
she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself.
There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly
fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity;
but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in
the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the
wife of his bosom is—no man knows what a ministering
angel she is—until he has gone with her through the
fiery trials of this world.”
There was something in the earnestness of my manner,
and the figurative style of my language, that caught the
excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had
to deal with; and following up the impression I had
made, I finished by persuading him to go home and unburden
his sad heart to his wife.
I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt
some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate
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on the fortitude of one whose whole life has been a round
of pleasures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark
downward path of low humility suddenly pointed out
before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which
they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable
life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to
which in other ranks it is a stranger.—In short, I could
not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation.
He had made the disclosure.
“And how did she bear it?”
“Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to
her mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and
asked if this was all that had lately made me unhappy.—
But, poor girl,” added he, “she cannot realize the change
we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the
abstract; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is
allied to love. She feels as yet no privation; she suffers
no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. When
we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its
paltry wants, its petty humiliations—then will be the
real trial.”
“But,” said I, “now that you have got over the severest
task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let
the world into the secret the better. The disclosure may
be mortifying; but then it is a single misery, and soon
over: whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation,
every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much as
pretence, that harasses a ruined man—the struggle between
a proud mind and an empty purse—the keeping
up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have
the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its
sharpest sting.” On this point I found Leslie perfectly
prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his
wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered
fortunes.
Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening.
He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken
a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town.
He had been busied all day in sending out furniture.
The new establishment required few articles, and those
of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his
late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp.
That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of
herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves: for
some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were
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those when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened
to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but
smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting
husband.
He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife
had been all day superintending its arrangement. My
feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of
this family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered
to accompany him.
He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as
we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing.
“Poor Mary!” at length broke, with a heavy sigh,
from his lips.
“And what of her?” asked I: “has any thing happened
to her?”
“What,” said he, darting an impatient glance, “is it
nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation—to be caged
in a miserable cottage—to be obliged to toil almost in the
menial concerns of her wretched habitation?”
“Has she then repined at the change?”
“Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and
good humour. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than
I have ever known her; she has been to me all love, and
tenderness and comfort!”
“Admirable girl!” exclaimed I. “You call yourself
poor, my friend; you never were so rich—you never knew
the boundless treasure of excellence you possessed in that
woman.”
“Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this
is her first day of real experience; she has been introduced
into a humble dwelling—she has been employed all
day in arranging its miserable equipments—she has, for
the first time, known the fatigues of domestic employment—
she has, for the first time, looked round her on a home
destitute of every thing elegant,—almost of every thing
convenient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and
spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty.”
There was a degree of probability in this picture that
I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence.
After turning from the main road up a narrow lane,
so thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete
air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was
humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral
poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine
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had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage; a few
trees threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed
several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the
door, and on the grass-plat in front. A small wicket gate
opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery
to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the
sound of music—Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and
listened. It was Mary's voice, singing, in a style of the
most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband
was peculiarly fond.
I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped
forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise
on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out
at the window and vanished—a light footstep was heard—
and Mary came tripping forth to meet us; she was in
a pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were
twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek;
her whole countenance beamed with smiles—I had never
seen her look so lovely.
“My dear George,” cried she, “I am so glad you are
come! I have been watching and watching for you; and
running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've
set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage;
and I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries,
for I know you are fond of them—and we have
such excellent cream—and we have every thing so sweet
and still here—Oh!” said she, putting her arm within his,
and looking up brightly in his face, “Oh, we shall be so
happy!”
Poor Leslie was overcome—He caught her to his bosom—
he folded his arms round her—he kissed her again and
again—he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his
eyes; and he has often assured me that though the world
has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has,
indeed, been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a
moment of more exquisite felicity.
TO ANTHONY EVERGREEN, Gent.
Sir,
As you appear to have taken to yourself the trouble of
meddling in the concerns of the beau-monde, I take the
liberty of appealing to you on a subject, which, though
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considered merely as a very good joke, has occasioned me
great vexation and expense. You must know I pride
myself on being very useful to the ladies, that is, I take
boxes for them at the theatre, go shopping with them,
supply them with bouquets, and furnish them with novels
from the circulating library. In consequence of these
attentions I am become a great favourite, and there is
seldom a party going on in the city without my having
an invitation. The grievance I have to mention is the
exchange of hats which takes place on these occasions;
for, to speak my mind freely, there are certain young gentlemen
who seem to consider fashionable parties as mere
places to barter old clothes: and I am informed, that a
number of them manage by this great system of exchange
to keep their crowns decently covered without their hatters
suffering in the least by it.
It was but lately that I went to a private ball with a new
hat, and on returning in the latter part of the evening, and
asking for it, the scoundrel of a servant, with a broad grin,
informed me that the new hats had been dealt out half an
hour since, and they were then on the third quality; and I
was in the end obliged to borrow a young lady's beaver
rather than go home with any of the ragged remnants that
were left.
Now I would wish to know if there is no possibility
of having these offenders punished by law; and whether
it would not be advisable for ladies to mention in their
cards of invitation, as a postscript, “Stealing hats and
shawls positively prohibited.”—At any rate, I would
thank you, Mr. Evergreen, to discountenance the thing
totally, by publishing in your paper, that stealing a hat is
no joke.
Your humble servant,
Walter Withers.
Showing the nature of History in general; containing furthermore the universal Acquirements of William the Testy, and how a Man may learn so much as to render himself good for nothing.
When the lofty Thucydides is about to enter on his description
of the plague that desolated Athens, one of his
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[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
modern commentators[6] assures the reader, that his history
“is now going to be exceeding solemn, serious, and
pathetic;” and hints, with that air of chuckling gratulation,
with which a good dame draws forth a choice morsel
from a cupboard to regale a favourite, that this plague
will give his history a most agreeable variety.
In like manner did my heart leap within me, when I
came to the dolorous dilemma of Fort Good Hope, which
I at once perceived to be the forerunner of a series of
great events and entertaining disasters. Such are the
true subjects for the historic pen. For what is history in
fact, but a kind of Newgate Calendar, a register of the
crimes and miseries that man has inflicted on his fellow
men? It is a huge libel on human nature, to which we industriously
add page after page, volume after volume, as
if we were building up a monument to the honour rather
then the infamy of our species. If we turn over the pages
of these chronicles that man has written of himself, what
are the characters dignified by the appellation of great, and
held up to the admiration of posterity?—Tyrants, robbers,
conquerors, renowned only for the magnitude of their misdeeds
and the stupendous wrongs and miseries they have
inflicted on mankind—warriors, who have hired themselves
to the trade of blood, not from motives of virtuous
patriotism, or to protect the injured or defenceless, but
merely to gain the vaunted glory of being adroit and successful
in massacring their fellow beings! What are the
great events that constitute a glorious era? The fall of empires—
the desolation of happy countries—splendid cities
smoking in their ruins—the proudest works of art tumbled
in the dust—the skrieks and groans of whole nations ascending
unto heaven!
It is thus the historians may be said to thrive on the
miseries of mankind—they are like the birds of prey that
hover over the field of battle, to fatten on the mighty dead.
It was observed by a great projector of inland lock navigation,
that rivers, lakes, and oceans were only formed to
feed canals. In like manner I am tempted to believe, that
plots, conspiracies, wars, victories, and massacres are ordained
by Providence only as food for the historian.
It is a source of great delight to the philosopher in studying
the wonderful economy of nature, to trace the
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mutual dependencies of things, how they are created reciprocally
for each other, and how the most noxious and
apparently unnecessary animal has it uses. Thus those
swarms of flies, which are so often execrated as useless
vermin, are created for the sustenance of spiders; and
spiders, on the other hand, are evidently made to devour
flies. So those heroes who have been such pests in the
world were bountcously provided as themes for the poet
and the historian, while the poet and historian were destined
to record the achievements of heroes!
These and many similar reflections naturally arose in
my mind as I took up my pen to commence the reign of
William Kieft; for now the stream of our history, which
hitherto has rolled in a tranquil current, is about to depart
for ever from its peaceful haunts, and brawl through
many a turbulent and rugged scene. Like some sleek ox,
which, having fed and fattened in a rich clover field, lies
sunk in luxurious repose, and will bear repeated taunts
and blows before it heaves its unwieldy limbs, and clumsily
arouses from its slumbers; so the province of the
Nieuw Nederlandts, having long thriven and grown corpulent
under the prosperous reign of the Doubter, was
reluctantly awakened to a melancholy conviction that, by
patient sufferance, its grievances had become so numerous
and aggravating, that it was preferable to repel than endure
them. The reader will now witness the manner in
which a peaceful community advances toward a state of
war; which it is too apt to approach, as a horse does a
drum, with much prancing and parade, but with little progress,
and too often with the wrong end foremost.
Wilhelmus Kieft, who, in 1634, ascended the Gubernatorial
chair, (to borrow a favourite though clumsy appellation
of modern phraseologists,) was in form, feature,
and character, the very reverse of Wouter Von Twiller,
his renowned predecessor. He was of very respectable
descent, his father being Inspector of Windmills in the
ancient town of Saardam; and our here, we are told,
made very curious investigations in the nature and operations
of those machines when a boy, which is one reason
why he afterwards came to be so ingenious a governor.
His name, according to the most ingenious etymologists,
was a corruption of Kyver, that is to say, a wrangler or
scolder, and expressed the hereditary disposition of his
family, which, for nearly two centuries, had kept the windy
town of Saardam in hot water, and produced more tartars
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[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
and brimstones, than any ten families in the place; and so
truly did Wilhelmus Kieft inherit this family endowment,
that he had scarcely been a year in the discharge of his
government, before he was universally known by the name
of William The Testy.
He was a brisk, waspish, little old gentleman, who had
dried and withered away, partly through the natural process
of years, and partly from being parched and burned
up by his fiery soul, which blazed like a vehement rushlight
in his bosom, constantly inciting him to most valorous
broils, altercations, and misadventures. I have
heard it observed by a profound and philosophical judge
of human nature, that if a woman waxes fat as she grows
old, the tenure of her life is very precarious; but if haply
she withers, she lives for ever: such likewise was the
case with William the Testy, who grew tougher in proportion
as he dried. He was some such a little Dutchman
as we may now and then see, stumping briskly about
the streets of our city, in a broad skirted coat, with buttons
nearly as large as the shield of Ajax, an old-fashioned
cocked hat stuck on the back of his head, and a cane as
high as his chin. His visage was broad, but his features
sharp; his nose turned up with a most petulant curl; his
cheeks, like the regions of Terra del Fuego, were scorched
into a dusky red—doubtless, in consequence of the neighbourhood
of two fierce little gray eyes, through which
his torrid soul beamed as fervently as a tropical sun blazing
through a pair of burning glasses. The corners of
his mouth were curiously modelled into a kind of fretwork,
not a little resembling the wrinkled proboscis of an
irritable pug dog; in a word, he was one of the most positive,
restless, ugly little men that ever put himself in a passion
about nothing.
Such were the personal endowments of William the
Testy; but it was the sterling riches of his mind that
raised him to dignity and power. In his youth he had
passed with great credit through a celebrated academy at
the Hague, noted for producing finished scholars with a
despatch unequalled, except by certain of our American
colleges, which seem to manufacture bachelors of arts by
some patent machine. Here he skirmished very smartly
on the frontiers of several of the sciences, and made so gallant
an inroad on the dead languages, as to bring off captive
a host of Greek nouns and Latin verbs, together with
divers pithy saws and apophthegms; all which he
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[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
constantly paraded in conversation and writing, with as much
vain glory as would a triumphant general of yore display
the spoils of the countries he had ravished. He had moreover
puzzled himself considerably with logic, in which he
had advanced so far as to attain a very familiar acquaintance,
by name at least, with the whole family of syllogisms
and dilemmas; but what he chiefly valued himself on was
his knowledge of metaphysics, in which having once upon
a time ventured too deeply, he came well nigh being
smothered in a slough of unintelligible learning—a fearful
peril, from the effects of which he never perfectly recovered.
In plain words, like many other profound intermeddlers
in his abstruse, bewildering science, he so confused
his brain with abstract speculations which he could
not comprehend, and artificial distinctions which he could
not realize, that he could never think clearly on any subject,
however simple, through the whole course of his life
afterwards. This, I must confess, was in some measure
a misfortune, for he never engaged in argument, of which
he was exceeding fond, but what, between logical deductions
and metaphysical jargon, he soon involved himself
and his subject in a fog of contradictions and perplexities,
and then would get into a mighty passion with his adversary,
for not being convinced gratis.
It is in knowledge as in swimming,—he who ostentatiously
sports and flounders on the surface makes more
noise and splashing, and attracts more attention than the
industrious pearl diver, who plunges in search of treasures
to the bottom. The “universal acquirements” of William
Kieft were the subject of great marvel and admiration
among his countrymen; he figured about at the
Hague with as much vain glory as does a profound Bonze
at Pekin, who has mastered half the letters of the Chinese
alphabet; and, in a word, was unanimously pronounced
a universal genius!—I have known many universal geniuses
in my time, though to speak my mind freely, I never
knew one, who, for the ordinary purposes of life, was
worth his wcight in straw; but for the purposes of government,
a little sound judgment, and plain common sense,
is worth all the sparkling genius that ever wrote poetry,
or invented theories.
Strange as it may sound, therefore, the universal acquirements
of the illustrious Wilhelmus were very much
in his way; and had he been less a learned man, it is
possible he would have been a much greater governor.
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
He was exceedingly fond of trying philosophical and political
experiments: and having stuffed his head full of
scraps and remnants of ancient republics, and oligarchies,
and aristocracies, and monarchies, and the laws of Solon,
and Lycurgus, and Charondas, and the imaginary commonwealth
of Plato, and the Pandects of Justinian, and
a thousand other fragments of venerable antiquity, he
was for ever bent upon introducing some one or other of
them into use; so that between one contradictory measure
and another, he entangled the government of the little
province of Nieuw Nederlandts in more knots, during
his administration, than half a dozen successors could have
untied.
No sooner had this bustling little man been blown by a
whiff of fortune into the seat of government, than he called
together his council, and delivered a very animated speech
on the affairs of the province. As every body knows
what a glorious opportunity a governor, a president, or
even an emperor has of drubbing his enemies in his speeches,
messages, and bulletins, where he has the talk all on
his own side, they may be sure the high-mettled William
Kieft did not suffer so favourable an occasion to escape
him, of evincing that gallantry of tongue common to all
able legislators. Before he commenced, it is recorded
that he took out his pocket handkerchief, and gave a very
sonorous blast of the nose, according to the usual custom
of great orators. This, in general, I believe, is intended
as a signal trumpet, to call the attention of the auditors;
but with William the Testy it boasted a more classic
cause, for he had read of the singular expedient of that famous
demagogue Caius Gracchus, who, when he harangued
the Roman populace, modulated his tones by an
oratorical flute or pitch-pipe.
This preparatory symphony being performed, he commenced
by expressing an humble sense of his own want
of talents, his utter unworthiness of the honour conferred
upon him, and his humiliating incapacity to discharge
the important duties of his new station; in short, he expressed
so contemptible an opinion of himself, that many
simple country members present, ignorant that these were
mere words of course, always used on such occasions,
were very uneasy, and even felt wrath that he should
accept an office for which he was consciously so inadequate.
He then proceeded in a manner highly classic,
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
profoundly erudite, and nothing at all to the purpose; being
nothing more than a pompous account of all the governments
of ancient Greece, and the wars of Rome and
Carthage, together with the rise and fall of sundry outlandish
empires, about which the assembly knew no more
than their great grandchildren who were yet unborn.
Thus having, after the manner of your learned orators,
convinced the audience that he was a man of many words
and great erudition, he at length came to the less important
part of his speech, the situation of the province; and
here he soon worked himself into a fearful rage against
the Yankees, whom he compared to the Gauls who desolated
Rome, and the Goths and Vandals who overran
the fairest plains of Europe—nor did he forget to mention,
in terms of adequate opprobrium, the insolence with
which they had encroached upon the territories of New
Netherlands, and the unparalleled audacity with which
they had commenced the town of New Plymouth, and
planted the onion patches of Weathersfield under the very
walls of Fort Goed Hoop.
Having thus artfully wrought up his tale of terror to
a climax, he assumed a self-satisfied look, and declared,
with a nod of knowing import, that he had taken measures
to put a final stop to these encroachments—that he
had been obliged to have recourse to a dreadful engine of
warfare, lately invented, awful in its effects, but authorised
by direful necessity. In a word, he was resolved to
conquer the Yankees—by proclamation.
For this purpose he had prepared a tremendous instrument
of the kind, ordering, commanding, and enjoining
the intruders aforesaid, forthwith to remove, depart, and
withdraw from the districts, regions, and territories aforesaid,
under the pain of suffering all the penalties, forfeitures,
and punishments, in such case made and provided,
&c. This proclamation, he assured them, would at once
exterminate the enemy from the face of the country; and
he pledged his valour as a governor, that within two
months after it was published, not one stone should remain
on another in any of the towns which they had
built.
The council remained for some time silent after he had
finished; whether struck dumb with admiration at the
brilliancy of his project, or put to sleep by the length of
his harangue, the history of the times deth not mention.
Suffice it to say, they at length gave a general grunt of
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
acquiescence; the proclamation was immediately despatched
with due ceremony, having the great seal of the province,
which was about the size of a buckwheat pancake,
attached to it by a broad red riband. Governor Keift,
having thus vented his indignation, felt greatly relieved—
adjourned the council sine die—put on his cocked hat
and corduroy small-clothes, and, mounting on a tall raw-boned
charger, trotted out to his country seat, which was
situated in a sweet, sequestered swamp, now called Dutch
Street, but more commonly known by the name of Dog's
Misery.
Here, like the good Numa, he reposed from the toils
of legislation, taking lessons in Government, not from the
Nymph Ageria, but from the honoured wife of his bosom;
who was one of that peculiar kind of females, sent
upon earth a little before the flood, as a punishment for
the sins of mankind, and commonly known by the appeallation
of knowing women. In fact, my duty as an historian
obliges me to make known a circumstance which was a
great secret at the time, and consequently was not a subject
of scandal at more than half the tea-tables of New-Amsterdam,
but which, like many other great secrets. has
leaked out in the lapse of years; and this was, that the
great Wilhelmus the Testy, though one of the most potent
little men that ever breathed, yet submitted at home
to a species of government, neither laid down in Aristotle
nor Plato; in short, it partook of the nature of a pure, unmixed
tyranny, and is familiarly denominated petticoat
government. An absolute sway, which, though exceedingly
common in these modern days, was very rare
among the ancients, if we may judge from the rout made
about the domestic economy of honest Socrates, which
is the only ancient case on record.
The great Kieft, however, warded off all the sneers
and sarcasms of his particular friends, who are ever
ready to joke with a man on sore points of the kind, by
alleging it was a government of his own election, to which
he submitted through choice; adding, at the same time, a
profound maxim which he had found in an ancient author,
that “he who would aspire to govern, should first
learn to obey.”
eaf222.n6[6] Smith's Thucyd. vol. I.
-- 088 -- p222-093
DIRK SCHUILER, AND THE VALIANT PETER.
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
This was one Dirk Schuiler (or Skulker,) a kind of
hanger-on to the garrison, who seemed to belong to nobody,
and in a manner to be self-outlawed. He was one
of those vagabond cosmopolites, who shark about the
world as if they had no right or business in it; and who
infest the skirts of society, like poachers and interlopers.
Every garrison and country village has one or more scapegoats
of this kind, whose life is a kind of enigma, whose
existence is without motive, who comes from the Lord
knows where, who lives the Lord knows how, and seems
to be made for no other earthly purpose but to keep up
the ancient and honourable order of idleness. This vagabond
philosopher was supposed to have some Indian
blood in his veins, which was manifested by a certain
Indian complexion and cast of countenance; but more
especially by his propensities and habits. He was a tall,
lank fellow, swift of foot, and long-winded. He was
generally equipped in a half Indian dress, with belt,
leggings, and moccasons. His hair hung in strait gallows-locks
about his ears, and added not a little to his
sharking demeanour. It is an old remark, that persons
of Indian mixture are half civilized, half savage, and
half devil; a third half being expressly provided for their
particular convenience. It is for similar reasons, and
probably with equal truth, that the back-wood men of
Kentucky are styled half man, half horse, and half alligator
by the settlers on the Mississippi, and held accordingly
in great respect and abhorrence.
The above character may have presented itself to the
garrison as applicable to Dirk Schuiler whom they familiarly
dubbed Gallows Dirk. Certain it is, he acknowledged
allegiance to no one—was an utter enemy to work.
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
holding it in no manner of estimation—but lounged about
the fort, depending upon chance for a subsistence, getting
drunk whenever he could get liquor, and stealing whatever
he could lay his hands on. Every day or two he
was sure to get a sound rib-roasting for some of his misdemeanours,
which, however, as it broke no bones, he
made very light of, and scrupled not to repeat the offence
whenever another opportunity presented. Sometimes, in
consequence of some flagrant villainy, he would abscond
from the garrison, and be absent for a month at a time;
skulking about the woods and swamps, with a long fowling-piece
on his shoulder, laying in ambush for game, or
squatting himself down on the edge of a pond catching
fish for hours together, and bearing no little resemblance
to that notable bird ycleped the Mud-pole. When he
thought his crimes had been forgotten or forgiven, he
would sneak back to the fort with a bundle of skins, or a
bunch of poultry, which perchance he had stolen, and
would exhange them for liquor, with which, having well
soaked his carcass, he would lay in the sun and enjoy all
the luxurious indolence of that swinish philosopher Diogenes.
He was the terror of all the farm-yards in the
country, into which he made fearful inroads; and sometimes
he would make his sudden appearance at the garrison
at daybreak, with the whole neighbourhood at his
heels, like a scoundrel thief of a fox, detected in his maraudings,
and hunted to his hole. Such was this Dirk
Schuiler; and from the total indifference he showed to
this world or its concerns, and from his truly Indian
stoicism and taciturnity, no one would ever have dreamed
that he would have been the publisher of the treachery of
Risingh.
When the carousal was going on, which proved so fatal
to the brave Von Poffenburgh and his watchful garrison,
Dirk skulked about from room to room, being a kind of
privileged vagrant or useless hound, whom nobody noticed.
But though a fellow of few words, yet, like your
taciturn people, his eyes and ears were always open, and
in the course of his prowlings he overheard, the whole plot
of the Swedes. Dirk immediately settled in his own mind
how he should turn the matter to his own advantage.
He played the perfect jack-of-both-sides; that is to say,
he made a prize of every thing that came in his reach,
robbed both parties, stuck the copper-bound cocked hat
of the puissant Von Poffenburgh on his head, whipped a
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
huge pair of Risingh's jackboots under his arm. and took to
his heels just before the catastrophe and confusion at the
garrison.
Finding himself completely dislodged from his haunt
in this quarter, he directed his flight towards his native
place, New-Amsterdam, from whence he had formerly
been obliged to abscond precipitately, in consequence of
misfortune in business, that is to say, having been detected
in the act of sheep-stealing. After wandering
many days in the woods, toiling through swamps, fording
brooks, swimming various rivers, and encountering a
world of hardships that would have killed any other being
but an Indian, a back-wood man, or the devil; he at length
arrived, half-famished, and lank as a starved weasel at
Communipaw, where he stole a canoe, and paddled over
to New-Amsterdam. Immediately on landing, he repaired
to Governor Stuyvesant, and in more words than
he had ever spoken before in the whole course of his life,
gave an account of the disastrous affair.
On receiving these direful tidings, the valiant Peter
started from his seat, as did the stout King Arthur when
at “merry Carleile,” the news was brought him of the
uncourteous misdeeds of the “grim barone”—without
uttering a word, he dashed the pipe he was smoking
against the back of the chimney, thrust a prodigious quid
of negro-headed tobacco into his left cheek, pulled up his
galligaskins, and strode up and down the room, humming,
as was customary with him when in a passion, a hideous
north-west ditty. But, as I have before shown, he was
not a man to vent his spleen in idle vapouring. His first
measure after the paroxysm of wrath had subsided, was
to stump up stairs to a huge wooden chest, which served
as his armoury, from whence he drew forth that identical
suit of regimentals described in the preceding chapter.
In these portentous habiliments he arrayed himself, like
Achilles in the armour of Vulcan, and maintaining all the
while a most appalling silence, knitting his brows, and
drawing his breath through his clenched teeth. Being
hastily equipped, he strode down into the parlour, jerked
down his trusty sword from over the fire-place, where it
was usually suspended; but before he girded it on his
thigh he drew it from its scabbard, and as his eye coursed
along the rusty blade, a grim smile stole over his iron
visage. It was the first smile that had visited his countenance
for five long weeks; but every one who beheld
-- 091 -- p222-096
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
it prophesied that there would soon be warm work in the
province!
Thus armed at all points, with grisly war depicted in
each feature, his very cocked hat assuming an air of uncommon
defiance, he instantly put himself on the alert,
and despatched Anthony Van Corlear hither and thither.
this way and that way, through all the muddy streets and
crooked lanes of the city, summoning by sound of trumpet
his trusty peers to assemble in instant council. This done,
by way of expediting matters, according to the custom
of people in a hurry, he kept in continual bustle, shifting
from chair to chair, popping his head out of every window,
and stumping up and down stairs with his wooden
leg in such brisk and incessant motion, that, as we are
informed by an authentic historian of the times, the continual
clatter bore no small resemblance to the music of
a cooper hooping a flour barrel.
Description of the powerful Army that assembled at the City of New-Amsterdam—together with the interview between Peter the Headstrong and General Von Poffenburgh; and Peter's Sentiments respecting unfortunate great Men.
While thus the enterprising Peter was coasting, with
flowing sail, up the shores of the lordly Hudson, and arousing
all the phlegmatic little Dutch settlements upon its
borders, a great and puissant concourse of warriors was
assembling at the city of New-Amsterdam. And here
that invaluable fragment of antiquity, the Stuyvesant manuscript,
is more than commonly particular; by which
means I am enabled to record the illustrious host that encamped
itself on the public square, in front of the fort, at
present denominated the Bowling Green.
In the centre then was pitched the tents of the men of
battle of the Manhattoes; who, being the inmates of the
metropolis, composed the life-guards of the governor.
These were commanded by the valiant Stoffel Brinker-hoof,
who whilome had acquired such immortal fame at
Oyster Bay—they displayed as a standard, a beaver rampant
on a field of orange; being the arms of the province,
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
and denoting the persevering industry, and the amphibious
origin of the Nederlanders.[7]
On their right hand might be seen the vassals of that
renowned Mynheer Michael Paw,† who lorded it over
the fair regions of ancient Pavonia, and the lands away
south, even unto the Navesink mountains,‡
and was
moreover patroon of Gibbet-Island. His standard was
borne by his trusty squire, Cornelius Van Vorst; consisting
of a huge oyster recumbent upon a sea green field,
being the armorial bearings of his favourite metropolis,
Communipaw. He brought to the camp a stout force of
warriors, heavily armed, being each clad in ten pair of
linsey woolsey breeches, and overshadowed by broad
brimmed beavers, with short pipes twisted in their hatbands.
These were the men who vegetated in the mud
along the shores of Pavonia; being of the race of genuine
copperheads, and were fabled to have sprung from
oysters.
At a little distance was encamped the tribe of warriors
who came from the neighbourhood of Hell-Gate. These
were commanded by the Suy Dams, and the Van Dams,
incontinent hard swearers as their names betoken—they
were terrible looking fellows, clad in broad-skirted gaberdines,
of that curious coloured cloth called thunder and
lightning; and bore as a standard three devil's darning-needles,
volant, in a flame coloured field.
Hard by was the tent of the men of battle from the
marshy borders of the Wael-bogtig,&verbar2; and the country
thereabouts—these were of a sour aspect, by reason that
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
they lived on crabs, which abound in these parts: they
were the first institutors of that honourable order of
knighthood, called Fly market shirks; and if tradition
speak true, did likewise introduce the far famed step in
dancing, called “double trouble.” They were commanded
by the fearless Jacobus Varra Vanger, and, had moreover,
a jolly band of Breukelen[8] ferrymen, who performed a
brave concerto on conchshells.
But I refrain from pursuing this minute description
which goes on to describe the warriors of Bloemen-dael,
and Wee-hawk, and Hoboken, and sundry other places,
well known in history and song—for now does the sound
of martial music alarm the people of New-Amsterdam,
sounding afar from beyond the walls of the city. But this
alarm was in a little time relieved, for lo, from the midst
of a vast cloud of dust, they recognized the brimstone coloured
breeches, and splendid silver leg of Peter Stuyvesant
glaring in the sunbeams; and beheld him approaching
at the head of a formidable army, which he had mustered
along the banks of the Hudson. And here the
excellent but anonymous writer of the Stuyvesant manuscript
breaks out into a brave but glorious description of
the forces, as they defiled through the principal gate of the
city that stood by the head of Wall-street.
First of all came the Van Bummels, who inhabit the
pleasant borders of the Bronx. These were short fat men,
wearing exceeding large trunk breeches, and are renowned
for feats of the trencher: they were the first inventors
of suppawn, or mush and milk.—Close in their rear
marched the Van Vlotans, of Kaats Kill, most horrible
quaffers of new cider, and arrant braggarts in their liquor.—
After them came the Van Pelts, of Groodt Esopus,
dexterous horsemen, mounted upon goodly switch-tailed
steeds of the Esopus breed: these were mighty hunters
of minks and musk rats, whence came the word Peltry.—
Then the Van Nests of Kinderhoek, valiant robbers of
birds' nests, as their name denotes: to these, if the report
may be believed, are we indebted for the invention of slapjacks,
or buckwheat cakes.—Then the Van Higginbottoms,
of Wapping's Creek: these came armed with ferules
and birchen rods, being a race of schoolmasters, who first
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
discovered the marvellous sympathy between the seat of
honour and the seat of intellect, and that the shortest way
to get knowledge into the head was to hammer it into the
bottom.—Then the Van Grolls of Anthony's Nose, who
carried their liquor in fair round little pottles, by reason
they could not bouse it out of their canteens, having such
rare long noses.—Then the Gardeniers, of Hudson and
thereabouts, distinguished by many triumphant feats, such
as robbing watermelon patches, smoking rabbits out of
their holes, and the like, and by being great lovers of
roasted pig's tails: these were the ancestors of the renowned
congressman of that name.—Then the Van
Hoesen's of Sing-Song, great choristers and players upon
the Jew's-harp: these marched two and two, singing the
great song of St. Nicholas.—Then the Couenhovens, of
Sleepy Hollow: these gave birth to a jolly race of publicans,
who first discovered the magic art of conjuring a
quart of wine into a pint bottle.—Then the Van Kortlandts,
who lived on the wild banks of the Croton, and
were great killers of wild ducks, being much spoken of
for their skill in shooting with the long bow.—Then the
Van Bunschotens, of Nyock and Kakiat, who were the
first that did ever kick with the left foot; they were gallant
bush-whackers, and hunters of racoons, by moonlight.—
Then the Van Winkles of Haerlem, potent suckers of
eggs, and noted for running of horses, and running up of
scores at taverns: they were the first that ever winked
with both eyes at once.—Lastly, came the Knickerbockers,
of the great town of Schahtikoke, where the folk
lay stones upon the houses in windy weather, lest they
should be blown away. These derive their name, as some
say, from Kniker, to shake, and Becker, a goblet, indicating
thereby that they were sturdy tosspots of yore; but, in
truth, it was derived from Knicker, to nod, and Boeken,
books, plainly meaning that they were great nodders or
dozers over books: from them did descend the writer of
this history.
Such was the legion of sturdy bush-beaters, that poured
in at the grand gate of New-Amsterdam. The Stuyvesant
manuscript, indeed, speaks of many more, whose names I
omit to mention, seeing that it behoves me to hasten to
matters of greater moment. Nothing could surpass the
joy and martial pride of the lion-hearted Peter, as he
reviewed this mighty host of warriors; and he
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
determined no longer to defer the gratification of his much
wished-for revenge, upon the scoundrel Swedes at Fort
Casimir.
But before I hasten to record those unmatchable events
which will be found in the sequel of this faithful history,
let me pause to notice the fate of Jacobus Von Poffenburgh,
the discomfitted commander-in-chief of the armies
of the New-Netherlands. Such is the inherent uncharitableness
of human nature, that scarcely did the news
become public, of his deplorable discomfiture at Fort
Casimir than a thousand scurvy rumours were set afloat
in New-Amsterdam; wherein it was insinuated, that he
had in reality a treacherous understanding with the Swedish
commander; that he had long been in the practice of
privately communicating with the Swedes; together with
divers hints about “secret service money,”—to all which
deadly charges I do not give a jot more credit than I think
they deserve.
Certain it is, that the general vindicated his character
by the most vehement oaths and protestations, and put
every man out of the ranks of honour who dared to doubt
his integrity. Moreover, on returning to New-Amsterdam,
he paraded up and down the streets with a crew of
hard swearers at his heels,—sturdy bottle companions,
whom he gorged and fattened, and who were ready to
bolster him through all the courts of justice,—heroes of
his own kidney, fierce whiskered, broad shouldered, colbrand
looking swaggerers, not one of whom but looked as
though he could eat up an ox, and pick his teeth with the
horns. These life-guard men quarrelled all his quarrels,
were ready to fight all his battles, and scowled at every
man that turned up his nose to the general, as though they
would devour him alive. Their conversation was interspersed
with oaths like minute guns, and every bombastic
rhodomontado was rounded off by a thundering execration
like a patriotic toast honoured with a discharge of
artillery.
All these valorous vapourings had a considerable effect
in convincing certain profound sages, many of whom began
to think the general a hero of unutterable loftiness
and magnanimity of soul, particularly as he was continually
protesting on the honour of a soldier,—a marvellously
high sounding asseveration. Nay, one of the members
of the council went so far as to propose they should immortalize
him by an imperishable statue of plaster of Paris.
-- 096 -- p222-101
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
But the vigilant Peter the Headstrong was not thus to
be deceived. Sending privately for the commander-in-chief
of all the armies, and having heard all his story,
garnished with the customary pious oaths, protestations,
and ejaculations—“Harkee, comrade,” cried he, “though
by your own account you are the most brave, upright,
and honourable man in the whole province, yet do you lie
under the misfortune of being damnably traduced and
immeasurably despised. Now though it is certainly hard
to punish a man for his misfortunes, and though it is very
possible you are totally innocent of the crimes laid to your
charge; yet as heaven, at present, doubtless for some wise
purpose, sees fit to withhold all proofs of your innocence,
far be it from me to counteract its sovereign will. Beside,
I cannot consent to venture my armies with a commander
whom they despise, or to trust the welfare of my
people to a champion whom they distrust. Retire,
therefore, my friend, from the irksome toils and cares
of public life, with this comforting reflection—that if
you be guilty, you are but enjoying your just reward—
and if innocent, that you are not the first great and
good man, who has most wrongfully been slandered and
maltreated in this wicked world—doubtless to be better
treated in a better world, where there shall neither
be error, calumny, nor persecution. In the mean time
let me never see your face again, for I have a horrid
antipathy to the countenances of unfortunate great men
like yourself.”
eaf222.n7[7] This was likewise the great seal of the New-Netherlands, as
may still be seen in ancient records.
eaf222.dag4† Besides what is related in the Stuyvesant MS. I have found
mention made of this illustrious patroon in another manuscript,
which says:—“De Heer (or the Squire) Michael Paw, a Dutch
subject, about 10th Aug. 1630, by deed purchased Staten Island.
N. B. The same Michael Paw had what the Dutch call a colonie at
Pavonia, on the Jersey shore, opposite New-York, and his over-seer,
in 1636, was named Corns. Van Vorst—a person of the same
name, in 1769, owned Pawles Hook, and a large farm at Pavonia,
and is a lineal descendant from Van
Vorst.”
eaf222.ddag2‡ So called from the Navesink tribe of Indians, that inhabited
these parts—at present they are erroneously denominated the
Neversink, or Neversunk mountains.
verb2&verbar2; i. e. The Winding Bay, named from the windings of its shores.
This has since been corrupted by the vulgar into the Wallabout, and
is the basin which shelters our infant navy.
eaf222.n8[8] Now spelt Brooklyn.
Of Peter Stuyvesant's expedition into the East Country; showing that, though an old Bird, he did not understand Trap.
Great nations resemble great men in this particular,
that their greatness is seldom known until they get in
trouble; adversity, therefore, has been wisely denominated
the ordeal of true greatness, which, like gold, can
never receive its real estimation until it has passed through
the furnace. In proportion, therefore, as a nation, a community,
or an individual (possessing the inherent quality
of greatness) is involved in perils and misfortunes, in proportion
does it rise in grandeur—and even when sinking
under calamity, makes, like a house on fire, a more
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
glotious display than ever it did, in the fairest period of its
prosperity.
The vast empire of China, though teeming with population,
and imbibing and concentrating the wealth of nations,
has vegetated through a succession of drowsy ages;
and were it not for its internal revolution, and the subversion
of its ancient government by the Tartars, might
have presented nothing but an uninteresting detail of dull,
monotonous prosperity. Pompeii and Herculaneum
might have passed into oblivion, with a herd of their contemporaries,
had they not been fortunately overwhelmed
by a volcano. The renowned city of Troy has acquired
celebrity only from its ten years' distress and final conflagration;
Paris rises in importance by the plots and
massacres which have ended in the exaltation of the illustrious
Napoleon; and even the mighty London itself
has skulked through the records of time, celebrated for
nothing of moment, excepting the plague, the great fire,
and Guy Faux's gunpowder plot! Thus cities and empires
seem to creep along, enlarging in silent obscurity
under the pen of the historian, until at length they burst
forth in some tremendous calamity, and snatch, as it
were, immortality from the explosion!
The above principle being admitted, my reader will
plainly perceive that the city of New-Amsterdam and its
dependent province are on the high road to greatness.
Dangers and hostilities threaten from every side, and it
is really a matter of astonishment to me, how so small a
state has been able, in so short a time, to entangle itself in
so many difficulties. Ever since the province was first
taken by the nose, at the Fort of Good Hope, in the tranquil
days of Wouter Van Twiller, has it been gradually
increasing in historic importance; and never could it have
had a more appropriate chieftain to conduct it to the pinnacle
of grandeur than Peter Stuyvesant.
In the fiery heart of this iron-headed old warrior sat enthroned
all those five kinds of courage described by Aristotle;
and had the philosopher mentioned five hundred
more to the back of them, I verily believe, he would have
been found master of them all. The only misfortune was,
that he was deficient in the better part of valour called discretion,
a cold-blooded virtue which could not exist in the
tropical climate of his mighty soul. Hence it was, he was
continually hurrying into those unheard-of enterprises that
gave an air of chivalric romance to all his history; and
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and hence it was, that he now conceived a project worthy
of the hero of La Mancha himself.
This was no other than to repair in person to the great
council of the Amphyctions, bearing the sword in one
hand, and the olive branch in the other; to require immediate
reparation for the innumerable violations of that
treaty, which, in an evil hour, he had formed; to put a
stop to those repeated maraudings on the eastern borders;
or else to throw the gauntlet, and appeal to arms for satisfaction.
On declaring this resolution in his privy council, the
venerable members were seized with vast astonishment:
for once in their lives they ventured to remonstrate, setting
forth the rashness of exposing his sacred person in
the midst of a strange and barbarous people, with sundry
other weighty remonstrances—all which had about as
much influence upon the determination of the headstrong
Peter, as though you were to endeavour to turn a rusty
weathercock with a broken-winded bellows.
Summoning therefore, to his presence his trusty follower,
Anthony Van Corlear, he commanded him to hold
himself in readiness to accompany him the following morning
on this his hazardous enterprise. Now Anthony, the
trumpeter, was a little stricken in years, yet by dint of
keeping up a good heart, and having never known care or
sorrow (having never been married), he was still a hearty,
jocund, rubicund, gamesome wag, and of great capacity
in the doublet. This last was ascribed to his living a
jolly life on those domains at the Hook, which Peter
Stuyvesant had granted to him for his gallantry at Fort
Casimir.
Be this as it may, there was nothing that more delighted
Anthony than this command of the great Peter; for he
could have followed the stout-hearted old governor to the
world's end, with love and loyalty: and he moreover still
remembered the frolicking, and dancing, and bundling,
and other disports of the east country; and entertained
dainty recollection of numerous kind and buxon lasses,
whom he longed exceedingly again to encounter.
Thus, then, did this mirror of hardihood set forth, with
no other attendant but his trumpeter, upon one of the most
perilous enterprises ever recorded in the annals of knight-errantry.
For a single warrior to venture openly among
a whole nation of foes; but, above all, for a plain, downright
Dutchman to think of negotiating with the whole
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council of New-England—never was there known a more
desperate undertaking! Ever since I have entered upon
the chronicles of this peerless, but hitherto uncelebrated
chieftain, has he kept me in a state of incessant action
and anxiety with the toils and dangers he is constantly
encountering. Oh! for a chapter of the tranquil reign of
Wouter Van Twiller, that I might repose on it as on a
feather bed!
Is it not enough, Peter Stuyvesant, that I have once already
rescued thee from the machinations of these terrible
Amphyctions, by bringing the whole powers of witchcraft
to thine aid?—is it not enough, that I have followed thee
undaunted, like a guardian spirit, into the misdst of the
horrid battle of Fort Christina? That I have been put
incessantly to my trumps to keep thee safe and sound—
now warding off with my single pen the shower of dastard
blows that fell upon thy rear—now narrowly shielding
thee from a deadly thrust, by a mere tobacco-box—now
casing thy dauntless skull with adamant, when even thy
stubborn ram-beaver failed to resist the sword of the stout
Risingh—and now, not merely bringing thee off alive, but
triumphant, from the clutches of the gigantic Swede, by
the desperate means of a paltry stone pottle?—Is not all
this enough, but must thou still be plunging into new difficulties,
and jeopardizing in headlong enterprises thyself,
thy trumpeter, and thy historian?
And now the ruddy faced Aurora, like a buxom chambermaid,
draws aside the sable curtains of the night, and
out bounces from his bed the jolly red haired Phœbus,
startled at being caught so late in the embraces of Dame
Thetis. With many a stable oath, he harnesses his brazen-footed
steeds, and whips and lashes, and splashes up
the firmament, like a loitering post-boy, half an hour behind
his time. And now behold that imp of fame and
prowess, the headstrong Peter, bestriding a raw-boned,
switch-tailed charger, gallantly arrayed in full regimentals,
and bracing on his thigh that trusty brass-hilted sword,
which had wrought such fearful deeds on the banks of
the Delaware.
Behold, hard after him, his doughty trumpeter, Van
Corlear, mounted on a broken-winded, wall-eyed, calico
mare; his stone pottle which had laid low the mighty
Risingh, slung under his arm, and his trumpet displayed
vauntingly in his right hand, decorated with a gorgeous
banner, on which is emblazoned the great beaver of the
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Manhattoes. See him proudly issuing out of the city
gate, like an iron-clad hero of yore, with his faithful squire
at his heels, the populace following them with their eyes,
and shouting many a parting wish, and hearty cheering.—
Farewell, Hard-koppig Piet! Farewell, honest Anthony!—
Pleasant be your wayfaring—prosperous your
return! The stoutest hero that ever drew a sword, and
the worthiest trumpeter that ever trod shoe leather.
Legends are lamentably silent about the events that
befell our adventurers, in this their adventurous travel,
excepting the Stuyvesant manuscript, which gives the
substance of a pleasant little heroic poem, written on the
occasion by Domini ægidus Luyck,[9] who appears to
have been the poet-laureate of New-Amsterdam. This
inestimable manuscript assures us, that it was a rare spectacle
to behold the great Peter, and his loyal follower, hailing
the morning sun, and rejoicing in the clear countenance
of nature, as they pranced it through the pastoral
scenes of Bloomen Dael;† which, in those days, was a
wild flower, refreshed by many a pure streamlet, and enlivened
here and there by a delectable little Dutch cottage,
sheltering under some sloping hill, and almost buried in
embowering trees.
Now did they enter upon the confines of Connecticut,
where they encountered many grievous difficulties and perils.
At one place they were assailed by a troop of country
squires and militia colonels, who, mounted on goodly
steeds, hung upon their rear for several miles, harassing
them exceedingly with guesses and questions, more especially
the worthy Peter, whose silver chased leg excited
not a little marvel. At another place, hard by the renowned
town of Stamford, they were set upon by a great
and mighty legion of church deacons, who imperiously
demanded of them five shillings for travelling on Sunday,
and threatened to carry them captive to a neighbouring
church, whose steeple peered above the trees: but these
the valiant Peter put to rout with little difficulty, insomuch
that they bestrode their canes and gallopped off in
horrible confusion, leaving their cocked hats behind in the
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hurry of their flight. But not so easily did he escape from
the hands of a crafty man of Pyquag; who, with undaunted
perseverance, and repeated onsets, fairly bargained
him out of his goodly switched-tailed charger, leaving him
in place thereof a villanous, spavined, foundered Narraganset
pacer.
But, maugre all these hardships, they pursued their
journey cheerily along the courses of the soft flowing Connecticut,
whose gentle waves, says the song, roll through
many a fertile vale and sunny plain; now reflecting the
lofty spires of the bustling city, and now the rural beauties
of the humble hamlet; now echoing with the busy
hum of commerce, and now with the cheerful song of the
peasant.
At every town would Peter Stuyvesant, who was noted
for warlike punctilio, order the sturdy Anthony to sound a
courteous salutation; though the manuscript observes, that
the inhabitants were thrown in great dismay when they
heard of his approach. For the fame of his incomparable
achievements on the Delaware, had spread throughout
the east country, and they dreaded lest he had come to
take vengeance on their manifold transgressions.
But the good Peter rode through these towns with a
smiling aspect; waving his hand with inexpressible majesty
and condescension; for he verily believed that the
old clothes which these ingenious people had thrust into
their broken-windows, and the festoons of dried apples
and peaches which ornamented the front of their houses,
were so many decorations in honour of his approach;
as it was the custom in the days of chivalry to compliment
renowned heroes, by sumptuous displays of tapestry and
gorgeous furniture. The women crowded to the doors to
gaze upon him as he passed, so much does prowess in arms
delight the gentle sex. The little children too ran after
him in troops, staring with wonder at his regimentals, his
brimstone breeches, and silver garniture of his wooden
leg. Nor must I omit to mention the joy which many
strapping wenches betrayed, at beholding the jovial Van
Corlear, who had whilome delighted them so much with
his trumpet, when he bore the great Peter's challenge to
the Amphyctions. The kind-hearted Anthony alighted
from his calico mare, and kissed them all with infinite
loving kindness—and was right pleased to see a crew of
little trumpeters crowding around him for his blessing;
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each of whom he patted on the head, bade him be a good
boy, and gave him a penny to buy molasses candy.
The Stuyvesant manuscript makes but little further
mention of the governor's adventures upon this expedition,
excepting that he was received with extravagant courtesy
and respect by the great council of the Amphyctions, who
almost talked him to death with complimentary and congratulatory
harangues. I will not detain my readers by
dwelling on his negotiations with the grand council.
Suffice it to mention, it was like all other negotiations—a
great deal was said, and very little done: one conversation
led to another—one conference begat misunderstandings
which it took a dozen conferences to explain; at the end
of which the parties found themselves just where they
were at first; excepting that they had entangled themselves
in a host of questions of etiquette, and conceived a cordial
distrust of each other, that rendered their future negotiations
ten times more difficult than ever.[10]
In the midst of all these perplexities, which bewildered
the brain and incensed the ire of the sturdy Peter, who
was, perhaps, of all men in the world, least fitted for diplomatic
wiles, he privately received the first intimation of
the dark conspiracy which had been matured in the Cabinet
of England. To this was added the astounding
intelligence that a hostile squadron had already sailed
from England, destined to reduce the province of New-Netherlands,
and that the grand council of Amphyctions
had engaged to co-operate, by sending a great army to invade
New-Amsterdam by land!
Unfortunate Peter! did I not enter with sad forebodings
upon this ill-starred expedition? Did I not tremble
when I saw thee with no other counsellor but thine own
head—with no other armour but an honest tongue, a
spotless conscience, and a rusty sword—with no other
protector but St. Nicholas—and no other attendant but a
trumpeter? Did I not tremble when I beheld thee thus
sally forth to contend with all the knowing powers of
New-England?
Oh how did the sturdy old warrior rage and roar, when
he found himself thus intrapped, like a lion in the
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hunter's toil! Now did he determine to draw his trusty
sword, and manfully to fight his way through all the
countries of the east. Now did he resolve to break in
upon the council of the Amphyctions, and put every
mother's son of them to death. At length, as his direful
wrath subsided, he resorted to safer though less glorious
expedients.
Concealing from the council his knowledge of their
machinations, he privately despatched a trusty messenger
with missives to his counsellors at New-Amsterdam, apprising
them of the impending danger, commanding them
immediately to put the city in a posture of defence, while
in the mean time he would endeavour to elude his enemies
and come to their assistance. This done, he felt himself
marvellously relieved, rose slowly, shook himself like a
rhinoceros, and issued forth from his den, in much the
same manner as Giant Despair is described to have issued
from Doubting Castle, in the chivalric history of the
Pilgrim's Progress.
And how much does it grieve me that I must leave the
gallant Peter in this imminent jeopardy: but it behoves
us to hurry back and see what is going on at New-Amsterdam,
for greatly do I fear that city is already in a turmoil.
Such was ever the fate of Peter Stuyvesant; while
doing one thing with heart and soul, he was too apt to
leave every thing else at sixes and sevens. While, like a
potentate of yore, he was absent attending to those things
in person, which in modern days are trusted to generals
and ambassadors, his little territory at home was sure to
get in an uproar—all which was owing to that uncommon
strength of intellect, which induced him to trust to nobody
but himself, and which had acquired him the renowned
appellation of Peter the Headstrong.
eaf222.n9[9] This Luyck was, moreover, rector of the Latin school in Nieuw-Nederlands,
1663. There are two pieces of ægidius Luyck in D.
Selyn's MSS. of poesies, upon his marriage with Judith Isendoorn.
Old MS.
eaf222.dag5† Now called Blooming Dale, about four miles
from New-York.
eaf222.n10[10] For certain of the particulars of this ancient negotiation, see
Haz. Col. State Pap. It is singular that Smith is entirely silent with
respect to this memorable expedition of Peter Stuyvesant.
How the People of New-Amsterdam were thrown into a great Panic by the News of a threatened Invasion: and the Manner in which they fortified themselves.
There is no sight more truly interesting to a philosopher
than to contemplate a community where every individual
has a voice in public affairs, where every individual
thinks himself the Atlas of the nation, and where every
individual thinks it is duty to bestir himself for the good
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of his country.—I say, there is nothing more interesting
to a philosopher than to see such a community in a sudden
bustle of war. Such a clamour of tongues, such a
bawling of patriotism, such running hither and thither,
every body in a hurry, every body up to the ears in trouble,
every body in the way, and every body interrupting his
industrious neighbour, who is busily employed in doing
nothing! It is like witnessing a great fire, where every
man is at work like a hero; some dragging about empty
engines! others scampering with full buckets, and spilling
the contents into the boots of their neighbour; and others
ringing the church bells at night, by way of putting out
the fire. Little firemen, like sturdy little knights storming
a breach, clambering up and down scaling-ladders,
and bawling through tin trumpets, by way of directing the
attack. Here one busy fellow, in his great zeal to save
the property of the unfortunate, catches up an anonymous
chamber utensil, and gallants it off with an air of as much
self-importance, as if he had rescued a pot of money;
another throws looking glasses and china out of the window,
to save them from the flames; while those, who can
do nothing else to assist the great calamity, run up and
down the streets with open throats, keeping up an incessant
cry of—Fire! Fire! Fire!
“When the news arrived at Sinope,” says the grave
and profound Lucian, though I own the story is rather
trite, “that Philip was about to attack them, the inhabitants
were thrown into violent alarm. Some ran to furbish
up their arms; others rolled stones to build up the
walls; every body, in short, was employed, and every
body was in the way of his neighbour. Diogenes alone
was the only man who could find nothing to do; whereupon,
determining not to be idle when the welfare of his
country was at stake, he tucked up his robe, and fell to
rolling his tub with might and main, up and down the
Gymnasium.” In like manner did every mother's son,
in the patriotic community of New-Amsterdam, on receiving
the missives of Peter Stuyvesant, busy himself
most mightily in putting things into confusion, and assisting
the general uproar. “Every man,” saith the Stuyvesant
manuscript, “flew to arms!” By which is meant,
that not one of our honest Dutch citizens would venture
to church or to market, without an old fashioned spit of
a sword dangling at his side, and a long Dutch fowling-piece
on his shoulder; nor would he go out of a night
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without a lantern! nor turn a corner without first peeping
cautiously round, lest he should come unawares upon
a British army; and we are informed, that Stoffel Brinkerhoff,
who was considered by the old women almost as
brave a man as the governor himself, actually had two
one-pound swivels mounted in his entry, one pointing out
at the front door and the other at the back.
But the most strenuous measure resorted to on this
awful occasion, and one which has since been found of
wonderful efficacy, was to assemble popular meetings.
These brawling convocations, I have already shown, were
extremely offensive to Peter Stuyvesant; but as this was
a moment of unusual agitation, and as the old governor
was not present to repress them, they broke out with intolerable
violence. Hither, therefore, the orators and politicians
repaired, and there seemed to be a competition
among them who should bawl the loudest, and exceed the
others in hyperbolical bursts of patriotism, and in resolutions
to uphold and defend the government. In these sage
and all powerful meetings it was determined, nem. con. that
they were the most enlightened, the most dignified, the
most formidable, and the most ancient community upon
the face of the earth. Finding that this resolution was so
universally and readily carried, another was immediately
proposed,—Whether it were not possible and politic to exterminate
Great Britain? Upon which sixty-nine members
spoke most eloquently in the affirmative, and only
one arose to suggest some doubts, who, as a punishment
for his treasonable presumption, was immediately seized
by the mob, and tarred and feathered; which punishment
being equivalent to the Tarpeian Rock, he was afterwards
considered as an outcast from society, and his
opinion went for nothing. The question, therefore, being
unanimously carried in the affirmative, it was recommended
to the grand council to pass it into a law, which was
accordingly done; by this measure the hearts of the people
at large were wonderfully encouraged, and they waxed
exceedingly choleric and valorous. Indeed, the first
paroxysm of alarm having in some measure subsided, the
old women having buried all the money they could lay
their hands on, and their husbands daily getting fuddled
with what was left—the community began even to stand on
the offensive. Songs were manufactured in low Dutch,
and sung about the streets, wherein the English were most
wofully beaten, and shown no quarter; and popular
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addresses were made, wherein it was proved to a certainty,
that the fate of Old England depended upon the will of
the New-Amsterdammers.
Finally, to strike a violent blow at the very vitals of
Great Britain, a multitude of the wiser inhabitants assembled,
and having purchased all the British manufactures
they could find, they made thereof a huge bonfire; and,
in the patriotic glow of the moment, every man present,
who had a hat or breeches of English workmanship, pulled
it off, and threw it most undauntedly into the flames—
to the irreparable detriment, loss, and ruin of the English
manufacturers. In commemoration of this great
exploit, they erected a pole on the spot, with a device
on the top intended to represent the province of Nieuw
Nederlandts, destroying Great Britain, under the similitude
of an Eagle picking the little Island of Old England
out of the globe; but either through the unskillfulness of
the sculptor, or his ill timed waggery, it bore a striking
resemblance to a goose vainly striving to get hold of a
dumpling.
In which the Troubles of New-Amsterdam appear to thicken— Showing the bravery, in Time of Peril, of a People who defend themselves by Resolutions.
Like as an assemblage of politic cats, engaged in clamorous
gibberings and catterwaulings, eyeing one another
with hideous grimaces, spitting in each other's faces, and
on the point of breaking forth into a general clapper-clawing,
are suddenly put to scampering, rout, and confusion,
by the startling appearance of a house-dog—so
was the no less vociferous council of New-Amsterdam
amazed, astounded, and totally dispersed, by the sudden
arrival of the enemy. Every member made the best of
his way home, waddling along as fast as his short legs
could fag under their heavy burthen, and wheezing as he
went with corpulency and terror. When he arrived at
his castle, he barricadoed the street door, and buried himself
in the cider cellar, without daring to peep out, lest
he should have his head carried off by a cannon ball.
The sovereign people all crowded into the market-place,
herding together with the instinct of sheep, who
seek for safety in each other's company, when the shepherd
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and his dog are absent, and the wolf is prowling round
the fold. Far from finding relief, however, they only
increased each other's terrors. Each man looked ruefully
in his neighbour's face, in search of encouragement,
but only found, in its wo-begone lineaments, a confirmation
of his own dismay. Not a word now was to
be heard of conquering Great Britain, not a whisper
about the sovereign virtues of economy—while the old
women heightened the general gloom, by clamorously
bewailing their fate, and incessantly calling for protection
on St. Nicholas and Peter Stuyvesant.
Oh, how did they bewail the absence of the lion-hearted
Peter!—and how did they long for the comforting presence
of Anthony Van Corlear! Indeed, a gloomy uncertainty
hung over the fate of these adventurous heroes.
Day after day had elapsed since the alarming message
from the governor, without bringing any further tidings
of his safety. Many a fearful conjecture was hazarded
as to what had befallen him and his loyal squire. Had
they not been devoured alive by the cannibals of Marble-head
and Cape Cod? Were they not put to the question
by the great council of Amphyctions? Were they not
smothered in onions by the terrible men of Pyquag? In
the midst of this consternation and perplexity, when
horror, like a mighty night-mare, sat brooding upon the
little, fat, plethoric city of New-Amsterdam, the ears of
the multitude were suddenly startled by a strange and
distant sound—it approached—it grew louder and louder—
and now it resounded at the city gate. The public
could not be mistaken in the well known sound. A
shout of joy burst from their lips, as the gallant Peter,
covered with dust, and followed by his faithful trumpeter,
came galloping into the market-place.
The first transports of the populace having subsided,
they gathered round the honest Anthony, as he dismounted
from his horse, overwhelming him with greetings
and congratulations. In breathless accents he
related to them the marvellous adventures through which
the old governor and himself had gone, in making their
escape from the clutches of the terrible Amphyctions.
But though the Stuyvesant manuscript, with its customary
minuteness where any thing touching the great
Peter is concerned, is very particular as to the incidents
of this masterly retreat, yet the particular state of the
public affairs will not allow me to indulge in a full
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recital thereof. Let it suffice to say, that, while Peter
Stuyvesant was anxiously revolving in his mind how he
could make good his escape with honour and dignity,
certain of the ships sent out for the conquest of the
Manhattoes touched at the eastern ports, to obtain needful
supplies, and to call on the grand council of the
league for its promised co-operation. Upon hearing of
this, the vigilant Peter perceiving that a moment's delay
were fatal, made a secret and precipitate decampment;
though much did it grieve his lofty soul, to be obliged to
turn his back even upon a nation of foes. Many hair-breadth
'scapes and divers perilous mishaps did they sustain,
as they scoured, without sound of trumpet, through
the fair regions of the east. Already was the country in
an uproar with hostile preparation, and they were obliged
to take a large circuit in their flight, lurking along,
through the woody mountains of the Devil's Backbone;
from whence the valiant Peter sallied forth one day, like
a lion, and put to rout a whole legion of squatters, consisting
of three generations of a prolific family, who were
already on their way to take possession of some corner of
the New Netherlands. Nay, the faithful Anthony had
great difficulty at sundry times to prevent him, in the
excess of his wrath, from descending down from the
mountains, and falling sword in hand upon certain of
the border-towns, who were marshalling forth their draggle-tailed
militia.
The first movements of the governor, on reaching his
dwelling, was to mount the roof, from whence he contemplated
with rueful aspect the hostile squadron. This
had already come to an anchor in the bay, and consisted
of two stout frigates, having on board, as John Josselyn,
Gent. informs us, “three hundred valiant red coats.”
Having taken this survey, he sat himself down, and
wrote an epistle to the commander, demanding his reason
of anchoring in the harbour without obtaining previous
permission so to do. This letter was couched in
the most dignified and courteous terms, though I have it
from undoubted authority, that his teeth were clenched,
and he had a bitter sardonic grin upon his visage all the
while he wrote. Having despatched his letter, the grim
Peter stumped to and fro about the town, with a most
war-betokening countenance, his hand thrust into his
breeches pockets, and whistling a low Dutch Psalm tune,
which bore no small resemblance to the music of a
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northeast wind, when a storm is brewing. The very dogs, as
they eyed him, skulked away in dismay—while all the
old and ugly women of New-Amsterdam ran howling at
his heels, imploring him to save them from murder, robbery,
and pitiless ravishment!
The reply of Col. Nicholas, who commanded the invaders,
was couched in terms of equal courtesy with the
letter of the governor—declaring the right and title of his
British majesty to the province; where he affirmed the
Dutch to be mere interlopers; and demanding that the
town, forts, &c. should be forthwith rendered into his majesty's
obedience and protection—promising at the same
time, life, liberty, estate, and free trade, to every Dutch
denizen, who should readily submit to his majesty's government.
Peter Stuyvesant read over this friendly epistle with
some such harmony of aspect as we may suppose a crusty
farmer, who has long been fattening upon his neighbour's
soil, reads the loving letter of John Styles, that warns him
of an action of ejectment. The old governor, however,
was not to be taken by surprise, but thrusting the summons
into his breeches pocket, he stalked three times
across the room, took a pinch of snuff with great vehemence,
and then loftily waving his hand, promised to
send an answer the next morning. In the mean time he
called a general council of war of his privy counsellors
and burgomasters, not for the purpose of asking their advice,
for that, as has been already shown, he valued not a
rush; but to make known to them his sovereign determination,
and require their prompt adherence.
Before, however, he convened his council, he resolved
upon three important points; first, never to give up the
city without a little hard fighting, for he deemed it highly
derogatory to the dignity of so renowned a city, to suffer
itself to be captured and stripped, without receiving a few
kicks into the bargain. Secondly, that the majority of his
grand council was composed of arrant poltroons, utterly
destitute of true bottom; and, thirdly, that he would not
therefore suffer them to see the summons of Col. Nicholas,
lest the easy terms it held out might induce them to clamour
for a surrender.
His orders being duly promulgated, it was a piteous
sight to behold the late valiant burgomasters, who had
demolished the whole British empire in their harangues;
peeping ruefully out of their hiding places, and then
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crawling cautiously forth, dodging through narrow lanes and
alleys; starting at every little dog that barked, as though
it had been a discharge of artillery—mistaking lamp-posts
for British grenadiers, and in the excess of their panic,
metamorphosing pumps into formidable soldiers, levelling
blunderbusses at their bosoms! Having, however, in
despite of numerous perils and difficulties of the kind, arrived
safe without the loss of a single man, at the hall of
assembly, they took their seats and awaited in fearful silence
the arrival of the governor. In a few moments the
wooden leg of the intrepid Peter was heard in regular
and stout hearted thumps upon the staircase.—He entered
the chamber arrayed in full suit of regimentals, and carrying
his trusty toledo, not girded on his thigh, but tucked
under his arm. As the governor never equipped himself
in this portentous manner, unless something of martial
nature were working within his fearless pericranium, his
council regarded him ruefully, as a very Janus, bearing
fire and sword, in his iron countenance, and forgot to light
their pipes in breathless suspense.
The great Peter was as eloquent as he was valorous;
indeed, these two rare qualities seemed to go hand in
hand in his composition; and, unlike most great statesmen,
whose victories are only confined to the bloodless
field of argument, he was always ready to enforce his
hardy words by no less hardy deeds. His speeches were
generally marked by a simplicity approaching to bluntness,
and by truly categorical decision. Addressing the grand
council, he touched briefly upon the perils and hardships
he had sustained, in escaping from his crafty foes. He
next reproached the council for wasting in idle debate
and party feuds that time which should have been devoted
to their country. He was particularly indignant at those
brawlers, who, conscious of individual security, had disgraced
the councils of the province, by impotent hectorings
and scurrilous invectives, against a noble and powerful
enemy—those cowardly curs who were incessant in their
barkings and yelpings at the lion, while distant or asleep,
but the moment he approached, were the first to skulk
away. He now called on those who had been so valiant
in their threats against Great Britain, to stand forth and
support their vauntings by their actions—for it was deeds,
not words, that bespoke the spirit of a nation. He proceeded
to recall the golden days of former prosperity,
which were only to be gained by manfully withstanding
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their enemies; for the peace, he observed, which is effected
by force of arms, is always more sure and durable than
that which is patched up by temporary accommodations.
He endeavoured, moreover, to arouse their martial fire,
by reminding them of the time, when, before the frowning
walls of fort Christina, he had led them on to victory.
He strove likewise to awaken their confidence, by assuring
them of the protection of St. Nicholas, who had hitherto
maintained them in safety, amid all the savages of the
wilderness, the witches and squatters of the east, and the
giants of Merry-land. Finally, he informed them of the
insolent summons he had received, to surrender; but concluded
by swearing to defend the province as long as
heaven was on his side, and he had a wooden leg to stand
upon. Which noble sentence he emphasized by a tremendous
thwack with the broad side of his sword upon
the table, that totally electrified his auditors.
The privy counsellors, who had long been accustomed
to the governor's way, and in fact had been brought into
as perfect discipline as were ever the soldiers of the great
Frederick, saw that there was no use in saying a word—
so lighted their pipes and smoked away in silence like fat
and discreet counsellors. But the burgomasters being less
under the governor's control, considering themselves as
representatives of the sovereign people, and being moreover
inflated with considerable importance and self-sufficiency,
which they had acquired at those notable schools of
wisdom and morality, the popular meetings—were not so
easily satisfied. Mustering up fresh spirit, when they
found there was some chance of escaping from their present
jeopardy, without the disagreeable alternative of
fighting, they requested a copy of the summons to surrender,
that they might show it to a general meeting of the
people.
So insolent and mutinous a request would have been
enough to have aroused the gorge of the tranquil Van
Twiller himself—what then must have been its effects upon
the great Stuyvesant, who was not only a Dutchman, a
governor, and a valiant wooden-legged soldier to boot, but
withal a man of the most stomachful and gunpowder disposition.
He burst forth into a blaze of noble indignation,
to which the famous rage of Achilles was a mere pouting
fit—swore not a mother's son of them should see a syllable
of it—that they deserved, every one of them, to be
hanged, drawn, and quartered, for traitorously daring to
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question the infallibility of government; that as to their
advice and concurrence, he did not care a whiff of tobacco
for either; that he had long been harassed and thwarted
by their cowardly councils; but that they might thence
forth go home, and go to bed like old women, for he was
determined to defend the colony himself, without the assistance
of them or their adherents! So saying, he tucked
his sword under his arm, cocked his hat upon his head,
and girding up his loins, stumped indignantly out of the
council-chamber, every body making room for him as he
passed.
No sooner had he gone than the busy burgomasters
called a public meeting in front of the Stadt-house, where
they appointed as chairman one Dofue Roerback, a mighty
gingerbread-baker in the land, and formerly of the
cabinet of William the Testy. He was looked up to with
great reverence by the populace, who considered him a
man of dark knowledge, seeing he was the first that imprinted
new-year cakes with the mysterious hieroglyphics
of the cock and breeches, and such like magical devices.
This great burgomaster, who still chewed the cud of ill
will against the valiant Stuyvesant, in consequence of
having been ignominiously kicked out of his cabinet at the
time of his taking the reins of government, addressed the
greasy multitude in what is called a patriotic speech; in
which he informed them of the courteous summons to surrender—
of the governor's refusal to comply therewith—
of his denying the public a sight of the summons, which,
he had no doubt, contained conditions highly to the honour
and advantage of the province.
He then proceeded to speak of his excellency in high
sounding terms, suitable to the dignity and grandeur of
his station, comparing him to Nero, Caligula, and those
other great men of yore, who are generally quoted by
popular orators on similar occasions. Assuring the people
that the history of the world did not contain a despotic
outrage to equal the present for atrocity, cruelty, tyranny,
and blood-thirstiness; that it would be recorded in letters
of fire on the blood stained tablet of history! that ages
would roll back with sudden horror, when they came to
view it! That the womb of time—(by the way your orators
and writers take strange liberties with the womb of time,
though some would fain have us believe that time is an old
gentleman)—that the womb of time, pregnant as it was
with direful horrors, would never produce a parallel
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enormity!—with a variety of other heart-rending, soul-stirring
tropes and figures, which I cannot enumerate. Neither,
indeed need I, for they were exactly the same that are
used in all popular harangues and patriotic orations at the
present day, and may be classed in rhetoric under the general
title of Rigmarole.
The speech of this inspired burgomaster being finished,
the meeting fell into a kind of popular fermentation, which
produced not only a string of right wise resolutions, but
likewise a most resolute memorial, addressed to the governor,
remonstrating at his conduct; which was no sooner
handed to him, than he handed it into the fire; and thus
deprived posterity of an invaluable document, that might
have served as a precedent to the enlightened cobblers
and tailors of the present day; in their sage intermeddlings
with politics.
THE WIDOW AND HER SON.
During my residence in the country, I used frequently
to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles,
its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken pannelling,
all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to
fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday,
too, in the country, is so holy in its repose; such a pensive
quiet reigns over the face of nature, that every restless
passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural
religion of the soul gently springing up within us.
“Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky.”
I do not pretend to be what is called a devout man; but
there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid
the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience no
where else; and if not a more religious, I think I am a
better man on Sunday, than on any other day of the
seven.
But in this church I felt myself continually thrown
back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the
poor worms around me. The only being that seemed
thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a
true Christian, was a poor decrepid old woman, bending
under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the
traces of something better than abject poverty. The
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lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance,
Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously
clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded
her, for she did not take her seat among the village
poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed
to have survived all love, all friendship, all society; and
to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When
I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in
prayer—habitually conning her prayer book, which her
palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to
read, but which she evidently knew by heart—I felt persuaded
that the faultering voice of that poor woman arose
to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell
of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches, and
this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted
me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small
stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way
through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church
was surrounded by yew trees which seemed almost coeval
with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from
among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling
about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning,
watching two labourers who were digging a grave. They
had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners
of the church-yard; where, from the number of nameless
graves around, it would appear that the indigent and
friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that
the new made grave was for the only son of a poor widow.
While I was meditating on the distinctions of
worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very
dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the
funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which
pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials,
without pall or other covering, was borne by some
of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air
of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in
the trappings of affected wo; but there was one real
mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was
the aged mother of the deceased—the poor old woman
whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She
was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavouring
to comfort her. A few of the neighbouring poor
had joined the train, and some children of the village
were running hand in hand, now shouting with
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unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze with childish curiosity,
on the grief of the mourner.
As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson
issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice,
with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk.
The service however, was a mere act of charity. The
deceased had been destitute, and the surviver was pennyless.
It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but
coldly and unfeelingly. The well fed priest moved but
a few steps from the church door; his voice could scarcely
be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral
service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned
into such a frigid mummery of words.
I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on
the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of
the deceased—“George Sommers, aged 26 years.” The
poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head
of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer,
but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and
a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on
the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's
heart.
Preparations were made to deposite the coffin into the
earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so
harshly on the feelings of grief and affection; directions
given in the cold tones of business: the striking of spades
into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we
love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle
around seemed to awaken the mother from a wretched
reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about
with a faint wildness. As the men approached with
cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her
hands and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman
who attended her took her by the arm, endeavouring
to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something
like consolation—“Nay, now—nay, now—don't take it
so sorely to heart.” She could only shake her head and
wring her hands, as one not to be comforted.
As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking
of the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some
accidental obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin,
all the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any
harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of
worldly suffering.
I could see no more—my heart swelled into my throat
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—my eyes filled with tears—I felt as if I were acting a
barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this
scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part
of the church-yard, where I remained until the funeral
train had dispersed.
When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting
the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was
dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution,
my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the
distresses of the rich! they have friends to soothe—pleasures
to beguile—a world to divert and dissipate their
griefs. What are the sorrows of the young! Their
growing minds soon close above the wound—their elastic
spirits soon rise above the pressure—their green and
ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But
the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances
to soothe—the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best
is but a wintry day, and who can look for no aftergrowth
of joy—the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute,
mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years;
these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency
of consolation.
It was some time before I left the church-yard. On my
way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as
comforter: she was just returning from accompanying the
mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some
particulars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed.
The parents of the deceased had resided in the village
from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest
cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assistance
of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably
and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless life.
They had only one son, who had grown up to be the staff
and pride of their age.—“Oh, Sir!” said the good woman,
“he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to
every one around him, so dutiful to his parents! It did
one's heart good, to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in
his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old
mother to church—for she was always fonder of leaning
on George's arm, than on her good man's; and, poor soul,
she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was
not in the country round.”
Unfortunately the son was tempted, during a year of
scarcity and agricultural hardship to enter into the
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service of one of the small craft that plied on a neighbouring
river. He had not been long in this employ when he
was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea.
His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond
that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their
main prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew
heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The
widow, left lonely, in her age and feebleness, could no
longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still
there was a kind of feeling toward her throughout the
village, and a certain respect as being one of the oldest
inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage, in which
she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted
to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless.
The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied,
from the scanty productions of her little garden, which
the neighbours would now and then cultivate for her.
It was but a few days before the time at which these
circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some
vegetables for a repast, when she heard the cottage door
which faced the garden suddenly open. A stranger came
out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around,
He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated and
ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness
and hardships. He saw her, and hastened towards her,
but his steps were faint and faltering; he sank on his
knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman
gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye—
“Oh my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son?
your poor boy George?” It was indeed the wreck of
her once noble lad; who, shattered by wounds, by sickness
and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged
his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of
his childhood.
I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a
meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended:
still he was alive! he was come home! he might
yet live to comfort and cherish her old age! Nature,
however, was exhausted in him; and if any thing had
been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of
his native cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched
himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother
had passed many a sleepless night, and never rose from it
again.
The villagers when they heard that George Sommers
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had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort
and assistance that their humble means afforded. He
was too weak, however, to talk—he could only look his
thanks. His mother was his constant attendant; and
he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand.
There is something in sickness, that breaks down the
pride of manhood; that softens the heart, and brings it
back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished,
even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency; who
that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness
of a foreign land; but has thought on the mother
“that looked on his childhood,” that smoothed his pillow
and administered to his helplessness? Oh! there is an
enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that
transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither
to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor
weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude.
She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she
will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will
glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity;—and, if
misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from
his misfortunes; and if disgrace settle upon his name,
she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace;
and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all
the world to him.
Poor George Sommers had known what it was to be in
sickness and none to soothe—lonely and in prison, and
none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from
his sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her.
She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he
slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream,
and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over
him; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom,
and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this
way he died.
My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction,
was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer
pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I
found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the
villagers had prompted them to do every thing that the
case admitted; and as the poor know best how to console
each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude.
The next Sunday I was at the village church; when,
to my surprize, I saw the poor old woman tottering
down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the
altar.
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She had made an effort to put on something like
mourning for her son; and nothing could be more touching
than this struggle between pious affection and utter
poverty: a black ribbon or so—a faded black handkerchief,
and one or two more such humble attempts to express
by outward signs that grief that passes show. When
I looked round upon the storied monuments; the stately
hatchments; the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur
mourned magnificently over departed pride, and turned
to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow at
the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and
praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this
living monument of real grief was worth them all.
I related her story to some of the wealthy members
of the congregation, and they were moved by it. They
exerted themselves to render her situation more comfortable,
and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however,
but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course
of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual
seat at church, and before I left the neighbourhood I heard,
with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed
her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that
world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never
parted.
STORM AT SEA.
The storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed
into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen
sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. Deep
called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds
over head seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning that
quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding
darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed
over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and
prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship
staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it
seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved
her buoyancy. Her yards would dip in the
water; her bow was almost buried beneath the waves.
Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm
her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of
the helm preserved her from the shock.
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When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed
me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging
sounded like funeral wailings. The creaking of the
masts, the straining and groaning of bulk heads, as the
ship laboured in the weltering sea, were frightful. As
I heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship, and
roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging
round this floating prison, seeking for his prey; the mere
starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam might give him
entrance.
JOHN BULL.
There is no species of humour in which the English
more excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and
giving ludicrous appellations, or nicknames. In this
way they have whimsically designated, not merely individuals,
but nations; and in their fondness for pushing
a joke, they have not spared even themselves. One
would think that, in personifying itself, a nation would
be apt to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing;
but it is characteristic of the peculiar humour of the
English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic and
familiar, that they have embodied their national oddities in
the figure of a sturdy corpulent old fellow, with a
three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and
stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular
delight in exibiting their most private foibles in a laughable
point of view; and have been so successful in their
delineations, that there is scarcely a being in actual existence
more absolutely present to the public mind than
that eccentric personage, John Bull.
Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character
thus drawn of them, has contributed to fix it upon the
nation; and thus to give reality to what at first may
have been painted in a great measure from imagination.
Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are continually
ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem
wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they
have formed of John Bull, and endeavour to act up to the
broad caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily,
they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an
apology for their prejudice or grossness; and this I have
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especially noticed among those truly home-bred and genuine
sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond the
sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be a little
uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths,
he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks
his mind. If he now and then flies into an unreasonable
burst of passion about trifles, he observes, that John
Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his passion is over
in a moment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays a
coarseness of taste, and an insensibility to foreign refinements,
he thanks heaven for his ignorance—he is a plain
John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and nicknacks,
his very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay
extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea
of munificence—for John is always more generous than
wise.
Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to
argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict
himself of being the honestest fellow in existence.
However little, therefore, the character may have
suited in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself
to the nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to
each other; and a stranger who wishes to study English
peculiarities, may gather much valuable information from
the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in
the windows of the caricature shops. Still, however, he
is one of those fertile humourists, that are continually
throwing out new portraits, and presenting different aspects
from different points of view; and, often as he has
been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a
slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye.
John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter-of-fact
fellow, with much less of poetry about him
than rich prose. There is little of romance in his nature,
but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in
humour more than in wit; is jolly rather than gay; melancholy
rather than morose; can easily be moved to a
sudden tear, or surprised to a broad laugh; but he loathes
sentiment, and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is
a boon companion, if you allow him to have his humour,
and to talk about himself; and he will stand by a friend
in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly he
may be cudgelled.
In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity
to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded
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personage, who thinks not merely for himself and family,
but for all the country round, and is most generously disposed
to be every body's champion. He is continually,
volunteering his services to settle his neighbour's affairs,
and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter
of consequence without asking his advice; though he
seldom engages in any friendly office of the kind without
finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties, and
then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily
took lessons in his youth in the noble science of defence,
and having accomplished himself in the use of his limbs
and his weapons, and become a perfect master at boxing
and cudgel play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever
since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most
distant of his neighbours, but he begins incontinently to
fumble with the head of his cudgel, and to consider
whether his interest or honour does not require that he
should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has extended his
relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole
country, that no event can take place, without infringing
some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in
his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in
every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old
spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so
that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling
his repose, and causing him to sally forth wrathfully
from his den.
Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow
at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the
midst of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, however,
that he only relishes the beginning of an affray; he
always goes into a fight with alacrity, but he comes out of
it grumbling even when victorious; and though no one
fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested point,
yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the reconciliation,
he is so much taken up with the mere shaking of
hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that
they have been quarrelling about. It is not, therefore,
fighting that he ought to be so much on his guard against,
as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him out of a
farthing; but put him in a good humour, and you may bargain
him out of all the money in his pocket. He is
like one of his own ships, which will weather the roughest
storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard in the succceding
calm.
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He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad; of
pulling out a long purse; flinging his money bravely about
at boxing matches, horse races, and cockfights, and carrying
a high head among “gentlemen of the fancy;” but
immediately after one of these fits of extravagance, he will
be taken with violent qualms of economy; stop short at
the most trivial expenditure; talk desperately of being
ruined, and brought upon the parish; and in such moods,
he will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill without
violent altercation. He is, in fact, the most punctual
and discontented paymaster in the world; drawing his
coin out of his breeches' pocket with infinite reluctance;
paying to the uttermost farthing, but accompanying every
guinea with a growl.
With all this talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful
provider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is
of a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how
he may afford to be extravagant; for he will begrudge
himself a beafsteak and a pint of port one day, that he
may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and
treat all his neighbours on the next.
His domestic establishment is enormously expensive:
not so much from any great outward parade, as from the
great consumption of solid beef and pudding; the vast
number of followers he feeds and clothes; and his singular
disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is a
most kind and indulgent master, and, provided his servants
humour his peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little
now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before
his face, they may manage him to perfection. Every
thing that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat.
His house servants are well paid, and pampered, and
have little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and
prance slowly before his state carriage; and his house
dogs sleep quietly before his door, and will hardly bark
at a house-breaker.
His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house,
grey with age, and of a most venerable, though weather
beaten appearance. It has been built upon no regular
plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts, erected in various
tastes and ages. The centre bears evident traces of
Saxon architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and
old English oak can make it. Like all the relics of that
style, it is full of, obscure passages, intricate mazes, and
dusky chambers; and though these have been partially
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lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places
where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have
been made to the original edifice from time to time and
great alterations have taken place; towers and battlements
have been erected during the wars and tumults;
wings built in times of peace; and out-houses, lodges,
and offices, run up according to the whim or convenience
of different generations: until it has become one of the
most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An entire
wing is taken up with a family chapel; a reverend
pile that must once have been exceedingly sumptuous,
and, indeed, in spite of having been altered and simplified
at various periods, has still a look of solemn religious
pomp. Its walls within are storied with the monuments
of John's ancestors; and it is snugly fitted up with soft
cushions and well-lined chairs, where such of his family
as are inclined to church services, may doze comfortably
in the discharge of their duties.
To keep up this chapel has cost John much money;
but he is staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal,
from the circumstance that many dissenting chapels have
been erected in his vicinity, and several of his neighbours,
with whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists.
To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large
expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a
most learned and decorous personage, and a truly well
bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in
his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes
the children when refractory, and is of great use in
exhorting the tenants to read their bibles, say their prayers,
and, above all, to pay their rents punctually, and
without grumbling.
The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste,
somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the
solemn magnificence of former times; fitted up with rich
though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of
massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fire-places, ample
kitchens, extensive cellars, and sunptuous banqueting
halls—all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore,
of which the modern festivity at the manor-house is but
a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of rooms
apparently deserted and time worn; and towers and turrets
that are tottering to decay; so that in high winds
there is a danger of their tumbling about the ears of the
household.
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John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice
thoroughly overhauled; and to have some of the useless
parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with
their materials; but the old gentleman always grows
testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excellent
house—that it is tight and weather proof, and not
to be shaken by tempests—that it has stood for several
hundred years, and, therefore, is not likely to tumble
down now—that as to its being inconvenient, his family
is accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be
comfortable without them—that as to its unwieldy size
and irregular construction, these result from its being the
growth of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom
of every generation—that an old family like his, requires
a large house to dwell in; new upstart families may live
in modern cottages and snug boxes, but an old English
family should inhabit an old English manor-house. If
you point out any part of the building as superfluous, he
insists that it is material to the strength or decoration of
the rest, and the harmony of the whole; and swears that
the parts are so built into each other, that, if you pull
down one, you run the risk of having the whole about your
ears.
The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposition
to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensible
to the dignity of an ancient and honourable family,
to be bounteous in its appointments, and to be eaten up
by dependants; and so, partly from pride, and partly from
kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter
and maintainance to his superannuated servants.
The consequence is, that, like many other venerable
family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old
retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style which
he cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great hospital
of invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit
too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or a corner but
is of use in housing some useless personage. Groups
of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired
heroes of the buttery and the larder, are seen lolling
about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its
trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its
doors. Every office and out-house is garrisoned by these
supernumeraries and their families; for they are amazingly
prolific, and when they die off, are sure to leave
John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A
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mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering
tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or
loop-hole, the grey pate of some superannuated hanger-on,
who has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes
the most grievous outcry, at their pulling down the roof
from over the head of a worn-out servant of the family.
This is an appeal that John's honest heart never can withstand;
so that a man, who has faithfully eaten his beef
and pudding all his life, is sure to be rewarded with a
pipe and tankard in his old days.
A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks
where his broken down chargers are turned loose to graze
undisturbed for the remainder of their existence—a worthy
example of grateful recollection, which, if some of
his neighbours were to imitate, would not be to their discredit.
Indeed, it is one of his greatest pleasures to
point out these old steeds to his visiters, to dwell on their
good qualities, extol their past services, and boast with
some little vain-glory, of the perilous adventures and
hardy exploits, through which they have carried him.
He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for
family usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical
extent. His manor is infested by gangs of gipsies; yet
he will not suffer them to be driven off, because they
have infested the place time out of mind, and been regular
poachers upon every generation of the family. He
will scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from the
great trees that surround the house, lest it should molest
the rooks, that have bred there for centuries. Owls
have taken possession of the dovecote; but they are hereditary
owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows
have nearly choked up every chimney with their nests;
martins build in every frieze and cornice; crows flutter
about the towers, and perch on every weathercock; and
old grey-headed rats may be seen in every quarter of the
house, running in and out of their holes undauntedly, in
broad daylight. In short, John has such a reverence for
every thing that has been long in the family, that he will
not hear even of abuses being reformed, because they are
good old family abuses.
All these whims and habits have concurred wofully
to drain the old gentleman's purse; and as he prides
himself on punctuality in money matters, and wishes to
maintain his credit in the neighbourhood, they have
caused him great perplexity in meeting his engagements.
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This, too, has been increased, by the altercations and
heart-burnings which are continually taking place in his
family. His children have been brought up to different
callings, and are of different ways of thinking; and as
they have always been allowed to speak their mind freely,
they do not fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously
in the present posture of his affairs. Some stand
up for the honour of the race, and are clear that the old
establishment should be kept up in all its state, whatever
may be the cost; others, who are more prudent and considerate,
entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses,
and to put his whole system of housekeeping on
a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times,
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their
wholesome advice has been completely defeated by the
obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. This is a noisy
rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects
his business to frequent ale-houses—is the orator of village
clubs, and a complete oracle, among the poorest of
his father's tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his
brothers mention reform or retrenchment, than up he
jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, and roars
out for an overturn. When his tongue is once going,
nothing can stop it. He rants about the room; hectors
the old man about his spendthrift practices; ridicules his
tastes and pursuits; insists that he shall turn the old
servants out of doors; give the broken down horses to
the hounds; send the fat chaplain packing, and take a
field preacher in his place—nay, that the whole family
mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a plain
one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails at
every social entertainment and family festivity, and
skulks away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage
drives up to the door. Though constantly complaining
of the emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples
not to spend all his pocket-money in these tavern convocations,
and even runs up scores, for the liquor over
which he preaches about his father's extravagance.
It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He
has become so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the
mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for
a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter
is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline,
having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have
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frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run so
high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom,
an officer who was served abroad, but is at present living
at home, on half pay. This last is sure to stand by the
old gentleman, right or wrong; likes nothing so much
as a racketing roystering life; and is ready, at a wink or
nod, to out sabre, and flourish it over the orator's head,
if he dares to array himself against paternal authority.
These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad,
and are rare food for scandal in John's neighbourhood.
People begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever
his affairs are mentioned. They all “hope that
matters are not so bad with him as represented; but
when a man's own children begin to rail at his extravagance,
things must be badly managed. They understand
he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually
dabbling with money lenders. He is certainly an open-handed
old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too
fast; indeed, they never knew any good come of this
fondness for hunting, racing, revelling, and prize-fighting.
In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and
has been in the family a long while; but for all that, they
have known many finer estates come to the hammer.”
What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on
the poor man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation,
and snug rosy face, which he used to present,
he has of late become as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten
apple. His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which
bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when he
sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like
a mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds
and wrinkles, and apparently have much ado to hold up
the boots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy
legs.
Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cornered
hat on one side; flourishing his cudgel, and
bringing it down every moment with a hearty thump
upon the ground; looking every one sturdily in the face,
and trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking song;
he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself,
with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under
his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches
pockets, which are evidently empty.
Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present; yet
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for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant
as ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy
or concern, he takes fire in an instant; swears that he is
the richest, and stoutest fellow in the country; talks of
laying out large sums to adorn his house or to buy
another estate; and, with a valiant swagger and grasping
of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at
quarterstaff.
Though there may be something rather whimsical in
all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation
without strong feelings of interest. With all his odd
humours and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling hearted
old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow
as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good
as his neighbours represent him. His virtues are all
his own; all plain, home-bred and unaffected. His very
faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His
extravagance savours of his generosity; his quarrelsomeness
of his courage; his credulity of his open faith; his
vanity of his pride; and his bluntness of his sincerity.
They are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character.
He is like his own oak; rough without, but
sound and solid within; whose bark abounds with excrescences
in proportion to the growth and grandeur of
the timber; and whose branches make a fearful groaning
and murmuring in the least storm, from their very magnitude
and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the
appearance of his old family mansion, that is extremely
poetical and picturesque; and, as long as it can be rendered
comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to
see it meddled with during the present conflict of tastes
and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good
architects that might be of service; but many I fear are
mere levellers, who, when they had once got to work
with their mattocks on the venerable edifice, would never
stop until they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps
buried themselves among the ruins. All that I
wish is, that John's present troubles may teach him
more prudence in future. That he may cease to distress
his mind about other people's affairs; that he may give
up the fruitless attempt to promote the good of his neighbours,
and the peace and happiness of the world, by dint
of the cudgel; that he may remain quietly at home;
gradually get his house into repair; cultivate his rich estate
according to his fancy; husband his income—if he
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thinks proper; bring his unruly children into order—if
he can; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity; and
long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an honourable,
and a merry old age.
CONSEQUENCE.
The doctor now felt all the dignity of a landholder rising
within him. He had a little of the German pride
of territory in his composition, and almost looked upon
himself as owner of a principality. He began to complain
of the fatigue of business; and, was fond of riding
out “to look at his estate.” His little expeditions to his
lands were attended with a bustle and parade that created
a sensation throughout the neighbourhood. His
wall-eyed horse stood stamping, and whisking off the
flies, for a full hour before the house. Then the doctor's
saddle-bags would be brought out and adjusted; then,
after a little while, his cloak would be rolled up and
strapped to the saddle; then his umbrella would be
buckled to the cloak; while, in the mean time, a group of
ragged boys, that observant class of beings would gather
before the door. At length the doctor would issue forth,
in a pair of jack-boots that reached above his knees, and
a cocked hat flapped down in front. As he was a short,
fat man, he took some time to mount into the saddle;
and when there, he took some time to have the saddle and
stirrups properly adjusted, enjoying the wonder and admiration
of the urchin crowd. Even after he had set
off, he would pause in the middle of the street, or trot
back two or three times to give some parting orders which
were answered by the housekeeper from the door, or
Dolph from the study, or the black cook from the cellar,
or the chambermaid from the garret window; and there
were generally some last words bawled after him, just as
he was turning the corner.
The whole neighbourhood would be aroused by this
pomp and circumstance. The cobler would leave his
last; the barber would thrust out his frizzed head, with
a comb sticking in it; a knot would collect at the grocer's
door, and the word would be buzzed from one end
of the street to the other, “The Doctor's riding out to
his country seat.”
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THE COCKLOFT FAMILY.
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The Cockloft family, of which I have made such frequent
mention, is of great antiquity, if there be any truth
in the genealogical tree which hangs up in my cousin's
library. They trace their descent from a celebrated Roman
Knight, cousin to the progenitor of his Majesty of
Britain, who left his native country on occasion of some
disgust; and coming into Wales, became a great favourite
of Prince Madoc, and accompanied that famous argonaut
in the voyage which ended in the discovery of this continent.—
Though a member of the family, I have sometimes
ventured to doubt the authenticity of this portion
of their annals, to the great vexation of cousin Christopher,
who is looked up to as the head of our house; and
who, though as orthodox as a bishop, would sooner give
up the whole decalogue than lop off a single limb of the
family tree. From time immemorial, it has been the rule
for the Cocklofts to marry one of their own name; and
as they always bred like rabbits, the family has increased
and multiplied like that of Adam and Eve. In truth
their number is almost incredible; and you can hardly
go into any part of the country without starting a warren
of genuine Cocklofts. Every person of the least observation,
or experience, must have observed that where
this practice of marrying cousins, and second cousins,
prevails in a family, every member, in the course of a
few generations, becomes queer, humourous, and original;
as much distinguished from the common race of mongrels
as if he were of a different species. This has happened in
our family, and particularly in that branch of it of which
Christopher Cockloft, Esq. is the head—Christopher, is,
in fact, the only married man of the name who resides in
town; his family is small, having lost most of his children
when young, by the excessive care he took to bring
them up like vegetables. This was one of the first whimwhams,
and a confounded one it was; as his children
might have told, had they not fallen victims to his experiment
before they could talk. He had got from some
quack philosopher or other, a notion that there was a
complete analogy between children and plants, and that
they ought to be both reared alike. Accordingly he sprinkled
them every morning with water, laid them out in the
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sun, as he did his geraniums; and if the season was remarkably
dry, repeated this wise experiment three or
four times of a morning. The consequence was, the
poor little souls died one after another, except Jeremy
and his two sisters; who, to be sure, are a trio of as odd,
runty, mummy-looking originals as ever Hogarth fancied
in his most happy moments. Mrs. Cockloft, the larger
if not the better half of my cousin, often remonstrated
against this vegetable theory;—and even brought the parson
of the parish, in which my cousin's country house is
situated, to her aid; but in vain, Christopher persisted,
and attributed the failure of his plan to its not having
been exactly conformed to. As I have mentioned Mrs.
Cockloft, I may as well say a little more about her while I
am in the humour. She is a lady of wonderful notability,
a warm admirer of shining mahogany, clean hearths
and her husband: whom she considers the wisest man in
the world, bating Will Wizard and the parson of our
parish; the last of whom is her oracle on all occasions.
She goes constantly to church every Sunday and saint's
day, and insists upon it that no man is entitled to ascend
a pulpit unless he has been ordained by a bishop; nay,
so far does she carry her orthodoxy, that all the arguments
in the world will never persuade her that a Presbyterian
or Baptist, or even a Calvinist, has any possible
chance of going to heaven. Above every thing else, however,
she abhors Paganism; can scarcely refrain from laying
violent hands on a Pantheon when she meets with it;
and was very nigh going into hysterics, when my cousin
insisted that one of his boys should be christened after
our laurcate, because the parson of the parish had told
her that Pindar was the name of a Pagan writer, famous
for his love of boxing-matches, wrestling, and horse-racing.
To sum up all her qualifications in the shortest
possible way, Mrs. Cockloft is, in the true sense of the
phrase, a good sort of a woman; and I often congratulate
my cousin on possessing her. The rest of the family
consists of Jeremy Cockloft, the younger, who has already
been mentioned, and the two Miss Cocklofts, or rather
the young ladies, as they have been called by the servants
time out of mind; not that they are really young, the
younger being somewhat on the shady side of thirty—
but it has ever been the custom to call every member of
the family young under fifty. In the south-east corner
of the house, I hold quiet possession of an old-fashioned
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apartment, where myself and my elbow chair are suffered
to amuse ourselves undisturbed, save at meal times. This
apartment old Cockloft has facetiously denominated Cousin
Launce's Paradise; and the good old gentleman has
two or three favourite jokes about it, which are served up
as regularly as the standing family dish of beefsteaks and
onions, which every day maintains its station at the foot
of the table, in defiance of mutton, poultry, or even venison
itself.
Though the family is apparently small, yet, like most
old establishments of the kind, it does not want for honorary
members. It is the city rendezvous of the Cocklofts;
and we are continually enlivened by the company
of half a score of uncles, aunts, and cousins in the fortieth
remove, from all parts of the county, who profess a wonderful
regard for Cousin Christopher; and overwhelm
every member of his household, down to the cook in the
kitchen, with their attentions. We have for three weeks
past been greeted with the company of two worthy old
spinsters, who came down from the country to settle a
law suit. They have done little else but retail stories of
their village neighbours, knit stockings, and take snuff,
all the time they have been here: the whole family are bewildered
with church-yard tales of sheeted ghosts, white
horses without heads, and with large goggle eyes in their
buttocks; and not one of the old servants dare budge an
inch after dark without a numerous company at his heels.
My cousin's visiters, however, always return his hospitality
with due gratitude, and now and then remind him
of their fraternal regard, by a present of a pot of apple
sweetmeats, or a barrel of sour cider at Christmas.
Jeremy displays himself to great advantage among his
country relations, who all think him a prodigy, and often
stand astounded, in “gaping wonderment,” at his
natural philosophy. He lately frightened a simple old
uncle almost out of his wits, by giving it as his opinion
that the earth would one day be scorched to ashes by the
eccentric gambols of the famous comet, so much talked
of; and positively asserted that this world revolved round
the sun, and that the moon was certainly inhabited.
The family mansion bears equal marks of antiquity
with its inhabitants. As the Cocklofts are remarkable
for their attachment to every thing that has remained
long in the family, they are bigoted towards their old
edifice, and I dare say would sooner have it crumble
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about their ears than abandon it. The consequence is,
it has been so patched up and repaired, that it has become
as full of whims and oddities as its tenants; requires
to be nursed and humoured like a gouty old codger
of an alderman; and reminds one of the famous ship
in which a certain admiral circumnavigated the globe,
which was so patched and timbered, in order to preserve
so great a curiosity, that at length not a particle of
the original remained. Whenever the wind blows,
the old mansion makes a most perilous groaning; and
every storm is sure to make a day's work for the carpenter,
who attends upon it as regularly as the family physician.
This predilection for every thing that has been
long in the family shows itself in every particular. The
domestics are all grown grey in the service of our house.
We have a little, old, crusty, grey-headed negro, who has
lived through two or three generations of the Cocklofts,
and, of course, has become a personage of no little importance
in the household. He calls all the family by their
christian names; tells long stories about how he dandled
them on his knee when they were children: and is a complete
Cockloft chronicle for the last seventy years.
The family carriage was made in the last French war,
and the old horses were most indubitably foaled in
Noah's ark—resembling marvellously, in gravity of demeanour,
those sober animals which may be seen any day
of the year in the streets of Philadelphia, walking their
snail's pace, a dozen in a row, and harmoniously jingling
their bells. Whim-whams are the inheritance of
the Cocklofts, and every member of the household is a
humourist sui generis, from the master down to the footman.
The very cats and dogs are humourists; and we
have a little runty scoundrel of a cur, who, whenever the
church bells ring, will run to the street door, turn up his
nose in the wind and howl most piteously. Jeremy insists
that this is owing to a peculiar delicacy in the organization
of his ears, and supports his position by many
learned arguments which nobody can understand: but
I am of opinion that it is a mere Cockloft whim-wham,
which the little cur indulges, being descended from a
race of dogs which has flourished in the family ever since
the time of my grandfather. A propensity to save every
thing that bears the stamp of family antiquity has
accumulated an abundance of trumpery and rubbish
with which the house is encumbered, from the cellar to
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the garret; and every room, and closet, and corner, is
crammed with three-legged chairs, clocks without hands,
swords without scabbards, cocked hats, broken candle-sticks,
and looking glasses with frames carved into fantastic
shapes, of feathered sheep, woolly birds, and other
animals that have no name except in books of heraldry.
The ponderous mahogany chairs in the parlour are of
such unwieldy proportions, that it is quite a serious undertaking
to gallant one of them across the room; and
sometimes make a most equivocal noise when you sit down
in a hurry: the mantle-piece is decorated with little
lacquered earthen shepherdesses—some of which are without
toes, and others without noses; and the fire-place
is garnished out with Dutch tiles, exhibiting a great variety
of Scripture pieces, which my good old soul of a
cousin takes infinite delight in explaining. Poor Jeremy
hates them as he does poison; for while a younker, he
was obliged by his mother to learn the history of a tile
every Sunday morning before she would permit him to
join his play-mates: this was a terrible affair for Jeremy,
who by the time he had learned the last had forgotten
the first, and was obliged to begin again. He assured
me the other day, with a round college oath, that if the
old house stood out till he inherited it he would have
these tiles taken out, and ground into powder, for the perfect
hatred he bore them.
My cousin Christopher enjoys unlimited authority in
the mansion of his forefathers; he is truly what may be
termed a hearty old blade—has a florid, sunshiny countenance,
and, if you will only praise his wine, and laugh
at his long stories, himself and his house are heartily at
your service. The first condition is indeed easily complied
with, for, to tell the truth, his wine is excellent;
but his stories, being not of the best, and often repeated,
are apt to create a disposition to yawn, being, in addition
to their other qualities, most unreasonably long. His
prolixity is the more afflicting to me, since I have all his
stories by heart; and when he enters upon one, it reminds
me of Newark causeway, where the traveller sees
the end at the distance of several miles. To the great
misfortune of all his acquaintance cousin Cockloft is
blessed with a most provoking retentive memory, and
can give day and date, and name and age and circumstance,
with most unfeeling precision. These, however,
are but trivial foibles, forgotten, or remembered only
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with a kind of tender respectful pity, by those who know
with what a rich redundant harvest of kindness and generosity
his heart is stored. It would delight you to see
with what social gladness he welcomes a visiter into his
house; and the poorest man that enters his door never
leaves it without a cordial invitation to sit down and
drink a glass of wine. By the honest farmers round his
country seat, he is looked up to with love and reverence;
they never pass him by without his inquiring after
the welfare of their families, and receiving a cordial shake
of his liberal hand. There are but two classes of people
who are thrown out of the reach of his hospitality—and
these are Frenchmen and Democrats. The old gentleman
considers it treason against the majesty of good
breeding to speak to any visiter with his hat on; but the
moment a Democrat enters his door, he forthwith bids
his man Pompey bring his hat, puts it on his head, and
salutes him with, an appalling “Well, sir, what do you
want with me?”
He has a profound contempt for Frenchmen, and
firmly believes that they eat nothing but frogs and soupmaigre
in their own country. This unlucky prejudice
is partly owing to my great aunt Pamelia having been,
many years ago, run away with by a French Count, who
turned out to be the son of a generation of barbers; and
partly to a little vivid spark of toryism, which burns in
a secret corner of his heart. He was a loyal subject of
the crown; has hardly yet recovered the shock of independence;
and, though he does not care to own it, always
does honour to his majesty's birth day, by inviting a few
cavaliers, like himself, to dinner; and gracing his
table with more than ordinary festivity. If by chance
the revolution is mentioned before him, my cousin shakes
his head; and you may see, if you take good note, a lurking
smile of contempt in the corner of his eye, which
marks a decided disapprobation of the sound. He once,
in the fullness of his heart, observed to me that green
peas were a month later than they were under the old
government. But the most eccentric manifestation of loyalty
he ever gave was making a voyage to Halifax for no
other reason under heaven but to hear his majesty prayed
for in church, as he used to be here formerly. This he
never could be brought fairly to acknowledge, but it is
a certain fact I assure you.—It is not a little singular
that a person, so much given to long story-telling as my
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cousin, should take a liking to another of the same character;
but so it is with the old gentleman—his prime favourite
and companion is Will Wizard, who is almost a
member of the family, and will sit before the fire, with
his feet on the massy handirons, and smoke his cigar, and
screw his phiz, and spin away tremendous long stories
of his travels, for a whole evening, to the great delight
of the old gentleman and lady, and especially of the
young ladies, who, like Desdemona, do “seriously incline,”
and listen to him with innumerable “O dears,”
“is it possibles,” “good graciouses,” and look upon him
as a second Sinbad the sailor.
The Miss Cocklofts, whose pardon I crave for not
having particularly introduced them before, are a pair of
delectable damsels; who having purloined and locked
up the family-bible, pass for just what age they please to
plead guilty to. Barbara, the eldest, has long since resigned
the character of a belle, and adopted that staid,
sober, demure, snuff-taking air, becoming her years and
discretion. She is a good-natured soul, whom I never
saw in a passion but once; and that was occasioned by
seeing an old favourite beau of hers kiss the hand of a
pretty blooming girl; and, in truth she only got angry
because, as she very properly said, it would spoil the
child. Her sister Margery, or Maggie, as she is familiarly
termed, seemed disposed to maintain her post as a
belle, until a few months since; when accidentally hearing
a gentleman observe that she broke very fast, she
suddenly left off going to the assembly, took a cat into
high favour, and began to rail at the forward pertness of
young misses. From that moment I set her down for
an old maid; and so she is, “by the hand of my body.”
The young ladies are still visited by some half dozen of
veteran beaux, who grew and flourished in the haut ton,
when the Miss Cocklofts were quite children, but have
been brushed rather rudely by the hand of time, who,
to say the truth, can do almost any thing but make people
young. They are, notwithstanding, still warm candidates
for female favour; look venerably tender, and repeat
over and over the same honeyed speeches and sugared
sentiments to the little belles that they poured so
profusely into the ears of their mothers. I beg leave
here to give notice, that by this sketch I mean no reflection
on old bachelors; on the contrary, I hold, that next
to a fine lady, the ne plus ultra, an old bachelor is the
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most charming being upon earth; inasmuch as by living
in “single blessedness,” he of course does just as he
pleases; and if he has any genius must acquire a plentiful
stock of whims, and oddities, and whalebone habits:
without which I esteem a man to be mere beef without
mustard, good for nothing at all, but to run on errands
for ladies, take boxes at the theatre, and act the part of
a screen at tea-parties, or a walking stick in the streets.
I merely speak of those old boys who infest public walks,
pounce upon the ladies from every corner of the street,
and worry and frisk and amble, and caper before, behind,
and round about the fashionable belles, like old ponies
in a pasture, striving to supply the absence of youthful
whim and hilarity, by grimaces and grins, and artificial
vivacity. I have sometimes seen one of these “reverend
youths” endeavouring to elevate his wintry passions into
something like love, by basking in the sunshine of beauty;
and it did remind me of an old moth attempting to
fly through a pane of glass towards a light without ever
approaching near enough to warm itself, or scorch its
wings.
Never I firmly believe, did there exist a family that
went more by tangents than the Cocklofts.—Every thing
is governed by whim; and if one member starts a new
freak, away all the rest follow like wild geese in a string.
As the family, the servants, the horses, cats, and dogs,
have all grown old together, they have accommodated
themselves to each other's habits completely; and though
every body of them is full of odd points, angles, rhomboids,
and ins and outs, yet somehow or other, they harmonize
together like so many straight lines; and it is truly
a grateful and refreshing sight to see them agree so well.
Should one, however, get out of tune, it is like a cracked
fiddle, the whole concert is ajar; you perceive a cloud over
every brow in the house, and even the old chairs seem to
creak affettuoso. If my cousin, as he is rather apt to do,
betray any symptons of vexation or uneasiness no matter
about what, he is worried to death with inquiries, which
answer no other end but to demonstrate the good will of
the inquirer, and put him in a passion; for every body
knows how provoking it is to be cut short in a fit of the
blues, by an impertinent question about “what is the
matter?” when a man can't tell himself. I remember a
few months ago the old gentleman came home in quite
a squall; kicked poor Cæsar, the mastiff, out of his way
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as he came through the hall; threw his hat on the table
with most violent emphasis, and pulling out his box,
took three huge pinches of snuff, and threw a fourth
into the cat's eyes as he sat purring his astonishment by
the fire-side. This was enough to set the body politic
going; Mrs. Cockloft began “my dearing” it as fast as
tongue could move; the young ladies took each a stand
at an elbow of his chair: Jeremy marshalled in rear;
the servants came tumbling in; the mastiff put up an inquiring
nose; and even grimalkin, after he had cleansed
his whiskers and finished sneezing, discovered indubitable
signs of sympathy. After the most affectionate inquiries
on all sides, it turned out that my cousin, in crossing,
the street, had got his silk stockings bespattered with
mud by a coach which it seems belonged to a dashing
gentleman who had formerly supplied the family with
hot rolls and muffins! Mrs. Cockloft thereupon turned
up her eyes, and the young ladies their noses; and it
would have edified a whole congregation to hear the
conversation which took place concerning the insolence
of upstarts, and the vulgarity of would be gentlemen and
ladies, who strive to emerge from low life by dashing
about in carriages to pay a visit two doors off, giving parties
to people who laugh at them, and cutting all their old
friends.
CONVERSION OF THE AMERICANS.
But the most important branch of civilization, and which
has most strenuously been extolled, by the zealous and
pious fathers of the Romish Church, is the introduction
of the Christian faith. It was truly a sight that might
well inspire horror, to behold these savages, stumbling
among the dark mountains of paganism, and guilty of
the most horrible ignorance of religion. It is true, they
neither stole nor defrauded; they were sober, frugal,
continent, and faithful to their word; but though they
acted right habitually, it was all in vain, unless they
acted so from precept. The new comers therefore used
every method to induce them to embrace and practise
the true religion—except indeed that of setting them the
example.
But notwithstanding all these complicated labours for
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their good, such was the unparalleled obstinacy of these
stubborn wretches, that they ungratefully refused to acknowledge
the strangers as their benefactors, and persisted
in disbelieving the doctrines they endeavoured to inculcate;
most insolently alleging that from their conduct,
the advocates of Christianity did not seem to believe in
it themselves. Was not this too much for human patience?—
would not one suppose, that the benign visitants
from Europe, provoked at their incredulity, and disconraged,
by their stiff-necked obstinacy, would forever have
abandoned their shores, and consigned them to their original
ignorance and misery? But no—so zealous were
they to effect the temporal comfort and eternal salvation
of these pagan infidels, that they even proceeded from
the milder means of persuasion to the more painful and
troublesome one of persecution—let loose among them
whole troops of fiery monks and furious blood-hounds—purified
them by fire and sword, by stake and faggot; in consequence
of which indefatigable measures the cause of
Christian love and charity was so rapidly advanced that,
in a very few years not one fifth of the number of unbelievers
existed in South America, that were found there
at the time of its discovery.
What stronger right need the European settlers advance
to the country than this? Have not whole nations
of uninformed savages been made acquainted with a
thousand imperious wants and indispensable comforts, of
which they were before wholly ignorant? Have they
not been literally hunted and smoked out of the dens and
lurking places of ignorance and infidelity, and absolutely
scourged into the right path? Have not the temporal
things, the vain baubles and filthy lucre of this world,
which were too apt to engage their worldly and selfish
thoughts, been benevolently taken from them; and have
they not instead thereof, been taught to set their affections
on things above? And, finally, to use the words of
a Reverend Spanish Father, in a letter to his superior in
Spain—“Can any one have the presumption to say, that
these savage Pagans have yielded any thing more than an
inconsiderable recompense to their benefactors, in surrendering
to them a little pitiful tract of this dirty sublunary
planet, in exchange for a glorious inheritance in the kingdom
of Heaven!”
Here, then, are three complete and undeniable sources
of right established, any one of which was more than am
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ple to establish a property in the newly discovered regions
of America. Now, so it has happened in certain parts
of this delightful quarter of the globe that the right of
discovery has been so strenuously asserted, the influence
of cultivation so industriously extended, and the progress
of salvation and civilization so zealously prosecuted; that,
what with their attendant wars, persecutions, oppressions,
diseases, and other partial evils that often hang on the
skirts of great benefits, the savage aborigines have, some
how or another, been utterly annihilated; and this all at
once brings me to a fourth right, which is worth all the
others put together; for the original claimants to the soil
being all dead and buried, and no one remaining to inherit
or dispute the soil, the Spaniards as the next immediate
occupants, entered upon the possession as clearly as
the hangman succeeds to the clothes of the malefactor—
and as they have Blackstone,[11] and all the learned expounders
of the law on their side, they may set all actions of
ejectment at defiance—and this last right may be entitled
the RIGHT BY EXTERMINATION, or in other words the
RIGHT BY GUNPOWDER.
But, lest any scruples of conscience should remain on
this head, and to settle the question of right for ever, his
holiness Pope Alexander VI. issued a mighty bull, by
which he generously granted the newly discovered quarter
of the globe to the Spaniards and Portuguese; who,
thus having law and gospel on their side, and being inflamed
with great spiritual zeal, showed the Pagan savages
neither favour nor affection, but prosecuted the work
of discovery, colonization, civilization, and extermination,
with ten times more fury than ever.
Thus were the European worthies who first discovered
America clearly entitled to the soil; and not only entitled
to the soil, but likewise to the eternal thanks of these
infidel savages, for having come so far, endured so many
perils by sea and land, and taken such unwearied pains,
for no other purpose but to improve their forlorn, uncivilized,
and heathenish condition—for having made them
acquainted with the comforts of life—for having introduced
among them the light of religion; and finally, for
having hurried them out of the world, to enjoy its reward!
eaf222.n11[11] Bl. Com. b. ii. c. 1.
-- 142 -- p222-147
TOM STRADDLE.
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
Will's great crony for some time was Tom Straddle,
to whom he really took a great liking. Straddle had
just arrived in an importation of hardware, fresh from
the city of Birmingham, or rather as the most learned
English would call it Brummagen, so famous for its
manufactories of gimlets, pen-knives, and pepper-boxes,
and where they make buttons and beaux enough to inundate
our whole country. He was a young man of
considerable standing in the manufactory at Birmingham;
sometimes had the honour to hand his master's daughter
into a tim-whisky, was the oracle of the tavern he frequented
on Sundays, and could beat all his associates, if
you would take his word for it, in boxing, beer-drinking,
jumping over chairs, and imitating cats in a gutter,
and opera-singers. Straddle was, moreover, a member
of a catch-club, and was a great hand at ringing bob-majors;
he was, of course, a complete connoisseur in music,
and entitled to assume that character at all performances
in the art. He was likewise a member of a spouting-club;
had seen a company of strolling actors perform in
a barn, and had even, like Abel Drugger, “enacted” the
part of Major Sturgeon with considerable applause; he
was consequently a profound critic, and fully authorized
to turn up his nose at any American performances. He
had twice partaken of annual dinners, given to the head
manufacturers at Birmingham, where he had the good
fortune to get a taste of turtle and turbot, and a smack
of Champaign and Burgundy; and he had heard a vast
deal of the roast beef of Old England;—he was therefore
epicure sufficient to d—n every dish and every glass
of wine he tasted in America, though at the same time
he was as voracious an animal as ever crossed the Atlantic.
Straddle had been splashed half a dozen times by
the carriages of nobility, and had once the superlative
felicity of being kicked out of doors by the footman of a
noble duke; he could, therefore, talk of nobility, and despise
the untitled plebeians of America. In short, Straddle
was one of those dapper, bustling, florid, round, self-important
“gemmen,” who bounce upon us half-beau,
half-button-maker; undertake to give us the true polish
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of the bon-ton and endeavour to inspire us with a proper
and dignified contempt of our native country.
Straddle was quite in raptures when his employers
determined to send him to America as an agent. He
considered himself as going among a nation of barbarians,
where he could be received as a prodigy: he anticipated,
with a proud satisfaction, the bustle and confusion his
arrival would occasion; the crowd that would throng to
gaze at him as he passed through the streets; and had
little doubt but that he should excite as much curiosity
as an Indian chief or a Turk in the streets of Birmingham.
He had heard of the beauty of our women, and
chuckled at the thought of how completely he should
eclipse their unpolished beaux, and the number of despairing
lovers that would mourn the hour of his arrival.
I am even informed by Will Wizard, that he put good
store of beads, spike-nails, and looking-glasses in his
trunk, to win the affections of the fair ones as they paddled
about in their bark canoes. The reason Will gave
for this error of Straddle's respecting our ladies was, that
he had read in Guthrie's Geography that the aborigines
of America were all savages; and not exactly understanding
the word aborigines, he applied to one of his
fellow-apprentices, who assured him that it was the Latin
word for inhabitants.
Wizard used to tell another anecdote of Straddle,
which always put him in a passion:—Will swore that
the captain of the ship told him, that when Straddle
heard they were off the banks of Newfoundland, he insisted
upon going on shore there to gather some good cabbages,
of which he was excessively fond. Straddle,
however, denied all this, and declared it to be a mischievous
quiz of Will Wizard, who indeed often made himself
merry at his expense. However this may be, certain
it is he kept his tailor and shoemaker constantly employed
for a month before his departure; equipped himself
with a smart crooked stick about eighteen inches long,
a pair of breeches of most unheard-of length, a little short
pair of Hoby's white-topt boots, that seemed to stand
on tiptoe to reach his breeches, and his hat had the true
transatlantic declination towards his right ear. The fact
was—nor did he make any secret of it—he was determined
to astonish the natives a few!
Straddle was not a little disappointed on his arrival,
to find the Americans were rather more civilized than
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[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
he had imagined:—he was suffered to walk to his lodgings
unmolested by a crowd, and even unnoticed by a
single individual;—no love-letters came pouring in upon
him;—no rivals lay in wait to assassinate him;—his
very dress excited no attention, for there were many fools
dressed equally ridiculous with himself. This was mortifying
indeed to an aspiring youth, who had come out
with the idea of astonishing and captivating. He was
equally unfortunate in his pretentions to the character
of critic, connoisseur and boxer; he condemned our whole
dramatic corps, and every thing appertaining to the
theatre; but his critical abilities were ridiculed;—he
found fault with old Cockloft's dinner, not even sparing
his wine, and was never invited to the house afterwards;—
he scoured the streets at night and was cudgelled by a
sturdy watchman;—he hoaxed an honest mechanic, and
was soundly kicked. Thus disappointed in all his attempts
at notoriety, Straddle hit on the expedient which
was resorted to by the Giblets;—he determined to take
the town by storm. He accordingly bought horses and
equipages, and forthwith made a furious dash at style in
a gig and tandem.
As Straddle's finances were but limited, it may easily
be supposed that his fashionable career infringed a little
upon his consignments, which was indeed the case—for
to use a true cockney phrase, Brummagen suffered. But
this was a circumstance that made little impression upon
Straddle, who was now a lad of spirit—and lads of spirit
alway despise the sordid cares of keeping another man's
money. Suspecting this circumstance, I never could witness
any of his exhibitions of style without some whimsical
association of ideas. Did he give an entertainment
to a host of guzzling friends, I immediately fancied them
gormandizing heartily at the expense of poor Birmingham,
and swallowing a consignment of hand-saws and razors.
Did I behold him dashing through Broadway in his gig,
I saw him, “in my mind's eye,” driving tandem on a
nest of tea-boards; nor could I ever contemplate his
cockney exhibitions of horsemanship, but my mischievous
imagination would picture him spurring a cask of
hardware, like rosy Bacchus bestriding a beer-barrel, or
the little gentleman who be-straddles the world in the
front of Hutching's Almanack.
Straddle was equally successful with the Giblets, as
may well be supposed; for though pedestrian merit may
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strive in vain to become fashionable in Gotham, yet a
candidate in an equipage is always recognized, and like
Philip's ass, laden with gold will gain admittance every
where. Mounted in his curricle or his gig, the candidate
is like a statue elevated on a high pedestal; his merits
are discernable from afar, and strike the dullest optics.
Oh! Gotham, Gotham! most enlightened of cities! how
does my heart swell with delight when I behold your
sapient inhabitants lavishing their attention with such
wonderful discernment!
Thus Straddle became quite a man of ton, and was
caressed, and courted, and invited to dinners and balls.
Whatever was absurd or ridiculous in him before was
now declared to be the style. He criticized our theatre,
and was listened to with reverence. He pronounced our
musical entertainments barbarous; and the judgment of
Apollo himself would not have been more decisive. He
abused our dinners; and the god of eating, if there be
any such deity, seemed to speak through his organs. He
became at once a man of taste—for he put his malediction
on every thing; and his arguments were conclusive—
for he supported every assertion with a bet. He
was likewise pronounced by the learned in the fashionable
world a young man of great research and deep observation,—
for he had sent home, as natural curiosities,
an ear of Indian corn, a pair of moccasons, a belt of
wampum, and a four-leafed clover. He had taken great
pains to enrich this curious collection with an Indian, and
a cataract, but without success. In fine, the people talked
of Straddle and his equipage, and Straddle talked of his
horses, until it was impossible for the most critical observer
to pronounce whether Straddle or his horses were
most admired, or whether Straddle admired himself or his
horses most.
Straddle was now in the zenith of his glory. He
swaggered about parlours and drawing-rooms with the
same unceremonious confidence he used to display in the
taverns at Birmingham. He accosted a lady as he would
a bar-maid; and this was pronounced a certain proof
that he had been used to better company in Birmingham.
He became the great man of all the taverns between
New-York and Harlem; and no one stood a chance of
being accommodated until Straddle and his horses were
perfectly satisfied. He d—d the landlords and waiters,
with the best air in the world, and accosted them with
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gentlemanly familiarity. He staggered from the dinner-table
to the play, entered the box like a tempest, stayed
long enough to be bored to death, and to bore all those
who had the misfortune to be near him. From thence
he dashed off to a ball, time enough to flounder through
a cotilion, tear half a dozen gowns, commit a number of
other depredations, and make the whole company sensible
of his infinite condescension in coming amongst them.
The people of Gotham thought him a prodigious fine fellow;
the young bucks cultivated his acquaintance with
the most persevering assiduity, and his retainers were
sometimes complimented with a seat in his curricle, or a
ride on one of his fine horses. The belles were delighted
with the attentions of such a fashionable gentleman, and
struck with astonishment at his learned distinctions between
wrought scissors and those of cast steel: together
with his profound dissertations on buttons and horse-flesh.
The rich merchants courted his acquaintance because he
was an Englishman, and their wives treated him with
great deference because he had come from beyond seas.
I cannot help here observing that your saltwater is a
marvellous great sharpener of men's wits, and I intend to
recommend it to some of my acquaintance in a particular
essay.
Straddle continued his brilliant career for only a short
time. His prosperous journey over the turnpike of fashion
was checked by some of those stumbling-blocks in
the way of aspiring youth called creditors—or duns:—a
race of people who as a celebrated writer observes, “are
hated by the gods and men.” Consignments slackened,
whispers of distant suspicion floated in the dark, and
those pests of society the tailors and shoemakers, rose in
rebellion against Straddle. In vain were all his remonstrances;
in vain did he prove to them, that though he
had given them no money, yet he had given them more
custom, and as many promises as any young man in the
city. They were inflexible; and the signal of danger
being given, a host of other prosecutors pounced upon his
back. Straddle saw there was but one way for it: he
determined to do the thing genteely, to go to smash like
a hero, and dashed into the limits in high style; being
the fifteenth gentleman I have known to drive tandem
to the—ne plus ultra—the d—l.
Unfortunate Straddle! may thy fate be a warning to
all young gentlemen who come from Birmingham to
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astonish the natives!—I should never have taken the
trouble to delineate his character, had he not been a genuine
Cockney, and worthy to be the representative of his
numerous tribe. Perhaps my simple countrymen may
hereafter be able to distinguish between the real English
gentlemen and individuals of the cast I have heretofore
spoken of, as mere mongrels, springing at one
bound from contemptible obscurity at home to daylight
and splendour in this good-natured land. The true-born
and true-bred English gentleman is a character I hold in
great respect; and I love to look back to the period when
our forefathers flourished in the same generous soil, and
hailed each other as brothers. But the Cockney!—
when I contemplate him as springing too from the same
source, I feel ashamed of the relationship, and am tempted
to deny my origin.—In the character of Straddle is
traced the complete outline of a true Cockney of English
growth, and a descendant of that individual facetious
character mentioned by Shakespeare, “who in pure
kindness to his horse, buttered his hay.”
SLEEPY HOLLOW.
In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent
the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion
of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators
the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened
sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas
when they crossed, there lies a small market-town or
rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but
which is more generally and properly known by the name
of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in
former days, by the good house-wives of the adjacent
country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands
to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be
that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely
advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic.
Not far from this village, perhaps about three miles, there
is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills,
which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A
small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough
to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail,
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or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that
ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.
I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in
squirrel shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that
shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it
at noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and
was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the
sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated
by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a
retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its
distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a
troubled life, I know of none more promising than this
little valley.
From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from
the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long
been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its
rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout
all the neighbouring country. A drowsy, dreamy
influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the
very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched
by a high German doctor during the early days of the
settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet
or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before
the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson.
Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of
some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds
of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual
reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs;
are subject to trances and visions; and frequently
see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air.
The whole neighbourhood abounds with local tales,
haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and
meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other
part of the country, and the night-mare, with her whole
nine fold, seems to make it the favourite scene of her gambols.
The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of
all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on
horseback without a head. It is said by some to be
the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried
away by a cannon ball, in some nameless battle during
the revolutionary war; and who is ever and anon
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seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of
night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are
not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent
roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church
that is at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most
authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful
in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning
this spectre, allege that, the body of the trooper having
been burried in the church-yard, the ghost rides forth to
the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; and that
the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along
the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being
belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard
before day-break.
Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition,
which has furnished materials for many a wild story
in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known, at
all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless
Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.
It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have
mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of
the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one
who resides there for a time. However wide awake they
may have been before they entered that sleepy region,
they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence
of the air, and begin to grow imaginative—to
dream dreams, and see apparitions.
I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for
it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and
there, embosomed in the great state of New York, that population,
manners, and customs, remain fixed; while the
great torrent of migration and improvement, which is
making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless
country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like
those little nooks of still water which border a rapid
stream; where we may see the straw and bubble riding
quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbour,
undisturbed by the rush of the passing current.
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy
shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should
not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating
in its sheltered bosom.
ICHABOD CRANE.
In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote
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period of American history, that is to say, some thirty
years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod
Crane; who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried,”
in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children
of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut:
a state which supplies the Union with pioneers for the
mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its
legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters.
The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person.
He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow
shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile
out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels,
and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His
head was small and flat at top, with huge ears, large
green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked
like a weathercock, perched upon his spindle neck, to tell
which way the wind blew. To see him striding along
the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging
and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken
him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth,
or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.
His school-room was a low building of one large room,
rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed,
and partly patched with leaves of old copy books. It
was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe
twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against
the window shutters; so that though a thief might get
in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment
in getting out; an idea most probably borrowed by the
architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot.
The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant
situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a
brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree growing
at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of
his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be
heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive;
interrupted now and then by the authoritative
voice of the master, in a tone of menace or command;
or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as
he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of
knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man,
that ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare the
rod and spoil the child.”—Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly
were not spoiled.
I would not have it imagined, however, that he was
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one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the
smart of their subjects; on the contrary he administered
justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking
the burthen off the backs of the weak, and laying it on
those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that
winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with
indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied, by
inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed,
broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who skulked and
swelled, and grew dogged, and sullen beneath the birch.
All this he called “doing his duty by their parents;”
and he never inflicted a chastisement, without following
it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin,
that “he would remember it and thank him for it the
longest day he had to live.”
When school hours were over, he was even the companion
and playmate of the larger boys; and on holyday
afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home,
who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives
for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed
it behoved him to keep on good terms with his pupils.
The revenue arising from his school was small,
and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish
him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and
though lank, had the dilating powers of an Anaconda;
but to help out his maintainance, he was, according to
country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the
houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed.
With these he lived successively a week at a time; thus
going the rounds of the neighbourhood, with all his
worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.
That all this might not be too onerous on the purses
of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs
of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters, as mere
drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful
and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in
the lighter labours of their farms; helped to make hay;
mended the fences; took the horses to water; drove the
cows from pasture; and cut wood for the winter fire.
He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute
sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the
school, and become wonderfully gentle and ingratiating.
He found favour in the eyes of the mothers, by petting
the children, particularly the youngest; and like the
lion bold, which whilome so magnanimously the lamb
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did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee and
rock a cradle for whole hours together.
In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master
of the neighbourhood, and picked up many bright
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody.
It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays,
to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a
band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely
carried away the palm from the parson. Certain
it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the
congregation; and there are peculiar quivers still to be
heard in that church, and may still be heard half-a-mile
off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still
Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended
from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers
little makeshifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly
denominated “by hook and by crook,” the worthy
pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by
all who understood nothing of the labour of headwork, to
have a wonderful easy life of it.
SUPERSTITION.
But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions
that succeeded. The neighbourhood is rich in
legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions
thrive best in these sheltered long settled retreats;
but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that
forms the population of most of our country places. Besides
there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our
villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their
first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their
surviving friends have travelled away from the neighbourhood;
so that when they turn out at night to walk their
rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This
is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except
in our long established Dutch communities.
The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of
supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing
to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion
in the very air that blew from that haunted region;
it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies
infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people
were present at Van Tassal's, and, as usual, were doling
out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal
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tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries
and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the
unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in
the neighbourhood. Some mention was made also of the
woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven
Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before
a storm, having perished there in the snow. The
chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favourite
spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman,
who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the
country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly
among the graves in the churchyard.
The sequestered situation of this church seems always
to have made it a favoured haunt of troubled spirits. It
stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust trees and lofty
elms, from among which, its decent whitewashed walls
shine modestly forth, like Christian purity, beaming
through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends
from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by
high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the
blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass grown
yard, there the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one
would think that there at least the dead might rest in
peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody
dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks
and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of
the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown
a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge
itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which
cast a gloom about it, even in the day-time; but occasioned
a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the
favourite haunts of the headless horseman, and the place
where he was most frequently encountered. The tale
was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in
ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his foray
into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind
him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill
and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the
horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old
Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree
tops with a clap of thunder.
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THE BROKEN HEART.
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It is a common practice with those who have outlived
the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought
up in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at
all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion
as mere fictions of novelists and poets. My observations
on human nature have induced me to think otherwise.
They have convinced me, that however the surface of the
character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the
world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society,
still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of
the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become
impetuous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects.
Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to
the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it!—I
believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of
disappointed love. I do not, however, consider it a malady
often fatal to my own sex; but I firmly believe
that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early
grave.
Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature
leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the
world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life,
or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for
fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion
over his fellow men. But a woman's whole life
is a history of the affections. The heart is her world: it is
there her ambition strives for empires; it is there her
avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her
sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in
the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless—
for it is a bankruptcy of the heart.
To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some
bitter pangs: it wounds some feelings of tenderness—it
blasts some prospects of felicity; but he is an active being—
he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation,
or may plunge into the tide of pleasure; or, if the
scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations,
he can shift his abode at will, and taking as it were the
wings of the morning, can “fly to the uttermost parts of
the earth, and be at rest.”
But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a
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meditative life. She is more the companion of her own
thoughts and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers
of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot
is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her
heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and
sacked, and abandoned and left desolate.
How many bright eyes grow dim—how many soft
cheeks grow pale—how many lovely forms fade away into
the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their
loveliness! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side,
and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on
its vitals, so it is the nature of woman to hide from the
world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a
delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when
fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when
otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and
there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace.
With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great
charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the
cheerful excercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the
pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents
through the veins. Her rest is broken—the sweet refreshment
of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams—
“dry sorrow drinks her blood,” until her enfeebled frame
sinks under the slightest external injury. Look for her,
after a little while, and you will find friendship weeping
over her untimely grave, and wondering that one who
but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and
beauty, should so speedily be brought down to “darkness
and the worm.” You will be told of some wintry
chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her low;—but
no one knows of the mental malady that previously sapped
her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the
spoiler.
She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of
the grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but
with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly
withering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant.
We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and
shedding leaf by leaf; until, wasted and perished away,
it falls even in the stillness of the forest; and, as we muse
over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the
blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay.
I have seen many instances of women running to waste
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and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the
earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven; and
have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death
through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility,
languor, melancholy, until I reached the first sympton
of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind
was lately told to me; the circumstances are well known
in the country where they happened, and I shall but give
them in the manner as they were related.
Every one must recollect the tragical story of young
E—, the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon
forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried,
condemned, and executed on a charge of treason. His
fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He
was so young—so intelligent—so generous—so brave—so
every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His
conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The
noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of
treason against his country—the eloquent vindication of
his name—and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the
hopeless hour of condemnation—all these entered deeply
into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented
the stern policy that dictated his execution.[12]
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But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be
impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes,
he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting
girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister.
She loved him with the disinterested fervour of a woman's
first and early love. When every worldly maxim
arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and
disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved
him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If,
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then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his
foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whole
soul was occupied by his image! Let those tell who have
had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them
and the being they most loved on earth—who have sat
at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely
world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving
had departed.
But then the horrors of such a grave! so frightful, so
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dishonoured! There was nothing for memory to dwell
on that could sooth the pang of separation—none of
those tender, though melancholy circumstances, that endear
the parting scene—nothing to melt sorrow into
those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive
the heart in the parting hour of anguish.
To render her widowed situation more desolate, she
had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate
attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof.
But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have
reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she
would have experienced no want of consolation, for the
Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities.
The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her
by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into
society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and
amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the
tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain.
There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch
the soul—that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness—
and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom.
She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure,
but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude.
She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious
of the world around her. She carried with
her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments
of friendship, and “heeded not the song of the charmer,
charm he never so wisely.”
The person who told me her story had seen her at a
masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone
wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it
in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre,
lonely and joyless, where all around is gay—to see it
dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan
and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the
poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow.
After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy
crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself
down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for
some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility
to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness
of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air.
She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was
so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of
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wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around
her, and melted every one into tears.
The story of one so true and so tender could not but excite
great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm.
It completely won the heart of a brave officer,
who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so
true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the
living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts
were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former
lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited
not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by
her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own
destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing
on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded
in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance,
that her heart was unalterably another's.
He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change
of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes.
She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort
to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent
and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very
soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline,
and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a
broken heart.[13]
eaf222.n12[12] This ill-starred youth was the son of Dr. Emmet, a gentleman
of fortune and family, whose mind was deeply imbued with republican
principles, which he was but too successful in impressing upon
his children. His eldest son, Thomas Addis Emmit, being a suspected
character, in 1798 he accepted the terms offered by Government,
and retired to France, from thence he proceeded to New-York,
where he held the first place at the bar of that city, highly respected
as a lawyer and esteemed as a man. Robert, the person alluded to
by our author, either possessing more enthusiasm or less prudence
than his brother, became involved in a series of insurrections, which
at last attracted the attention of Government, and the unfortunate
man was arrested while he lingered in his flight, in expectation of
a last meeting with the lady to whom he was engaged. This amiable
female, whose hard fate is described with so much pathos by our
author, was the daughter of the celebrated John Philpot Curran.
The following address was delivered by Emmet on his trial.
`I am asked if I have any thing to say why sentence of death
should not be pronounced upon me. Was I to suffer only death, after
being adjudged guilty, I should bow in silence; but a man in my
situation has not only to combat with the difficulties of fortune, but
also the difficulties of prejudice: the sentence of the law which delivers
over his body to the executioner consigns his character to obloquy.
The man dies, but his memory lives; and that mine may
not forfeit all claim to the respect of my countrymen, I use this occasion
to vindicate myself from some of the charges advanced against
me.
`I am charged with being an emissary of France—'tis false! I am
no emissary—I did not wish to deliver up my country to a foreign
power, and least of all, to France. No! never did I entertain the
idea of establishing French power in Ireland—God forbid. On the
contrary, it is evident from the introductory paragraph of the address
of the Provisional Government, that every hazard attending an independent
effort was deemed preferable to the more fatal risk of introducing
a French army into the country. Small would be our claims
to patriotism and to sense, and palpable our affectation of the love
of liberty, if we were to encourage the profanation of our shores by
a people who are slaves themselves, and the unprincipled and abandoned
instruments of imposing slavery on others.
`If such an inference be drawn from any part of the proclamation
of the Provisional Government, it calumniates their views, and is
not warranted by the fact. How could they speak of freedom to
their countrymen? How assume such an exalted motive, and meditate
the introduction of a power which has been the enemy of freedom
in every part of the globe? Reviewing the conduct of France
to other countries, could we expect better towards us? No! Let
not, then, any man attaint my memory by believing that I could
have hoped for freedom through the aid of France, and betrayed
the sacred cause of liberty by committing it to the power of her most
determined foe: had I done so, I had not deserved to live; and dying
with such a weight upon my character, I had merited the honest
execrations of that country which gave me birth, and to which
I would have given freedom.
`Had I been in Switzerland. I would have fought against the
French—in the dignity of freedom, I would have expired on the
threshold of that country, and they should have entered it only by
passing over my lifeless corpse. Is it then to be supposed that I
would be slow to make the same sacrifice to my native land? Am
I, who lived but to be of service to my country, and who would
subject myself to the bondage of the grave to give her independence—
am I to be loaded with the foul and grievous calumny of being an
emissary of France?
`My lords, it may be part of the system of angry justice, to bow a
man's mind, by humiliation to meet the ignominy of the scaffold;
but worse to me than the scaffold's shame, or the scaffold's terrors,
would be the imputation of having been the agent of French despotism
and ambition; and while I have breath, I will call upon my
countrymen not to believe me guilty of so foul a crime against their
liberties and their happiness.
`Though you, my lord, sit there a judge, and I stand here a culprit,
yet you are but a man and I am another. I have a right therefore
to vindicate my character and motives from the aspersions of
calumny; and, as a man, to whom fame is dearer than life, I will
make the last use of that life in rescuing my name and my memory
from the afflicting imputation of having been an emissary of France,
or seeking her interference in the internal regulation of our affairs.
`Did I live to see a French army approach this country, I would
meet it on the shore, with a torch in one hand and a sword in the
other; I would receive them with all the destruction of war! I
would animate my countrymen to immolate them in their very
boats; and before our native soil should be polluted by a foreign
foe, if they succeeded in landing, I would burn every blade of grass
before them, raze every house, contend to the last for every inch of
ground; and the last spot on which the hope of freedom should desert
me, that spot I would make my grave! What I cannot do, I
leave a legacy to my country because I feel conscious that my death
were unprofitable, and all hopes of liberty extinct, the moment a
French army obtained a footing in this land. God forbid that I
should see my country under the hands of a foreign power. If the
French should come as a foreign enemy. Oh! my countrymen! meet
them on the shore with a torch in one hand and a sword in the
other: receive them with all the destruction of war; immolate them
in their boats, before our native soil shall be polluted by a foreign
foe! If they succeed in landing, fight them on the strand, burn
every blade of grass before them as they advance—raze every
house; and if you are driven to the centre of your country, collect
your provisions, your property, your wives and your daughters;
form a circle around them—fight while but two men are left; and
when but one remains, let that man set fire to the pile, and release
himself, and the families of his fallen countrymen, from the
tyranny of France.
`My lamp of life is nearly expired—my race is finished: the grave
opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom All I request then,
at parting from the world, is the charity of its silence. Let no man
write my epitaph, for as no man, who knows my motives, dare vindicate
them let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them: let them
and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed,
till other times and other men can do justice to my character.'
eaf222.n13[13] It was on her, says our Author, that Moore, the distinguished
Irish Poet, composed the following lines:
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps.
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking—
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!
He had lived for his love—for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him—
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him!
Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the west,
From her own lov'd island of sorrow!
-- 161 -- p222-166
A WRECK AT SEA.
[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a
distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony
of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved
to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely
wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs,
by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to
this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves.
There was no trace by which the name of the ship could
be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about
for many months; clusters of shell fish had fastened about
it, and long sea weeds flaunted at its sides. But where,
thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been
over—they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest—
their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the
deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over
them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What
sighs have been wafted after that ship! what prayers offered
up at the deserted fireside of home! How often has
the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily
news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the
deep! How has expectation darkened into anxiety—
anxiety into dread—and dread into despair! Alas! not
one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All
that shall ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port,
“and was never heard of more!”
The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many
dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the
evening, when the weather which had hitherto been fair,
began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of
one of those sudden storms that will sometimes break in
upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round
the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom
more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck and
disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related
by the captain.
“As I was sailing,” said he, “in a fine stout ship,
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy
fogs that prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for
us to see far ahead even in the day-time; but at night
the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish
any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights
at the mast head, and a constant watch forward to look
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out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor
on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking
breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the
water. Suddenly the watch gave the thrilling alarm of
`a sail-a-head!'—it was scarcely uttered before we were
upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with
her broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and
had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just a-midships.
The force, the size, and weight of our vessel bore
her down below the waves; we passed over her and were
hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking
beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half naked
wretches rushing from her cabin; they just started
from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves.
I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind.
The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all further
hearing. I shall never forget that cry! it was
some time before we could put the ship about, she was
under such head-way. We returned, as nearly as we
could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored.
We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog.
We fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear the
halloo of any survivors: but all was silent—we never
saw or heard any thing of them more.”
LAND.
It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of
“land!” was given from the mast head. None but
those who have experienced it, can form an idea of the
delicious throng of sensations which rush into an American's
bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe.
There is a volume of associations with the very name.
It is the land of promise, teeming with every thing of
which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious
years have pondered.
From that time until the moment of arrival, it was
all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled
like guardian giants along the coast; the headlands of
Ireland, stretching out into the channel; the Welsh mountains,
towering into the clouds; all were objects of intense
interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred
the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight
on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green
grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey
-- 163 -- p222-168
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overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church
rising from the brow of a neighbouring hill—all were
characteristic of England.
The tide and wind were so favourable, that the ship
was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged
with people; some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants
of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant
to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by
his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were
thrust into his pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully,
and walking to and fro, a small space having been
accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary
importance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations
interchanged between the shore and ship, as friends
happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed
one young woman of humble dress, but interesting demeanour.
She was leaning forward from among the
crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the
shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed
disappointed and agitated; when I heard a faint voice
call her name.—It was from a poor sailor, who had been
ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every
one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates
had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade,
but of late his illness had so increased, that he had taken
to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might
see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck
as we came up the river, and was now leaning against
the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so
ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection
did not recognize him. But at the sound of his
voice, her eye darted on his features; it read, at once, a
whole volume of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered
a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony.
GENIUS.
It is interesting to notice how some minds seem almost
to create themselves, springing up under every disadvantage,
and working their solitary but irresistible way
through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight
in diappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would
rear legitimate dullness to maturity; and to glory in the
-- 164 -- p222-169
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vigour and luxuriance of her chance productions. She
scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though
some may perish among the stony places of the world, and
some be choaked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity,
yet others will now and then strike root even in
the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine,
and spread over their sterile birth-place all the beauties of
vegetation.
A CONTRAST.
I was yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice
the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual,
that there was the least pretension where there was the
most acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly
struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman of
high rank, consisting of several sons and daughters.
Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their
appearance. They generally came to church in the plainest
equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would
stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry,
caress the children, and listen to the stories of the
humble cottagers. Their countenances were open and
beautifully fair with an expression of high refinement,
but, at the same time, a frank cheerfulness, and an engaging
affability. Their brothers were tall and elegantly
formed. They were dressed fashionably, but simply;
with strict neatness and propriety, but without any mannerism
or foppishness. Their whole demeanour was easy
and natural, with that lofty grace, and noble frankness,
which bespeak free-born souls that have never been checked
in their growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a
healthful hardiness about real dignity, that never dreads
contact and communication with others, however humble,
It is only spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive, and
shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see the manner
in which they would converse with the peasantry
about those rural concerns and field-sports, in which the
gentlemen of this country so much delight. In these
conversations, there was neither haughtiness on the one
part, nor servility on the other; and you were only reminded
of the difference of rank by the habitual respect of the
peasant.
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In contrast to these, was the family of a wealthy citizen
who had amassed a vast fortune; and, having purchased
the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in
the neighbourhood, was endeavouring to assume all the
style and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The
family always come to church en prince. They were
rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned with
arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every
part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed.
A fat coachman in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and
a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated
on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen,
in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed
canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk
on its long springs with peculiar stateliness of motion.
The very horses champed their bits, arched their necks,
and glanced their eyes more proudly than common horses;
either because they had got a little of the family feeling,
or were reined up more tightly than ordinary.
I could not but admire the style with which this splendid
pageant was brought up to the gate of the church-yard.
There was a vast effect produced at the turning
of an angle of the wall;—a great smacking of the whip;
straining and scrambling of the horses; glistening of harness,
and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was
the moment of triumph and vainglory to the coachman.
The horses were urged and checked until they were fretted
into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing
trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of
villagers, sauntering quietly to church, opened precipitately
to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On
reaching the gate the horses were pulled up with a suddenness
that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw
them on their haunches.
There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to
alight, open the door, pull down the steps, and prepare
every thing for the descent on earth of this august family.
The old citizen first emerged his round red face from out
the door, looking about him with the pompous air of a man
accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market
with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable
dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but
little pride in her composition. She was the picture of a
broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well
with her; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes,
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a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, every thing was
fine about her: it was nothing but driving about, and visiting
and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel; it
was one long Lord Mayor's day.
Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They
certainly were handsome; but had a supercilious air, that
chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical.
They were ultra-fashionable in dress; and, though no one
could deny the richness of their decorations, yet their appropriateness
might be questioned amidst the simplicity of
a country church. They descended loftily from the carriage,
and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that
seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive
glance around, that passed coldly over the burly faces
of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman's
family, when their countenances immediately brightened
into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant
courtesies; which were returned in a manner that showed
they were but slight acquaintances.
I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen,
who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders.
They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all
that pedantry of dress which marks the man of questionable
pretensions to style. They kept entirely by themselves,
eyeing every one askance that came near them, as if measuring
his claims to respectability; yet they were without
conversation, except the exchange of an occasional cant
phrase. They even moved artificially; for their bodies, in
compliance with the caprice of the day, had been disciplined
into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had done
every thing to accomplish them as men of fashion, but nature
had denied them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly
shaped, like men formed for the common purposes of
life, and had that air of supercilious assumption which is
never seen in the true gentleman.
I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of
these two families, because I considered them specimens of
what is often to be met with in this country—the unpretending
great, and the arrogant little. I have no respect
for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true nobility
of soul; but I have remarked in all countries where artificial
distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are always
the most courteous and unassuming. Those who
are well assured of their own standing, are least apt to trespass
on that of others; whereas, nothing is so offensive as
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[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by
humiliating its neighbour.
As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice
their behaviour in church. That of the nobleman's
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared
to have any fervour of devotion, but rather a respect
for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good
breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual
flutter and whisper; they betrayed a continual consciousness
of finery, and a sorry ambition of being the wonders
of a rural congregation.
The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to
the service. He took the whole burden of family devotion
upon himself, standing bolt upright and uttering the responses
with a loud voice that might be heard all over the
church. It was evident that he was one of those thorough
church and king men, who connect the idea of devotion and
loyalty; who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the
government party, and religion “a very excellent sort of
thing, that ought to be countenanced and kept up.”
When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more
by way of example to the lower orders, to show them, that,
though so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious;
as I have seen a turtle-fed Alderman swallow publicly
a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at every
mouthful, and pronouncing it “excellent food for the poor.”
When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness
the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen
and their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling
home across the fields, chatting with the country people as
they went. The others departed as they came, in grand
parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the
gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clattering
of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The horses
started off almost at a bound; the villagers again hurried
to right and left; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust;
and the aspiring family was wrapt out of sight in a whirlwind.
-- 168 -- p222-173
LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN,
To Asem Hacchem, principal Slave-driver to his Highness
the Bashaw of Tripoli.
[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
Sweet, O Asem! is the memory of distant friends!
Like the mellow ray of a departing sun, it falls tenderly
yet sadly on the heart. Every hour of absence from my
native land rolls heavily by, like the sandy wave of the desert;
and the fair shores of my country rise blooming to
my imagination, clothed in the soft illusive charms of distance.
I sigh, yet no one listens to the sigh of the captive:
I shed the bitter tear of recollection, but no one sympathises
in the tear of the turbaned stranger!—Think not, however,
thou brother of my soul, that I complain of the horrors of
my situation; think not that my captivity is attended with
the labours, the chains, the scourges, the insults, that render
slavery, with us, more dreadful than the pangs of hesitating,
lingering death. Light, indeed, are the restraints
on the personal freedom of thy kinsman; but who can enter
into the afflictions of the mind? who can describe the agonies
of the heart? They are mutable as the clouds of the
air; they are countless as the waves that divide me from
my native country.
I have, of late, my dear Asem, laboured under an inconvenience
singularly unfortunate, and am reduced to a dilemma
most ridiculously embarrassing. Why should I
hide it from the companion of my thoughts, the partner of
my sorrows and my joys? Alas! Asem, thy friend Mustapha,
the invincible captain of a ketch, is sadly in want of
a pair of breeches! Thou wilt, doubtless smile, O most
grave Mussulman, to hear me indulge in such ardent lamentations
about a circumstance so trivial, and a want apparently
so easy to be satisfied: but little canst thou know
of the mortifications attending my necessities, and the astonishing
difficulty of supplying them. Honoured by the
smiles and attentions of the beautiful ladies of this city,
who have fallen in love with my whiskers and my turban;—
courted by the bashaws and the great men, who delight to
have me at their feasts; the honour of my company eagerly
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solicited by every fiddler who gives a concert; think of my
chagrin at being obliged to decline the host of invitations
that daily overwhelm me, merely for want of a pair of
breeches! Oh, Allah! Allah! that thy disciples could
come into the world all be-feathered like a bantam, or with a
pair of leather breeches like the wild deer of the forest;
surely, my friend, it is the destiny of man to be for ever
subjected to petty evils, which, however trifling in appearance,
prey in silence on this little pittance of enjoyment,
and poison these moments of sunshine, which might
otherwise be consecrated to happiness.
The want of a garment, thou wilt say, is easily supplied;
and thou mayest suppose need only be mentioned,
to be remedied at once by any tailor of the land. Little
canst thou conceive the impediments which stand in the
way of my comfort, and still less art thou acquainted
with the prodigious great scale on which every thing is
transacted in this country. The nation moves most majestically
slow and clumsy in the most trivial affairs, like
the unwieldy elephant which makes a formidable difficulty
of picking up a straw! When I hinted my necessities
to the officer who has charge of myself and my companions,
I expected to have been forthwith relieved; but he
made an amazingly long face—told me that we were
prisoners of state—that we must therefore be clothed at
the expense of the government; that as no provision has
been made by the Congress for an emergency of the kind,
it was impossible to furnish me with a pair of breeches,
until all the sages of the nation had been convened to talk
over the matter, and debate upon the expediency of granting
my request. Sword of the immortal Khalid, thought
I, but this is great!—this is truly sublime! All the sages
in an immense logocracy assembled together to talk
about my breeches!—Vain mortal that I am! I cannot
but own I was somewhat reconciled to the delay which
must necessarily attend this method of clothing me, by
the consideration that if they made the affair a national
act, my “name must of course be embodied in history,”
and myself and my breeches flourish to immortality in the
annals of this mighty empire!
“But pray, sir,” said I, “how does it happen that a
matter so insignificant should be erected into an object of
such importance as to employ the representative wisdom
of the nation? and what is the cause of their talking so
much about a trifle!”—“Oh,” replied the officer, who
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acts as our slave-driver; “it all proceeds from economy.
If the government did not spend ten times as much money
in debating whether it was proper to supply you with
breeches as the breeches themselves would cost, the people,
who govern the bashaw and his divan, would
straightway begin to complain of their liberties being infringed—
the national finances squandered—not a hostile
slang-whanger throughout the logocracy but would
burst forth like a barrel of combustion—and ten chances
to one but the bashaw and the sages of his divan would
all be turned out of office together. My good Mussulman,”
continued he, “the administration have the good
of the people too much at heart to trifle with their pockets;
and they would sooner assemble and talk away ten thousand
dollars than expend fifty silently out of the treasury—
such is the wonderful spirit of economy that pervades
every branch of this government.” “But,” said I, “how
is it possible they can spend money in talking: surely
words cannot be the current coin of this country?”—
“Truly,” cried he, smiling, “your question is pertinent
enough, for words indeed often supply the place of cash
among us, and many an honest debt is paid in promises;
but the fact is, the grand bashaw and the members of
Congress, or grand talkers of the nation, either receive a
yearly salary or are paid by the day.”—“By the nine
hundred tongues of the great beast in Mahomet's vision,
but the murder is out! it is no wonder these honest men
talk so much about nothing, when they are paid for
talking like day-labourers.” “You are mistaken,” said
my driver; “it is nothing but economy.”
I remained silent for some minutes, for this inexplicable
word economy always discomfits me;—and when
I flatter myself I have grasped it, it slips through my
fingers like a jack-o'lantern. I have not, nor perhaps
ever shall acquire, sufficient of the philosophic policy of
this government, to draw a proper distinction between an
individual and a nation. If a man was to throw away
a pound in order to save a beggarly penny, and boast at
the same time of his economy, I should think him on a
par with the fool in the fable of Alfangi; who, in skinning
a flint worth a farthing, spoiled a knife worth fifty
times the sum, and thought he had acted wisely. The
shrewd fellow would doubtless have valued himself much
more highly on his economy, could he have known that
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his example would one day be followed by the bashaw
of America, and the sages of his divan.
This economic disposition, my friend, occasions much
fighting of the spirit, and innumerable contests of the
tongue in this talking assembly. Wouldst thou believe
it? they were actually employed for a whole week in a
most strenuous and eloquent debate about patching up a
hole in the wall in the room appropriated to their meetings!
A vast profusion of nervous argument and pompous
declamation was expended on this occasion. Some
of the orators, I am told, being rather waggishly inclined
were most stupidly jocular on the occasion; but their
waggery gave great offence, and was highly reprobated
by the more weighty part of the assembly; who hold all
wit and humour in abomination, and thought the business
in hand much too solemn and serious to be treated
lightly. It was supposed by some that this affair would
have occupied a whole winter, as it was a subject upon
which several gentlemen spoke who had never been
known to open their lips in that place except to say yes
and no.—These silent members are by way of distinction
denominated orator mums, and are highly valued in this
country on account of their great talents for silence;—
a qualification extremely rare in a logocracy.
Fortunately for the public tranquility, in the hottest
part of the debate, when two rampant Virginians, brim
full of logic and philosophy, were measuring tongues,
and syllogistically cudgelling each other out of their unreasonable
notions, the president of the divan, a knowing
old gentleman, one night slyly sent a mason with a hod
of mortar, who in the course of a few minutes closed up
the hole, and put a final end to the argument. Thus
did this wise old gentleman, by hitting on a most simple
expedient, in all probability, save his country as much
money as would build a gun-boat, or pay a hireling slang-whanger
for a whole volume of words. As it happened,
only a few thousand dollars were expended in paying
these men, who are denominated, I suppose in derision,
legislators.
Another instance of their economy I relate with pleasure,
for I really begin to feel a regard for these poor
barbarians. They talked away the best parts of a whole
winter before they could determine not to expend a few
dollars in purchasing a sword to bestow on an illustrious
warrior: yes, Asem, on that very hero who frightened
all our poor old women and young children at
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Derne, and fully proved himself a greater man than the
mother that bore him.[14] Thus, my friend, is the whole
collective wisdom of this mighty logocracy employed in
somniferous debates about the most trivial affairs; as I
have sometimes seen a Herculean mountebank exerting
all his energies in balancing a straw upon his nose.
Their sages behold the minutest object with the microscopic
eyes of a pismire; mole-hills swell into mountains,
and a grain of mustard-seed will set the whole ant-hill
in a hubbub. Whether this indicates a capacious vision,
or a diminutive mind, I leave thee to decide; for my
part I consider it as another proof of the great scale on
which every thing is transacted in their country.
I have before told thee that nothing can be done without
consulting the sages of the nation, who compose the
assembly called the Congress. This prolific body may
not improperly be called the “mother of inventions;” and
a most fruitful mother it is, let me tell thee, though its
children are generally abortions. It has lately laboured
with what was deemed the conception of a mighty navy.—
All the old women and the good wives that assist the
bashaw in his emergencies hurried to head-quarters to be
busy, like midwives, at the delivery.—All was anxiety,
fidgeting, and consultation; when after a deal of groaning
and struggling, instead of formidable first-rates and
gallant frigates, out crept a litter of sorry little gun-boats.
These are most pitiful little vessels, partaking vastly of
the character of the grand bashaw, who has the credit
of begetting them; being flat shallow vessels that can only
sail before the wind;—must always keep in with the
land;—are continually foundering or running on shore;
and in short, are only fit for smooth water. Though intended
for the defence of the maritime cities, yet the cities
are obliged to defend them; and they require as much
nursing as so many rickety little bantlings. They are,
however, the darling pets of the grand bashaw, being the
children of his dotage, and, perhaps from their diminutive
size and palpable weakness, are called the “infant
navy of America.” The art that brought them into existence
was almost deified by the majority of the people
as a grand stroke of economy.—By the beard of Mahomet,
but this word is truly inexplicable!
To this economic body therefore was I advised to address
my petition, and humbly to pray that the august
-- 173 -- p222-178
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assembly of sages would, in the plenitude of their wisdom
and the magnitude of their powers, munificently bestow
on an unfortunate captive a pair of cotton breeches!
“Head of the immortal Amrou,” cried I, “but this
would be presumptuous to a degree:—What! after these
worthies have thought proper to leave their country naked
and defenceless, and exposed to all the political storms
that rattle without, can I expect that they will lend a
helping hand to comfort the extremities of a solitary captive?”
My exclamation was only answered by a smile,
and I was consoled by the assurance that, so far from
being neglected, it was every way probable my breeches
might occupy a whole session of the divan, and set several
of the longest heads together by the ears. Flattering as
was the idea of a whole nation being agitated about my
breeches, yet I own I was somewhat dismayed at the idea
of remaining in querpo, until all the national gray-beards
should have made a speech on the occasion, and given
their consent to the measure. The embarrassment and
distress of mind which I experienced were visible in my
countenance, and my guard, who is a man of infinite
good-nature, immediately suggested, as a more expeditious
plan of supplying my wants, a benefit at the theatre.
Though profoundly ignorant of his meaning, I agreed to
his proposition, the result of which I shall disclose to thee
in another letter.
Fare thee well, dear Asem; in thy pious prayers to
our great prophet, never forget to solicit thy friend's return;
and when thou numberest up the many blessings
bestowed on thee by all-bountiful Allah, pour forth thy
gratitude that he has cast thy nativity in a land where
there is no assembly of legislative chatterers;—no great
bashaw, who bestrides a gun-boat for a hobby-horse;—
where the word economy is unknown;—and where an
unfortunate captive is not obliged to call upon the whole
nation to cut him out a pair of breeches.
eaf222.n14[14] General Eaton.
A warlike Portrait of the great Peter—and how General Von Poffenburgh distinguished himself at Fort Cassimir.
Hitherto, most venerable and courteous reader, have
I shown thee the administration of the valorous Stuyvesant
under the mild moonshine of peace, or rather the
grim tranquility of awful expectation; but now the
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war-drum rumbles from afar, the brazen trumpet brays its
thrilling note, and the rude clash of hostile arms speaks
fearful prophecies of coming troubles. The gallant warrior
starts from soft repose, from golden visions, and voluptuous
ease; where, in the dulcet “piping time of peace,”
he sought sweet solace after all his toils. No more in beauty's
siren lap reclined, he weaves fair garlands for his lady's
brows; no more entwines with flowers his shining
sword; nor through the live long lazy summer's day, chants
forth his lovesick soul in madrigals. To manhood roused,
he spurns the amorous lute; doffs from his brawny back
the robe of peace, and clothes his pampered limbs in panoply
of steel. O'er his dark brow, where late the myrtle
waved—where wanton roses breathed enervate love—he
rears the beaming casque and nodding plume; grasps the
bright shield, and shakes the ponderous lance; or mounts
with eager pride the fiery steed, and burns for deeds of glorious
chivalry.
But soft, worthy reader! I would not have you imagine,
that any preux chevalier, thus hideously begirt with
iron, existed in the city of New-Amsterdam. This is but
a lofty and gigantic mode in which heroic writers always
talk of war, thereby to give it a noble and imposing aspect;
equipping our warriors with bucklers, helmets, and
lances, and such like outlandish and obsolete weapons,
the like which perchance they had never seen or heard
of; in the same manner that a cunning statuary arrays a
modern general or an admiral in the accoutrements of a
Cæsar or an Alexander. The simple truth then of all
this oratorical flourish is this—that the valiant Peter
Stuyvesant, all of a sudden, found it necessary to scour
his trusty blade, which too long had rusted in its scabbard,
and prepare himself to undergo the hardy toils of
war, in which his mighty soul so much delighted.
Methinks I at this moment behold him in my imagition—
or rather, I behold his goodly portrait, which still
hangs up in the family mansion of the Stuyvesants, arrayed
in all the terrors of a true Dutch General. His
regimental coat of German blue, gorgeously decorated
with a goodly show of large brass buttons, reaching from
his waistband to his chin. The voluminous skirts turned
up at the corners and separating gallantly behind, so as
to display the seat of a sumptuous pair of brimstone
coloured trunk breeches—a graceful style still prevalent
among the warriors of our day, and which is in
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conformity to the custom of ancient heroes, who scorned to defend
themselves in rear. His face rendered exceeding
terrible and warlike by a pair of black mustachios; his
hair strutting out on each side in stiffly pomatumed ear-locks,
and descending in a rat-tail queue below his waist;
a shining stock of black leather supporting his chin, and a
little, but fierce cocked hat, stuck with a gallant and fiery
air over his left eye. Such was the chivalric port of
Peter the Headstrong; and when he made a sudden halt,
planted himself firmly on his solid supporter, with his
wooden leg inlaid with silver, a little in advance, in order
to strengthen his position, his right hand grasping a gold-headed
cane, his left resting upon the pummel of his
sword; his head dressing spiritedly to the right with a
most appalling and hard favoured frown upon his brow—
he presented altogether one of the most commanding,
bitter looking and soldierlike figures that ever strutted
upon canvass. Proceed we now to inquire the cause of
this warlike preparation.
The encroaching disposition of the Swedes, on the
south or Delaware river, has been duly recorded in the
chronicles of the reign of William the Testy. These
encroachments, having been endured with that heroic
magnanimity which is the corner stone, or, according to
Aristotle, the left hand neighbour of true courage, had
been repeated and wickedly aggravated.
The Swedes who were of that class of cunning pretenders
to Christianity, who read the Bible upside down,
whenever it interferes with their interests, inverted the golden
maxim; and when their neighbour suffered them to
smite him on the one cheek, they generally smote him on
the other also, whether turned to them or not. Their repeated
aggressions had been among the numerous sources
of vexation that conspired to keep the irritable sensibilities
of Wilhelmus Kieft in a constant fever; and it was only
owing to the unfortunate circumstance that he had always
a hundred things to do at once, that he did not take such
unrelenting vengeance as their offences merited. But they
had now a chieftain of a different character to deal with;
and they were soon guilty of a piece of treachery, that
threw his honest blood in a ferment and precluded all further
sufferance.
Printz, the governor of the province of New-Sweden,
being either deceased or removed, for of this fact some
uncertainty exists, was succeeded by Jan Risingh, a
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gigantic Swede; and who, had he not been rather knockneed
and splay-footed, might have served for the model of a Samson
or a Hercules. He was no less rapacious than mighty,
and withal as crafty as he was rapacious; so that, in fact,
there is very little doubt, had he lived some four or five centuries
before, he would have been one of those wicked giants,
who took such a cruel pleasure in pocketting distressed
damsels, when gadding about in the world; and locking
them up in enchanted castles, without a toilet, a change of
linen, or any other convenience. In consequence of which
enormities, they fell under the high displeasure of chivalry,
and all true, loyal, and gallant knights, were instructed to
attack and slay outright any miscreant they might happen
to find, above six feet high; which is doubtless one reason
that the race of large men is nearly extinct, and the generations
of latter ages so exceeding small.
No sooner did Governor Risingh enter upon his office
than he immediately cast his eyes upon the important
post of Fort Casimer, and formed the righteous resolution
of taking it into his possession. The only thing that remained
to consider was the mode of carrying his resolulution
into effect; and here I must do him the justice to say,
that he exhibited a humanity rarely to be met with
among leaders, and which I have never seen equalled in
modern times, excepting among the English, in their glorious
affair at Copenhagen. Willing to spare the effusion
of blood, and the miseries of open warfare, he benevolently
shunned every thing like avowed hostility or regular
siege, and resorted to the less glorious but more merciful
expedient of treachery.
Under pretence, therefore of paying a neighbourly visit
to General Von Poffenburgh, at his new post of Fort
Casimir, he made requisite preparation, sailed in great
state up the Delaware, displayed his flag with the most
ceremoneous punctilio, and honoured the fortress with a
royal salute previous to dropping anchor. The unusual
noise awakened a veteran Dutch sentinel, who was napping
faithfully at his post, and who having suffered his
match to go out, contrived to return the compliment, by
discharging his rusty musket with the spark of a pipe,
which he borrowed from one of his comrades. The salute
indeed would have been answered by the guns of the fort,
had they not been unfortunately out of order, and the magazine
deficient in ammunition—accidents to which forts
have in all ages been liable, and which were the more
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excusable in the present instance, as Fort Casimir had only
been erected about two years, and General Von Poffenburgh,
its mighty commander had been fully occupied
with matters of much greater importance.
Risingh, highly satisfied with this courteous reply to
his salute, treated the fort to a second, for he well knew
its commander was marvellously delighted with these little
ceremonials, which he considered as so many acts of homage
paid unto his greatness. He then landed in great
state, attended by a suite of thirty men—a prodigious and
vainglorious retinue, for a petty governor of a petty settlement,
in those days of primitive simplicity; and to the full
as great an army as generally swells the pomp and marches
in the rear of our frontier commanders at the present
day.
The number in fact might have awakened suspicion, had
not the mind of the great Von Poffenburgh been so completely
engrossed with an all-pervading idea of himself, that he
had not room to admit a thought besides. In fact, he considered
the concourse of Risingh's followers as a compliment to
himself—so apt are great men to stand between themselves
and the sun, and completely eclipse the truth by their own
shadow.
It may readily be imagined how much General Von
Poffenburgh was flattered by a visit from so august a
personage; his only embarrassment was, how he should
receive him in such a manner as to appear to the greatest
advantage, and make the most advantageous impression.
The main guard was ordered immediately to turn out,
and the arms and regimentals (of which the garrison possessed
full half a dozen suits) were equally distributed
among the soldiers. One tall lank fellow appeared in a
coat intended for a small man, the skirts of which reached
a little below his waist, the buttons were between his
shoulders, and the sleeves half way to his wrists, so that
his hands looked like a couple of huge spades; and the
coat not being large enough to meet in front, was linked
together by loops, made of a pair of red worsted garters.
Another had an old cocked hat, stuck on the back of his
head, and decorated with a bunch of cock's tails—a third
had a pair of rusty gaiters, hanging about his heels—while
a fourth, who was a short duck-legged little Trojan, was
equipped in a huge pair of the general's cast off breeches,
which he held up with one hand, while he grasped his
firelock with the other. The rest were accoutred in
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similar style, excepting three graceless ragamuffins, who had
no shirts, and but a pair and a half of breeches between
them, wherefore they were sent to the black-hole to keep
them out of view. There is nothing in which the talents
of a prudent commander are more completely testified than
in thus setting matters off to the greatest advantage; and it
is for this reason that our frontier posts at the present day
(that of Niagara for example,) display their best suit of regimentals
on the back of the sentinel who stands in sight of
travellers.
His men being thus gallantly arrayed—those who
lacked muskets shouldering spades and pickaxes, and
every man being ordered to tuck in his shirt tail and pull
up his brogues, General Von Poffenburgh first took a sturdy
draught of foaming ale, which, like the magnanimous
More of Morehall, was his invariable practice on all great
occasions; which done, he put himself at their head, ordered
the pine planks which served as a draw bridge, to be
laid down, and issued forth from his castle, like a mighty
giant, just refreshed with wine. But when the two heroes
met, then began a scene of warlike parade, and chivalric
courtesy that beggars all description. Risingh, who,
as I before hinted, was a shrewd, cunning politician, and
had grown gray much before his time, in consequence of
his craftiness, saw at one glance the ruling passion of the
great Von Poffenburgh, and humoured him in all his valorous
fantasies.
Their detachments were accordingly drawn up in front
of each other; they carried arms, and they presented arms;
they gave the standing salute and the passing salute:—they
rolled their drums, they flourished their fifes, and they waved
their colours—they faced to the left, and they faced to
the right, and they faced to the right about:—they wheeled
forward, and they wheeled backward, and they wheeled into
echelon:—they marched and they counter-marched by
grand divisions, by single divisions, and by subdivisions,—
by platoons, by sections, and by files,—to quick time, in
slow time, and in no time at all: for, having gone through all
the evolutions of two great armies, including the eighteen
manœuvres of Dundas; having exhausted all that they could
recollect or imagine of military tactics, including sundry
strange and irregular evolutions, the like of which were never
seen before or since, excepting among certain of our newly
raised militia—the two great commanders and their respective
troops came at length to a dead halt, completely
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exhausted by the toils of war. Never did two valiant train band captains,
or two buskined theatric heroes, in the renowned tragedies
of Pizarro, Tom Thumb, or any other heroical and
fighting tragedy, marshal their gallows-looking, duck-legged
heavy-heeled myrmidons, with more glory and self-admiration.
These military compliments being finished, General
Von Poffenburgh escorted his illustrious visiter, with
great ceremony, into the fort; attended him throughout
the fortifications; showed him the horn-works, crown-works,
half-moons, and various other out works; or rather
the places where they ought to be erected; and where
they might be erected if he pleased; plainly demonstrating
that it was a place of “great capability,” and though
at present but a little redoubt, yet that it evidently was
a formidable fortress in embryo. This survey over, he
next had the whole garrison put under arms, exercised
and reviewed, and concluded by ordering the three bridewell
birds to be hauled out of the black hole, brought up
to the halberts, and soundly flogged for the amusement
of his visiter and to convince him that he was a great
disciplinarian.
There is no error more dangerous than for a commander
to make known the strength, or, as in the present
case, the weakness of his garrison; this will be exemplified
before I have arrived to the end of my present story,
which thus carries its moral, like a roasted goose his
pudding, in the very middle. The cunning Risingh,
while he pretended to be struck dumb outright, with the
puissance of the great Von Poffenburgh, took silent note
of the incompetency of his garrison, of which he gave a
hint to his trusty followers, who tipped each other the
wink, and laughed most obstreperously—in their sleeves.
The inspection, review, and flogging being concluded,
the party adjourned to the table; for among his other
great qualities, the general was remarkably addicted to
huge entertainments, or rather carousals; and in one
afternoon's campaign would leave more dead men on the
field than ever he did in the whole course of his military
career. Many bulletins of these bloodless victories do
still remain on record; and the whole province was once
thrown in amaze by the return of one of his campaigns;
wherein it was stated, that though, like Captain Bobadil,
he had only twenty men to back him, yet, in the short
space of six months, he had conquered and utterly
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annihilated sixty oxen, ninety hogs, one hundred sheep, ten
thousand cabbages, one thousand bushels of potatoes, one
hundred and fifty kilderkins of small beer, two thousand
seven hundred and thirty-five pipes, seventy-eight pounds
of sugar plums, and forty bars of iron, besides sundry
small meats, game, poultry, and garden stuffs. An
achievement unparalleled since the days of Pantagruel
and his all-devouring army; and which showed that it
was only necessary to let bellipotent Von Poffenburgh
and his garrison loose in an enemy's country, and in a
little while they would breed a famine, and starve all the
inhabitants.
No sooner, therefore, had the general received the
first intimation of the visit of Governor Risingh, than he
ordered a great dinner to be prepared; and privately sent
out a detachment of his most experienced veterans to rob
all the hen roosts in the neighbourhood, and lay the pigsties
under contribution—a service to which they had
been long inured, and which they discharged with such
incredible zeal and promptitude, that the garrison table
groaned under the weight of their spoils.
I wish, with all my heart, my readers could see the
valiant Von Poffenburgh, as he presided at the head of
the banquet. It was a sight worth beholding:—there he
sat, in his greatest glory, surrounded by his soldiers, like
that famous wine-bibber, Alexander, whose thirsty virtues
he did most ably imitate; telling astonishing stories
of his hair-breadth adventures and heroic exploits, at
which, though all his auditors knew them to be most
incontinent and outrageous gasconades, yet did they cast
up their eyes in admiration, and utter many interjections
of astonishment. Nor could the general pronounce any
thing that bore the remotest resemblance to a joke but
the stout Risingh would strike his brawny fist upon the
table, till every glass rattled again, throwing himself
back in his chair, and uttering gigantic peals of laughter,
swearing most horribly it was the best joke he ever
heard in his life. Thus all was rout and revelry and
hideous carousal within Fort Casimir; and so lustily did
Von Poffenburgh ply the bottle that in less than four
short hours he made himself and his whole garrison, who
all sedulously emulated the deeds of their chieftain, dead
drunk, in singing songs, quaffing bumpers, and drinking
patriotic toasts, none of which but was as long as a Welsh
pedigree, or a plea at Chancery.
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No sooner did things come to this pass than the crafty
Risingh and his Swedes, who had cunningly kept themselves
sober, rose on their entertainers, tied them neck
and heels, and took formal possession of the fort, and all
its dependencies, in the name of Queen Christina of
Sweden; administering, at the same time, an oath of
allegiance to all the Dutch soldiers who could be made
sober enough to swallow it. Risingh then put the
fortifications in order, appointed his discreet and vigilant
friend Suen Scutz, a tall, wind-dried, water-drinking,
Swede, to the command; and departed, bearing with
him this truly amiable garrison and their puissant commander,
who, when brought to himself by a sound
drubbing, bore no small resemblance to a “deboshed fish,”
or bloated sea monster, caught upon dry land.
The transportation of the garrison was done to prevent
the transmission of intelligence to New-Amsterdam; for
much as the cunning Risingh exulted in his stratagem,
he dreaded the vengeance of the sturdy Peter Stuyvesant,
whose name spread as much terror in the neighbourhood
as did whilome that of the unconquerable Scanderberg
among his scurvy enemies the Turks.
-- 182 -- p222-187
THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE, A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
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There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which
we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek
some quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries,
and build our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood,
I was loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westminster
Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought
which one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection;
when suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from Westminster
school, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the
monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages
and mouldering tombs echo with their merriment.
I sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating
still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to
one of the vergers for admission to the library. He conducted
me through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture
of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage
leading to the Chapter-house, and the chamber in
which Doomsday Book is deposited. Just within the
passage is a small door on the left. To this the verger
applied a key; it was double locked, and opened with
some difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a
dark narrow staircase, and passing through a second door,
entered the library.
I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported
by massive joists of old English oak. It was
soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a considerable
height from the floor, and which apparently
opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture
of some reverend dignitary of the church in his
robes hung over the fire-place. Around the hall and in
a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved
oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polemical
writers, and were much more worn by time than use.
In the centre of the library was a solitary table, with
two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and
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a few pens parched by long disuse. The place seemed fitted
for quiet study and profound meditation. It was buried
deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut
up from the tumult of the world, I could only hear now
and then the shouts of the schoolboys faintly swelling from
the cloisters, and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, that
echoed soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees
the shouts of merriment grew fainter and fainter, and at
length died away. The bell ceased to toll, and a profound
silence reigned through the dusky hall.
I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound
in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the
table in a venerable elbow chair. Instead of reading, however,
I was beguiled by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless
quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As I looked
around upon the old volumes in their mouldering covers,
thus ranged on the shelves, and apparently never disturbed
in their repose, I could not but consider the library a kind of
literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are piously
entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion.
How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now
thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching
head! how many weary days! how many sleepless
nights! How have their authors buried themselves in
the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up from
the face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature;
and devoted themselves to painful research and intense
reflection! And all for what? to occupy an inch
of dusty shelf—to have the title of their works read now
and then in a future age, by some drowsy churchman or
casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be
lost, even in remembrance. Such is the amount of this
boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumour, a local
sound; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled
among these towers, filling the ear for a moment—lingering
transiently in echo—and then passing away like a
thing that was not!
-- 184 -- p222-189
BOOK MAKING.
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There was one dapper little gentleman in bright coloured
clothes, with a chirping gossiping expression of countenance,
who had all the appearance of an author on good
terms with his bookseller. After considering him attentively,
I recognized in him a diligent getter up of miscellaneous
works, which bustled off well with the trade. I
was curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He
made more stir and show of business than any of the
others; dipping into various books, fluttering over the
leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel
out of another, “line upon line, precept upon precept,
here a little and there a little.” The contents of his book
seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches'
caldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a
thumb, toe of frog and blind worm's sting, with his own
gossip poured in, like “baboon's blood,” to make the medley
“slab and good.”
After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition
be implanted in authors for wise purposes; may it not
be the way in which Providence has taken care that the
seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from
age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the works
in which they were first produced? We see that nature
has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the conveyance
of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of certain
birds; so that animals, which, in themselves, are little
better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers
of the orchard and the corn field, are, in fact, Nature's,
carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In like
manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and
obsolete authors are caught up by these flights of predatory
writers, and cast forth again to flourish and bear
fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. Many of
their works, also, undergo a kind of metemphsychosis, and
spring up under new forms. What was formerly a ponderous
history, revives in the shape of a romance—an old
legend changes into a modern play—and a sober philosophical
treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of
bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clearing
of our American woodlands; where we burn down
a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up
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in their place: and we never see the prostrate trunk of
tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe
of fungi.
Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion
into which ancient writers descend; they do but
submit to the great law of nature, which declares that
all sublunary shapes of matter shall be limited in their
duration, but which decrees, also, that their elements
shall never perish. Generation after generation, both
in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital
principle is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue
to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors,
and having produced a numerous progeny, in a good old
age they sleep with their fathers, that is to say, with the authors
who preceded them—and from whom they had stolen.
Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had
leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether
it was owing to the soporific emanations from these
works; or to the profound quiet of the room; or to the
lassitude arising from much wandering; or to an unlucky
habit of napping at improper times and places, with which
I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a
doze. Still, however, my imagination continued busy,
and indeed the same scene remained before my mind's
eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I dreamt
that the chamber was still decorated with the portraits
of ancient authors, but the number was increased. The
long tables had disappeared, and in place of the sage magi,
I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be
seen plying about the great repository of cast-off clothes,
Monmouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a book,
by one of those incongruities common to dreams, methought
it turned into a garment of foreign or antique
fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves.
I noticed, however, that no one pretended to clothe himself
from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from one,
a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking
himself out piecemeal, while some of his original rags
would peep out from among his borrowed finery.
There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I
observed ogling several mouldy polemical writers through
an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous
mantle of one of the old fathers, and having purloined
the gray beard of another, endeavoured to look
exceedingly wise; but the smirking common place of his
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countenance set at nought all the trappings of wisdom.
One sickly looking gentleman was busied embroidering
a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of
several old court dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated
manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom,
culled from “The Paradise of dainty devices,” and having
put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head,
strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A
third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered
himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure
tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front;
but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived
that he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parchment
from a Latin author.
There were some well dressed gentlemen, it is true,
who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled
among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them.
Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old
writers, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and
to catch their air and spirit; but I grieve to say, that
too many were apt to array themselves from top to toe,
in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall
not omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and
gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity
to the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had been
confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the
solitudes of the Regent's Park. He had decked himself
in wreaths and ribands from all the old pastoral poets,
and hanging his head on one side, went about with a
fantastical lack-a-daisical air, “babbling about green
fields.” But the personage that most struck my attention
was a pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes
with a remarkably large and square, but bald head. He
entered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way
through the throng, with a look of sturdy self-confidence,
and having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped
it upon his head, and swept majestically away in a
formidable frizzled wig.
In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly
resounded from every side, of “Thieves! thieves!”
I looked, and lo! the portraits about the wall became animated!
The old authors thrust out, first a head, then a
shoulder from the canvass, looked down curiously, for an
instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended, with
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fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The
scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all
description. The unhappy culprits endeavoured in vain
to escape with the plunder. On one side might be seen
half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor; on
another, there was sad devastation carried into the ranks
of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher,
side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux,
and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when
a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper
little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time since, he
had arrayed himself in as many patches and colours as
Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants
about him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I
was grieved to see many men, to whom I had been accustomed
to look upon with awe and reverence, fain to steal
off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then
my eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in
the Greek frizzled wig, who was scrambling away sore affrighted
with half a score of authors in full cry after him.
They were close upon his haunches; in a twinkling off
went his wig; at every turn some strip of raiment was
peeled away; until in a few moments, from his domineering
pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, “chopp'd bald
shot,” and made his exit with only a few tags and bags
fluttering at his back.
There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe
of this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate
fit of laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult
and the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed
its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back
into their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity
along the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in
my corner, with the whole assemblage of book worms gazing
at me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been
real but my burst of laughter, a sound never before heard
in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of
wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity.
The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not
comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was a
kind of literary “preserve,” subject to game laws, and that
no one must presume to hunt there without special license
and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of being an
arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat,
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lest I should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon
me.
A DUTCH SETTLER'S DREAM.
And the sage Oloffe dreamed a dream—and lo, the
good St. Nicholas came riding over the tops of the trees
in that selfsame waggon wherein he brings his yearly
presents to children; and he came and descended hard by
where the heroes of Communipaw had made their late
repast. And the shrewd Van Kortland knew him by his
broad hat, his long pipe, and the resemblance which he
bore to the figure on the brow of the Goede Vrouw. And
he lit his pipe by the fire, and he sat himself down and
smoked; and as he smoked, the smoke from his pipe
ascended into the air and spread like a cloud overhead.
And the sage Oloffe bethought him, and he hastened and
climbed up to the top of one of the tallest trees, and saw
that the smoke spread over a great extent of country; and
as he considered it more attentively, he fancied that the
great volume of smoke assumed a variety of marvellous
forms, where in dim obscurity he saw shadowed out palaces
and domes and lofty spires, all of which lasted but a
moment, and then faded away, until the whole rolled off,
and nothing but the green woods were left. And when
St. Nicholas had smoked his pipe, he twisted it in his hatband,
and laying his finger beside his nose, gave the astonished
Van Kortlandt a very significant look; then
mounting his waggon, he returned over the tree tops and
disappeared.
And Van Kortlandt awoke from his sleep greatly instructed,
and he aroused his companions and related to
them his dream: and interpreted it, that it was the will
of St. Nicholas that they should settle down and build the
city here. And that the smoke of the pipe was a type
how vast should be the extent of the city; inasmuch as the
volumes of its smoke should spread over a vast extent of
country. And they all with one voice assented to this
interpretation excepting Mynheer Tenbroeck, who declared
the meaning to be that it should be a city wherein a little
fire should occasion a great smoke, or in other words, a
very vapouring little city—both which interpretations have
strangely come to pass.
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THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE.
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In the course of an excursion through one of the remote
counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross
roads that lead through the more secluded parts of the
country, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situation
of which was beautifully rural and retired. There
was an air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants,
not to be found in the villages which lie on the great
coach roads. I determined to pass the night there, and
having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the
neighbouring scenery.
My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon
led me to the church, which stood at a little distance
from the village. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity,
its old tower being completely overrun with ivy, so
that only here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of
gray wall, or a fantastically carved ornament, peered
through the verdant covering. It was a lovely evening.
The early part of the day had been dark and showery,
but in the afternoon it had cleared up; and though sullen
clouds still hung over head, yet there was a broad
tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting
sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up all
nature into a melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting
hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins and
sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his
decline, an assurance that he will rise again in glory.
I had seated myself on a half sunken tombstone, and
was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted
hour, on past scenes and early friends—on those who
were distant and those who were dead—and indulging
in that kind of melancholy fancying, which has in it
something sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and
then, the stroke of a bell from the neighbouring tower
fell on my ear; its tones were in unison with the scene,
and, instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings; and
it was some time before I recollected, that it must be tolling
the knell of some new tenant of the tomb.
Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the
village green; it wound slowly along a lane; was lost,
and re-appeared through the breaks of the hedges, until
it passed the place where I was sitting. The pall was
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supported by young girls, dressed in white; and another,
about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a chaplet
of white flowers; a token that the deceased was a
young and unmarried female. The corpse was followed
by the parents. They were a venerable couple of the
better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress
his feelings; but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply-furrowed
face, showed the struggle that was passing
within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud
with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow.
I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was
placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers,
with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat
which the deceased had occupied.
Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of funeral
service; for who is so fortunate as never to have followed
some one he has loved to the tomb? but when performed
over the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low
in the bloom of existence—what can be more affecting?
At that simple, but most solemn consignment of the body
to the grave—“Earth to earth—ashes to ashes—dust to
dust!”—the tears of the youthful companions of the deceased
flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to
struggle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with
the assurance, that the dead are blessed which die in the
Lord; but the mother only thought of her child as a
flower of the field cut down and withered in the midst
of its sweetness: she was like Rachel, “mourning over
her children, and would not be comforted.”
On returning to the inn I learnt the whole story of
the deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often
been told. She had been the beauty and pride of the
village. Her father had once been as opulent farmer,
but was reduced in circumstances. This was an only
child, and brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity
of rural life. She had been the pupil of the village pastor,
the favourite of his little flock. The good man watched
over her education with paternal care; it was limited,
and suitable to the sphere in which she was to move;
for he only sought to make her an ornament to her station
in life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness
and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from
all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace and
delicacy of character, that accorded with the fragile loveliness
of her form. She appeared like some tender plant
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of the garden, blooming accidentally amid the hardier
natives of the fields.
The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged
by her companions, but without envy; for it was
surpassed by the unassuming gentleness and winning
kindness of her manners. It might be truly said of her:
“This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever
Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems,
But smacks of something greater than herself;
Too noble for this place.”
The village was one of those sequestered spots, which
still retain some vestiges of old English customs. It
had its rural festivals and holyday pastimes, and still
kept up some faint observance of the once popular rites
of May. These, indeed, had been promoted by its present
pastor; who was a lover of old customs, and one of
those simple Christians that think their mission fulfilled
by promoting joy on earth and good-will among mankind.
Under his auspices the may-pole stood from year
to year in the centre of the village green: on May-day it
was decorated with garlands and streamers; and a queen
or lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to
preside at the sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards.
The picturesque situation of the village, and the
fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract the
notice of casual visiters. Among these, on one May-day
was a young officer, whose regiment had been recently
quartered in the neighbourhood. He was charmed with
the native taste that pervaded this village pageant; but,
above all, with the dawning loveliness of the queen of
May. It was the village favourite, who was crowned
with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the beautiful
confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The artlessness
of rural habits enabled him readily to make her
acquaintance; he gradually won his way into her intimacy;
and paid his court to her in that unthinking way
in which young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic
simplicity.
There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm.
He never even talked of love: but there are modes of
making it more eloquent than language, and which convey
it subtilely and irresistibly into the heart. The
beam of the eye, the tone of the voice, the thousand tendernesses
which emanate from every word, and look, and
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action—these form the true eloquence of love, and can
almost be felt and understood, but never described. Can
we wonder that they should readily win a heart young,
guileless, and susceptible? As to her, she loved almost
unconsciously; she scarcely inquired what was the growing
passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling
or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked
not to the future. When present, his looks and words
occupied her whole attention; when absent, she thought,
but of what had passed at their recent interview. She
would wander with him through the green lanes and rural
scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties
in nature; he talked in the language of polite and
cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of
romance and poetry.
Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between
the sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant
figure of her youthful admirer, and the splendour of
his military attire, might at first have charmed her eye;
but it was not these that had captivated her heart. Her
attachment had something in it of idolatry. She looked
up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in
his society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and
poetical, and now first awakened to a keen perception of
the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of
rank and fortune she thought nothing; it was the difference
of intellect, of demeanour, of manners, from those of the
rustic society to which she had been accustomed, that
elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him
with charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and
her cheek would mantle with enthusiasm: or if ever she
ventured a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly
withdrawn, and she would sigh and blush at the idea
of her comparative unworthiness.
Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was
mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun
the connexion in levity; for he had often heard his brother
officers boast of their village conquests, and thought
some triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a
man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervour.
His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and
selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life: it caught fire
from the very flame it sought to kindle; and before he
was aware of the nature of his situation, he became really
in love.
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What was he to do? There were the old obstacles
which so incessantly occur in these heedless attachments.
His rank in life—the prejudices of titled connexions—
his dependence upon a proud and unyielding father—all
forbade him to think of matrimony:—but when he looked
down upon this innocent being, so tender and confiding,
there was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her
life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks that awed
down every licentious feeling. In vain did he try to fortify
himself by a thousand heartless examples of men of
fashion; and to chill the glow of generous sentiment, with
that cold derisive levity with which he had heard them
talk of female virtue; whenever he came into her presence,
she was still surrounded by that mysterious, but impressive
charm of virgin purity, in whose hallowed sphere no
guilty thought can live.
The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair
to the continent completed the confusion of his mind. He
remained for a short time in a state of the most painful irresolution;
he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until
the day of marching was at hand; when he gave her the
intelligence in the course of an evening ramble.
The idea of parting had never before occurred to her.
It broke at once upon her dream of felicity; she looked
upon it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept
with the guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to
his bosom, and kissed the tears from her soft cheek; nor
did he meet with a repulse; for there are moments of
mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the caresses
of affection. He was naturally impetuous; and the sight
of beauty, apparently yielding in his arms; the confidence
of his power over her; and the dread of losing her for
ever; all conspired to overwhelm his better feelings—he
ventured to propose that she should leave her home, and
be the companion of his fortunes.
He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and
faltered at his own baseness; but so innocent of mind
was his intended victim, that she was at first at a loss to
comprehend his meaning; and why she should leave her
native village and the humble roof of her parents? When
at last the nature of his proposal flashed upon her pure
mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep—
she did not break forth into reproach—she said not a word—
but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper; gave him a
look of anguish that pierced to his very soul; and
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clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's
cottage.
The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant.
It is uncertain what might have been the result
of the conflict of his feelings, had not his thoughts been
diverted by the bustle of departure. New scenes, new
pleasures, and new companions, soon dissipated his self-reproach,
and stifled his tenderness; yet, amidst the stir
of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies,
and even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes
steal back to the scene of rural quiet and village simplicity—
the white cottage—the footpath along the silver
brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the little village
maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm, and listening
to him with eyes beaming with unconscious affection.
The shock which the poor girl had received, in the
destruction of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel.
Faintings and hysterics, had at first shaken her tender
frame, and were succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy.
She had beheld from her window the march of
the departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover
borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and
trumpet, and the pomp of arms. She strained a last aching
gaze after him, as the morning sun glittered about his
figure, and his plume waved in the breeze: he passed
away like a bright vision from her sight and left her all
in darkness.
It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her
after-story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy.
She avoided society, and wandered out alone in the walks
she had most frequented with her lover. She sought,
like the stricken deer, to weep in silence and loneliness,
and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her
soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening
sitting in the porch of the village church; and the milkmaids,
returning from the fields, would now and then
overhear her, singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn
walk. She became fervent in her devotions at
church: and as the old people saw her approach, so
wasted away, yet with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed
air which melancholy diffuses round the form, they would
make way for her, as for a thing spiritual, and, looking
after her, would shake their heads in gloomy foreboding.
She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the
tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The
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silver cord that had bound her to existence was loosed,
and there seemed to be no more pleasure under the sun.
If ever her gentle bosom had entertained resentment
against her lover, it was extinguished. She was incapable
of angry passions; and in a moment of saddened tenderness,
she penned him a farewell letter. It was couched
in the simplest language; but touching from its very
simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and did
not conceal from him that his conduct was the cause.
She even depicted the sufferings which she had experienced;
but concluded with saying, that she could not die
in peace, until she had sent him her forgiveness and her
blessing,
By degrees her strength declined, so that she could no
longer leave the cottage. She could only totter to the
window, where, propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment
to sit all day and look out upon the landscape.
Still she uttered no complaint, nor imparted to any one
the malady that was preying upon her heart. She never
even mentioned her lover's name; but would lay her
head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. Her
poor parents hung in mute anxiety over this fading
blossom of their hopes, still flattering themselves that it
might again revive to freshness, and that the bright unearthly
bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek might
be the promise of returning health.
In this way she was seated between them one Sunday
afternoon; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice
was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in brought
with it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle which
her own hands had trained round the window.
Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible:
it spoke of the vanity of worldly things and of the joys
of heaven: it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity
through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the
distant village church; the bell had tolled for the evening
service; the last villager was lagging into the porch
and every thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness
peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on
her with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which
pass so roughly over some faces, had given her's the expression
of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue
eye. Was she thinking of her faithless lover?—or were
her thoughts wandering to that distant church-yard, into
whose bosom she might soon be gathered?
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Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard—a horseman
galloped to the cottage—he dismounted before the window—
the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk
back in her chair;—it was her repentant lover! He
rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom;
but her wasted form—her death-like countenance—
so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation,—smote him to
the soul, and he threw himself in an agony at her feet.
She was too faint to rise—She attempted to extend her
trembling hand—her lips moved as if she spoke, but no
word was articulated—she looked down upon him with
a smile of unutterable tenderness,—and closed her eyes
for ever!
Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village
story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious
have little novelty to recommend them. In the present
rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narrative,
they may appear trite and insignificant, but they interested
me strongly at the time; and, taken in connexion
with the affecting ceremony which I just witnessed, left
a deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances
of a more striking nature. I have passed through
the place since, and visited the church again, from a better
motive than mere curiosity. It was a wintry evening;
the trees were stripped of their foliage; the church-yard
looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled
coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had
been planted about the grave of the village favourite, and
osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured.
The church door was open, and I stepped in. There
hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves as on the day
of the funeral: the flowers were withered, it is true, but
care seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil
their whiteness. I have seen many monuments, where
art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of
the spectator; but I have met with none that spoke more
touchingly to my heart, than this simple, but delicate
memento of departed innocence.
DOMESTIC SCENE.
The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the
evening was far advanced, the Squire would not permit
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us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once
to the company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned
hall. It was composed of different branches of
a numerous family connexion, where there were the
usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable
married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming country
cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding
school hoydens. They were variously occupied;
some at a round game of cards; others conversing around
the fire-place; at one end of the hall was a group of the
young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender
and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game;
and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and
tattered dolls about the floor, showed traces of a troop of
little fairy beings, who having frolicked through a happy
day, had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful
night.
MASTER SIMON.
The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the
humours of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge
always addressed with the quaint appellation of
Master Simon. He was a tight brisk little man, with the
air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like
the bill of a parrot; his face slightly pitted with the small
pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frost-bitten
leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness and
vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression
that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of
the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes
with the ladies, and making infinite merriment by
harpings upon old themes; which, unfortunately, my ignorance
of the family chronicles did not permit me to
enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight during supper
to keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of
stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks
of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the
idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed at
every thing he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance.
I could not wonder at it; for he must have
been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. He
could imitate Punch and Judy; make an old woman of
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his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket
handkerchief: and cut an orange into such a ludicrous
caricature, that the young folks were ready to die with
laughing.
PERSEVERANCE.
Like as a mighty grampus, who, though assailed and
buffeted by roaring waves and brawling surges, still keeps
on an undeviating course; and though overwhelmed by
boisterous billows, still emerges from the troubled deep,
spouting and blowing with tenfold violence—so did the
inflexible Peter pursue, unwavering, his determined career,
and rise contemptuous above the clamours of the
rabble.
A DOLEFUL DISASTER OF ANTHONY THE TRUMPETER.
Resolutely bent, however, upon defending his beloved
city, in despite even of itself, he called unto him his trusty
Van Corlear, who was his right-hand man in all times of
emergency. Him did he adjure to take his war-denouncing
trumpet, and mounting his horse, to beat up the
country, night and day—sounding the alarm along the
pastoral borders of the Bronx—startling the wild solitudes
of Croton—arousing the rugged yeomanry of Wee-hawk
and Hoboken—the mighty men of battle of Tappan
Bay[15];—and the brave boys of Tarry town and Sleepy
hollow—together with all the other warriors of the country
round about; charging them one and all, to sling their
powder horns, shoulder their fowling-pieces, and march
merrily down to the Manhattoes.
Now there was nothing in all the world, the divine sex
excepted, that Anthony Van Corlear loved better than
errands of this kind. So, just stopping to take a lusty
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dinner, and bracing to his side his junk-bottle, well charged
with heart-inspiring Hollands, he issued jollily from the
city gate that looked out upon what is at present called
Broad-way; sounding as usual a farewell strain, that
rung in sprightly echoes through the winding streets of
New-Amsterdam—Alas! never more were they to be
gladdened by the melody of their favourite trumpeter!
It was a dark and stormy night when the good Anthony
arrived at the famous creek (sagely denominated Harlem
river) which separates the island of Manna-hata from
the main land. The wind was high, the elements were
in an uproar, and no Charon could be found to ferry the
adventurous sounder of brass across the water. For a
short time he vapoured like an impatient ghost upon the
brink, and then, bethinking himself of the urgency of his
errand, took a hearty embrace of his stone bottle, swore
most valorously, that he would swim across, en spijt den
duyvel (in spite of the devil!) and daringly plunged into
the stream.—Luckless Anthony! scarce had he buffeted
half-way over, when he was observed to struggle violently,
as if battling with the spirit of the waters—instinctively
he put his trumpet to his mouth, and giving a vehement
blast, sunk for ever to the bottom!
The potent clangour of his trumpet, like the ivory horn
of the renowned Paladin Orlando, when expiring in the
glorious field of Roncesvalles, rung far and wide through
the country, alarming the neighbours round, who hurried
in amazement to the spot.—Here an old Dutch burgher,
famed for his veracity, and who had been a witness of the
fact, related to them the melancholy affair; with the fearful
addition (to which I am slow of giving belief,) that
he saw the duyvel, in the shape of a huge moss-bonker,
seize the sturdy Anthony by the leg, and drag him beneath
the waves. Certain it is, the place, with the adjoining
promontory, which projects into the Hudson, has
been called Spijt den duyvel or Spiking duyvel ever since,—
the restless ghost of the unfortunate Anthony still
haunts the surrounding solitudes, and his trumpet has
often been heard by the neighbours, of a stormy night,
mingling with the howling of the blast. Nobody ever
attempts to swim over the creek after dark; on the contrary,
a bridge has been built to guard against such melancholy
accidents in future—and as to moss-bonkers,
they are held in such abhorrence that no true Dutchman
-- 200 -- p222-205
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will admit them to his table, who loves good fish, and
hates the devil.
Such was the end of Anthony Van Corlear—a man
deserving of a better fate. He lived roundly and soundly,
like a true and jolly bachelor, until the day of his
death; but though he was never married, yet did he leave
behind, some two or three dozen children, in different
parts of the country—fine chubby, brawling flatulent
little urchins, from whom, if legends speak true (and they
are not apt to lie,) did descend the innumerable race of
editors, who people and defend this country, and who are
bountifully paid by the people for keeping up a constant
alarm—and making them miserable. Would that they
inherited the worth, as they do the wind, of their renowned
progenitor!
eaf222.n15[15] A corruption of Top paun; so called from a tribe of Indians
which boasted of 150 fighting men. See Ogilvie's History.
THE GRIEF OF PETER STUYVESANT.
The tidings of this lamentable catastrophe imparted a
severer pang to the bosom of Peter Stuyvesant than did
even the invasion of his beloved Amsterdam. It came
ruthlessly home to those sweet affections that grow close
around the heart, and are nourished by its warmest current.
As some lone pilgrim wandering in trackless
wastes while the tempest whistles through his locks, and
dreary night is gathering around, sees stretched, cold and
lifeless, his faithful dog—the sole companion of his journeying—
who had shared his solitary meal, and so often
licked his hand in humble gratitude;—so did the generous-hearted
hero of the Manhattoes contemplate the untimely
end of his faithful Anthony. He had been the
humble attendant of his footsteps—he had cheered him
in many a heavy hour, by his honest gaiety; and had
followed him in loyalty and affection, through many a
scene of direful peril and mishap. He was gone for ever—
and that too at a moment when every mongrel cur
seemed skulking from his side.
The dignified Retirement and mortal Surrender of Peter the Headstrong.
Thus then have I concluded this great historical enterprise;
but, before I lay aside my weary pen, there yet
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remains to be performed one pious duty. If among the
variety of readers that may peruse this book, there should
haply be found any of those souls of true nobility, which
glow with celestial fire, at the history of the generous and
the brave, they will doubtless be anxious to know the fate
of the gallant Peter Stuyvesant. To gratify one such
sterling heart of gold I would go more lengths than to
instruct the cold-blooded curiosity of a whole fraternity of
philosophers.
No sooner had that high-mettled cavalier signed the articles
of capitulation, than, determined not to witness the
humiliation of his favourite city, he turned his back on its
walls, and made a growling retreat to his Bouwery, or
country-seat, which was situated about two miles off;
where he passed the remainder of his days in patriarchal
retirement. There he enjoyed that tranquillity of mind
which he had never known amid the distracting cares of
government; and tasted the sweets of absolute and uncontrolled
authority, which his factious subjects had so often
dashed with the bitterness of opposition.
No persuasions could ever induce him to revisit the city—
on the contrary, he would always have his great arm-chair
placed with its back to the windows which looked in
that direction; until a thick grove of trees planted by his
own hand grew up and formed a screen that effectually excluded
it from the prospect. He railed continually at the
degenerate innovations and improvements introduced by
the conquerors—forbade a word of their detested language
to be spoken in his family, a prohibition readily obeyed,
since none of the household could speak any thing but
Dutch—and even ordered a fine avenue to be cut down
in front of his house, because it consisted of English cherry
trees.
The same incessant vigilance, that blazed forth when he
had a vast province under his care, now showed itself with
equal vigour, though in narrower limits. He patrolled
with unceasing watchfulness around the boundaries of his
little territory; repelled every encroachment with intrepid
promptness; punished every vagrant depredation upon his
orchard or his farm yard with inflexible severity; and conducted
every stray hog or cow in triumph to the pound.
But to the indigent neighbour, the friendless stranger, or
the weary wanderer, his spacious door was ever open, and
his capacious fire-place, that emblem of his own warm and
generous heart, had always a corner to receive and cherish
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them. There was an exception to this, I must confess, in case
the ill-starred applicant was an Englishman or a Yankee;
to whom, though he might extend the hand of assistance,
he could never be brought to yield the rites of hospitality.
Nay, if peradventure some straggling merchant of the east,
should stop at his door, with his cart load of tin ware or
wooden bowls, the fiery Peter would issue forth like a giant
from his castle, and make such a furious clattering among
his pots and kettles, tht the vender of “notions” was fain
to betake himself to instant flight.
His ancient suit of regimentals, worn threadbare by the
brush, were carefully hung up in the state bedchamber, and
regularly aired the first fair day of every month; and his
cocked hat and trusty sword were suspended in grim repose
over the parlour mantlepiece, forming supporters to a
full length portrait of the renowned Admiral Von Tromp.
In his domestic empire he maintained strick discipline, and
a well organized despotic government; but though his own
will was the supreme law, yet the good of his subjects was
his constant object. He watched over, not merely their
immediate comforts, but their morals, and their ultimate
welfare; for he gave them abundance of excellent admonition,
nor could any of them complain, that, when occasion
required, he was by any means niggardly in bestowing
wholesome correction.
The good old Dutch festivals, those periodical demonstrations
of an overflowing heart and a thankful spirit,
which are falling into sad disuse among my fellow-citizens,
were faithfully observed in the mansion of Governor Stuyvesant.
New-year was truly a day of open-handed liberality,
of jocund revelry, and warm-hearted congratulation—
when the bosom seemed to swell with genial good-fellowship;
and the plenteous table was attended with an
unceremonious freedom, and honest broad-mouthed merriment,
unknown in these days of degeneracy and refinement.
Paas and Pinxter were scrupulously observed
throughout his dominions; nor was the day of St. Nicholas
suffered to pass by without making presents, hanging the
stocking in the chimney, and complying with all its other
ceremonies.
Once a year, on the first day of April, he used to array
himself in full regimentals, being the anniversary of his
triumphal entry into New-Amsterdam, after the conquest
of New-Sweden. This was always a kind of Saturnalia
among the domestics, when they considered themselves at
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[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
liberty in some measure to say and do what they pleased;
for on this day their master was always observed to unbend,
and become exceedingly pleasant and jocose, sending
the old gray-headed negroes on April fools' errands for
pigeon's milk; not one of whom but allowed himself to be
taken in, and humoured his old master's jokes as became a
faithful and well disciplined dependant. Thus did he
reign, happily and peacefully on his own land—injuring
no man—envying no man—molested by no outward strifes—
perplexed by no internal commotions; and the mighty
monarchs of the earth, who were vainly seeking to maintain
peace, and promote the welfare of mankind, by war and
desolation, would have done well to have made a voyage to
the little island of Manna-hatta, and learned a lesson in
government from the domestic economy of Peter Stuyvesant.
In process of time, however, the old governor, like all
other children of mortality, began to exhibit evident tokens
of decay. Like an aged oak, which, though it long has
braved the fury of the elements, and still retains its gigantic
proportions, yet begins to shake and groan with every
blast—so the gallant Peter, though he still bore the port
and semblance of what he was in the days of his hardihood
and chivalry, yet did age and infirmity begin to sap
the vigour of his frame; but his heart, that most unconquerable
citadel, still triumphed unsubdued. With matchless
avidity would he listen to every article of intelligence
concerning the battles between the English and Dutch.—
Still would his pulse beat high whenever he heard of the
victories of De Ruyter; and his countenance lower, and
his eyebrows knit, when fortune turned in favour of the
English. At length, as on a certain day, he had just
smoked his fifth pipe, and was napping after dinner, in his
arm-chair, conquering the whole British nation in his
dreams, he was suddenly aroused by a fearful ringing of
bells, rattling of drums, and roaring of cannon, that put all
his blood in a ferment. But when he learned that these
rejoicings were in honour of a great victory obtained by the
combined English and French fleets over the brave De
Ruyter and the younger Von Tromp, it went so much to
his heart, that he took to his bed, and in less than three
days was brought to death's door by a violent cholera morbus!
But even in this extremity he still displayed the unconquerable
spirit of Peter the Headstrong; holding out,
to the last gasp, with the most inflexible obstinacy, against
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a whole army of old women, who were bent upon driving
the enemy out of his bowels, after a true Dutch mode of
defence, by inundating the seat of war with catnip and
pennyroyal.
While he thus lay, lingering on the verge of dissolution,
news was brought him, that the brave Ruyter had suffered
but little loss—had made good his retreat—and meant once
more to meet the enemy in battle. The closing eye of the
old warrior kindled at the words—he partly raised himself
in bed—a flash of martial fire beamed across his visage—
he clenched his withered hand as if he felt within his gripe
that sword which waved in triumph before the walls of Fort
Christina, and, giving a grim smile of exultation, sunk back
upon his pillow, and expired.
Thus died Peter Stuyvesant, a valiant soldier, a loyal
subject, an upright governor, and an honest Dutchman—
who wanted only a few empires to desolate to have been
immortalized as a hero!
His funeral obsequies were celebrated with the utmost
grandeur and solemnity. The town was perfectly emptied
of its inhabitants, who crowded in throngs to pay the last
sad honours to their good old governor. All his sterling
qualities rushed in full tide upon their recollections, while
the memory of his foibles and his faults had expired with
him. The ancient burghers contended who should have
the privilege of bearing the pall—the populace strove who
should walk nearest to the bier—and the melancholy procession
was closed by a number of gray-headed negroes,
who had wintered and summered in the household of their
departed master for the greater part of a century.
With sad and gloomy countenances, the multitude gathered
round the grave. They dwelt with mournful hearts
on the sturdy virtues, the signal services, and the gallant
exploits of the brave old worthy. They recalled with
secret upbraidings, their own factious oppositions to his
government—and many an ancient burgher, whose phlegmatic
features had never been known to relax, nor his
eyes to moisten, was now observed to puff a pensive pipe,
and the big drop to steal down his cheek—while he
muttered, with affectionate accent and melancholy shake
of the head—“Well den!—Hard-Koppig Peter ben gone
at last.”
His remains were deposited in the family vault, under
a chapel, which he had piously erected on his estate, and
dedicated to St. Nicholas—and which stood on the
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identical spot at present occupied by St. Mark's Church, where
his tombstone is still to be seen. His estate, or Bouwery,
as it was called, has ever continued in the possession of
his descendants; who by the uniform integrity of their
conduct, and their strict adherence to the customs and
manners that prevailed in the “good old times,” have
proved themselves worthy of their illustrious ancestor.
Many a time and oft has the farm been haunted at night
by enterprising money diggers, in quest of pots of gold
said to have been buried by the old governor—though I
cannot learn that any of them have ever been enriched
by their researches—and who is there, among my native-born
fellow citizens, that does not remember, when in
the mischievous days of his boyhood, he conceived it a
great exploit to rob “Stuyvesant's orchard” on a holiday
afternoon?
At this strong hold of the family may still be seen certain
memorials of the immortal Peter. His full length
portrait frowns in martial terrors from the parlour wall—
his cocked hat and sword still hang up in the best bed-room.
His brimstone coloured breeches were for a long
while suspended in the hall, until some years since they
occasioned a dispute between a new married couple. And
his silver mounted wooden leg is still treasured up in the
store room as an invaluable relique.
MORNING.
And now the rosy blush of morn began to mantle in the
east, and soon the rising sun, emerging from amidst golden
and purple clouds, shed his blythesome rays on the
tin weathercocks of Communipaw. It was that delicious
season of the year, when nature, breaking from the chilling
thraldom of old winter, like a blooming damsel from
the tyranny of a sordid father, threw herself, blushing
with ten thousand charms, into the arms of youthful
spring. Every tufted copse and blooming grove resounded
with the notes of hymeneal love. The very insects,
as they sipped the dew that gemmed the tender grass of
the meadows, joined in the joyous epithalanium—the virgin
bud timidly put forth its blushes, “the voice of the
turtle was heard in the land,” and the heart of man dissolved
away in tenderness.
-- 206 -- p222-211
THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIS HISTORY OF NEW-YORK.
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
I am aware that I shall incur the censure of numerous
very learned and judicious critics, for indulging too frequently
in the bold excursive manner of my favourite
Herodotus. And to be candid, I have found it impossible
always to resist the allurements of those pleasing
episodes which, like flowery banks and fragrant bowers,
beset the dusty road of the historian, and entice him to
turn aside and refresh himself from his wayfaring. But
I trust it will be found that I have always resumed my
staff, and addressed myself to my weary journey with
renovated spirits, so that both my readers and myself have
been benefited by the relaxation.
Indeed, though it has been my constant wish and
uniform endeavour to rival Polybius himself, in observing
the requisite unity of History, yet the loose and
unconnected manner in which many of the facts herein
recorded have come to hand, rendered such an attempt
extremely difficult. This difficulty was likewise increased
by one of the grand objects contemplated in my work,
which was to trace the rise of sundry customs and institutions
in this best of cities, and to compare them when in
the germ of infancy with what they are in the present old
age of knowledge and improvement.
But the chief merit on which I value myself, and
found my hopes for future regard, is that faithful veracity
with which I have compiled this invaluable little
work; carefully winnowing away the chaff of hypothesis,
and discarding the tares of fable, which are too apt
to spring up and choke the seeds of truth and wholesome
knowledge.—Had I been anxious to captivate the
superficial throng, who skim like swallows over the surface
of literature; or had I been anxious to commend my
writings to the pampered palates of literary epicures—
I might have availed myself of the obscurity that over-shadows
the infant years of our city, to introduce a thousand
pleasing fictions. But I have serupulously discarded
many a pithy tale and marvellous adventure, whereby
the drowsy air of summer indolence might be enthralled;
jealously maintaining that fidelity, gravity, and dignity
which should ever distinguish the historian.
-- 207 -- p222-212
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended
the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building,
my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the
Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that conducts
to it, to take from thence a general survey of this
wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a
kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres
of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye
looks down between pillars and funeral trophics to the
chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs; where
warriors, prelates, courtiers and statesmen lie mouldering
in their “beds of darkness.” Close by me stood
the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in
the barbarous taste of a remote and gothic age. The
scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice,
to produce an effect on the beholder. Here was
a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and
power; here it was literally but a step from the throne
to the sepulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous
mementos had been gathered together as a lesson
to living greatness?—to shew it, even in the moment
of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonour to
which it must soon arrive; how soon that crown which
encircles its brow must pass away; and it must lie down
in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled
upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. For,
strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary.
There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads
them to sport with awful and hallowed things, and there
are base minds, which delight to revenge on the illustrious
dead the abject homage and grovelling servility which
they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the Confessor
has been broken open, and his remains despoiled
of their funeral ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen
from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy
of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument
but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage
of mankind. Some are plundered; some mutilated; some
covered with rihaldry and insult—all more or less outraged
and dishonoured!
The last beams of day were now faintly streaming
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through the painted windows in the high vaults above
me; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped
in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles
grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded
into shadows; the marble figures of the monuments assumed
strange shapes in the uncertain light; the evening
breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the
grave; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing
the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary
in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk,
and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the
door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the
whole building with echoes.
I endeavoured to form some arrangement in my mind
of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they
were already falling into indistinctness and confusion.
Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded
in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot
from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast
assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation;
a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown,
and the certainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the
empire of death; his great shadowy palace; where he
sits in state, mocking at the reliques of human glory, and
spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of
princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality
of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages;
we are too much engrossed by the story of the present,
to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest
to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside
to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the
hero of yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in
turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow.
MASTER HENRY HUDSON.
In the ever memorable year of our Lord, 1609, on a
Saturday morning, the five and twentieth day of March,
old style, did that “worthy and irrecoverable discoverer
(as he has justly been called,) Master Henry Hudson,”
set sail from Holland in a stout vessel called the Half
Moon, being employed by the Dutch East India Company,
to seek a north-west passage to China.
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Henry, (or as the Dutch historians call him, Hendrick)
Hudson was a seafaring man of renown, who had learned
to smoke tobacco under Sir Walter Raleigh, and is
said to have been the first to introduce it into Holland,
which gained him much popularity in that country, and
caused him to find great favour in the eyes of their High
Mightinesses, the lords states-general, and also of the
honourable West India Company. He was a short,
square, brawny old gentleman, with a double chin, a
mastiff mouth, and a broad copper nose, which was supposed
in those days to have acquired its fiery hue from
the constant neighbourhood of his tobacco pipe.
He wore a true Andrea Ferrara tucked in a leathern
belt, and a commodore's cocked hat on one side of his
head. He was remarkable for always jerking up his
breeches when he gave out his orders, and his voice sounded
not unlike the brattling of a tin trumpet, owing to the
number of hard north-westers which he had swallowed
in the course of his seafaring.
Such was Hendrick Hudson, of whom we have heard
so much and know so little; and I have been thus particular
in his description, for the benefit of modern painters
and statuaries, that they may represent him as he was;
and not, according to their common custom, with modern
heroes, make them look like Cæsar, or Marcus Aurelius,
or the Apolla of Belvidere.
MASTER ROBERT JUET.
As chief mate and favourite companion, the commodore
chose Master Robert Juet, of Limehouse, in England.
By some his name has been spelled Chewit, and
ascribed to the circumstance of his having been the first
man that ever chewed tobacco; but this I believe to be a
mere flippancy; more especially as certain of his progeny
are living at this day, who write their names Juet. He
was an old comrade and early school-mate of the great
Hudson, with whom he had often played truant and
sailed chip boats in a neighbouring pond, when they were
little boys; from whence it is said the commodore first
derived his bias towards a seafaring life. Certain it is,
that the old people about Limehouse declared Robert Juet
to be an unlucky urchin, prone to mischief, that would
one day or other come to the gallows.
He grew up as boys of that kind often grow up, a
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rambling heedless varlet, tossed about in all quarters of the
world—meeting with more perils and wonders than did
Sinbad the sailor, without growing a whit more wise,
prudent, or ill-natured. Under every misfortune he comforted
himself with a quid of tobacco, and the true philosophic
maxim, that “it will be all the same thing a hundred
years hence.” He was skilled in the art of carving
anchors and true lovers' knots on the bulk-heads and
quarter-railings, and was considered a great wit on board
ship, in consequence of his playing pranks on every
body around, and now and then even making a wry
face at old Hendrick, when his back was turned.
To this universal genius we are indebted for many particulars
concerning this voyage, of which he wrote a
history, at the request of the commodore, who had an
unconquerable aversion to writing hinself, from having
received so many floggings about it when at school. To
supply the deficiencies of Master Juet's Journal which
is written with true log book brevity, I have availed myself
of divers family traditions, handed down from my
great great grandfather, who accompanied the expedition
in the capacity of cabin boy.
A DUTCH VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY.
Suffice it then to say, the voyage was prosperous and
tranquil—the crew being a patient people, much given to
slumber and vacuity, and but little troubled with the disease
of thinking—a malady of the mind, which is the sure
breeder of discontent. Hudson had laid in abundance of
gin and sour crout, and every man was allowed to sleep
quietly at his post unless the wind blew. True it is, some
slight dissatisfaction was shown on two or three occasions,
at certain unreasonable conduct of Commodore
Hudson. Thus, for instance, he forbore to shorten sail
when the wind was light, and the weather serene, which
was considered among the most experienced Dutch seamen,
as certain weather breeders, or prognostics, that the
weather would change for the worse. He acted, moreover
in direct contradiction to that ancient and sage rule
of the Dutch navigators, who always took in sail at
night; put the helm aport, and turned in; by which
precaution they had a good night's rest, were sure of
knowing where they were the next morning, and stood
but little chance of running down a continent in the
dark. He likewise prohibited the seamen from wearing
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more than five jackets, and six pair of breeches, under
pretence of rendering them more alert; and no man was
permitted to go aloft, and hand in sails, with a pipe in
his mouth, as is the invariable Dutch custom at the
present day. All these grievances, though they might
ruffle for a moment the constitutional tranquillity of the
honest Dutch tars, made but a transient impression; they
ate hugely, drank profusely, and slept immeasurably; and
being under the especial guidance of providence, the ship
was safely conducted to the coast of America; where,
after sundry unimportant touchings and standings off and
on, she at length, on the fourth day of September, entered
that majestic bay, which at this day expands its ample
bosom before the city of New-York, and which had never
before been visited by any European.
To Asem Hacchem, principal Slave-driver to his Highness
the Bashaw of Tripoli.
Though I am often disgusted, my good Asem, with
the vices and absurdities of the men of this country, yet
the women afford me a world of amusement. Their
lively prattle is as diverting as the chattering of the red-tailed
parrot, nor can the green-headed monkey of Timandi
equal them in whim and playfulness. But, notwithstanding
these valuable qualifications, I am sorry to
observe they are not treated with half the attention bestowed
on the before-mentioned animals. These infidels
put their parrots in cages and chain their monkeys; but
their women, instead of being carefully shut up in harems
and seraglios, are abandoned to the direction of their
own reason, and suffered to run about in perfect freedom,
like other domestic animals: this comes, Asem, of treating
their women as rational beings, and allowing them
souls. The consequence of this piteous neglect may easily
be imagined;—they have degenerated into all their native
wildness, are seldom to be caught at home, and, at an
early age, take to the streets and highways, where they
rove about in droves, giving almost as much annoyance
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to the peaceable people as the troops of wild dogs that infest
our great cities, or the flights of locusts that sometimes
spread famine and desolation over whole regions of
fertility.
This propensity to relapse into pristine wildness convinces
me of the untameable disposition of the sex, who
may indeed be partially domesticated by a long course of
confinement and restraint, but the moment they are restored
to personal freedom, become wild as the young
partridge of this country, which, though scarcely half
hatched, will take to the fields and run about with the
shell upon its back.
Notwithstanding their wildness, however, they are remarkably
easy of access, and suffer themselves to be approached,
at certain hours of the day, without any symptoms
of apprehension; and I have even happily succeeded
in detecting them at their domestic occupations. One
of the most important of these consists in thumping vehemently
on a kind of musical instrument, and producing
a confused, hideous, and undefinable uproar, which
they call the description of a battle—a jest, no doubt, for
they are wonderfully facetious at times, and make great
practice of passing jokes upon strangers. Sometimes they
employ themselves in painting little caricatures of landscapes,
wherein they will display their singular drollery
in battering nature fairly out of countenance—representing
her tricked out in all the tawdry finery of copper
skies, purple rivers, calico rocks, red grass, clouds that
look like old clothes set adrift by the tempest, and foxy
trees, whose melancholy foliage, drooping and curling
most fantastically, reminds me of an undressed periwig
that I have now and then seen hung on a stick in a barber's
window. At other times they employ themselves
in acquiring a smattering of languages spoken by nations
on the other side of the globe, as they find their own language
not sufficiently copious to supply their constant
demands, and express their multifarious ideas. But
their most important domestic avocation is to embroider,
on satin or muslin, flowers of a non-descript kind, in
which the great art is to make them as unlike nature as
possible; or to fasten little bits of silver, gold, tinsel, and
glass, on long stripes of muslin, which they drag after
them with much dignity whenever they go abroad—a
fine lady, like a bird of paradise, being estimated by the
length of her tail.
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But do not, my friend, fall into the enormous error of
supposing that the exercise of these arts is attended with
any useful or profitable result; believe me, thou couldst
not indulge an idea more unjust and injurious; for it
appears to be an established maxim among the women of
this country, that a lady loses her dignity when she condescends
to be useful, and forfeits all rank in society the
moment she can be convicted of earning a farthing.
Their labours, therefore, are directed not towards supplying
their household, but in decking their persons, and—
generous souls!—they deck their persons, not so much
to please themselves, as to gratify others, particularly
strangers. I am confident thou wilt stare at this, my
good Asem, accustomed as thou art to our eastern females,
who shrink in blushing timidity even from the
glances of a lover, and are so chary of their favours, that
they even seem fearful of lavishing their smiles too profusely
on their husbands. Here, on the contrary, the
stranger has the first place in female regard, and, so far
do they carry their hospitality, that I have seen a fine lady
slight a dozen tried friends and real admirers, who
lived in her smiles and made her happiness their study,
merely to allure the vague and wandering glances of a
stranger, who viewed her person with indifference and
treated her advances with contempt.—By the whiskers of
our sublime bashaw, but this is highly flattering to a foreigner!
and thou mayest judge how particularly pleasing
to one who is, like myself, so ardent an admirer of the
sex. Far be it from me to condemn this extraordinary
manifestation of good will—let their own countrymen
look to that.
Be not alarmed, I conjure thee, my dear Asem, lest I
should be tempted, by these beautiful barbarians, to break
the faith I owe to the three-and-twenty-wives, from whom
my unhappy destiny has perhaps severed me for ever;—
no, Asem, neither time, nor the bitter succession of misfortunes
that pursues me, can shake from my heart the
memory of former attachments. I listen with tranquil
heart to the strumming and prattling of these fair sirens;
their whimsical paintings touch not the tender chord of
my affections; and I would still defy their fascinations,
though they trailed after them trains as long as the gorgeous
trappings which are dragged at the heels of the holy
camel of Mecca, or as the tail of the great beast in our
prophet's vision, which measured three hundred and
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forty-nine leagues, two miles, three furlongs, and a hand's
breadth in longitude.
The dress of these women is, if possible, more eccentric
and whimsical than their deportment; and they take
an inordinate pride in certain ornaments which are probably
derived from their savage progenitors. A woman
of this country, dressed out for an exhibition, is loaded
with as many ornaments as a Circassian slave when
brought out for sale. Their heads are tricked out with
little bits of horn or shell, cut into fantastic shapes; and
they seem to emulate each other in the number of these
singular baubles, like the women we have seen in our
journeys to Aleppo, who cover their heads with the entire
shell of a tortoise, and thus equipped are the envy
of all their less fortunate acquaintance. They also decorate
their necks and ears with coral, gold chains, and
glass beads, and load their fingers with a variety of rings;
though, I must confess, I have never perceived that they
wear any in their noses—as has been affirmed by many
travellers. We have heard much of their painting
themselves most hideously, and making use of bear's
grease in great profusion—but this, I solemnly assure
thee, is a misrepresentation: civilization, no doubt, having
gradually extirpated these nauseous practices. It is
true, I have seen two or three of these females who had
disguised their features with paint, but then it was merely
to give a tinge of red to their cheeks, and did not look
very frightful; and as to ointment, they rarely use any
now, except occasionally a little Grecian oil for their hair,
which gives it a glossy, greasy, and, as they think very
comely appearance. The last mentioned class of females,
I take it for granted, have been but lately caught and still
retain strong traits of their original savage propensities.
The most flagrant and inexcusable fault however,
which I find in those lovely savages, is the shameless and
abandoned exposure of their persons. Wilt not thou suspect
me of exaggeration when I affirm—wilt not thou blush
for them, most discreet Mussulman, when I declare to thee—
that they are so lost to all sense of modesty as to expose
the whole of their faces from their forehead to the chin,
and they even go abroad with their hands uncovered!—
Monstrous indelicacy!
But what I am going to disclose will doubtless appear
to thee still more incredible. Though I cannot forbear
paying a tribute of admiration to the beautiful faces of
these fair infidels, yet I must give it as my firm opinion
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that their persons are preposterously unseemly. In vain
did I look around me, on my first landing, for those divine
forms of redundant proportions, which answer to
the true standard of eastern beauty—not a single fat fair
one could I behold among the multitudes that thronged
the streets: the females that passed in review before me
tripping sportively along, resembled a procession of shadows,
returning to their graves at the crowing of the
cock.
This meagerness I first ascribed to their excessive volubility,
for I have somewhere seen it advanced by a
learned doctor, that the sex were endowed with a peculiar
activity of tongue, in order that they might practise
talking as a healthful exercise, necessary to their confined
and sedentary mode of life. This exercise, it was natural
to suppose, would be carried to great excess in a logocracy.
“Too true,” thought I, “they have converted,
what was undoubtedly meant as a beneficent gift, into a
noxious habit, that steals the flesh from their bones and
the rose from their cheeks—they absolutely talk themselves
thin!” Judge then of my surprise when I was
assured, not long since, that this meagreness was considered
the perfection of personal beauty, and that many a
lady starved herself, with all the obstinate perseverance
of a pious dervise, into a fine figure! “Nay more,” said
my informer, “they will often sacrifice their healths in
this eager pursuit of skeleton beauty, and drink vinegar,
eat pickles, and smoke tobacco, to keep themselves within
the scanty outlines of the fashions.”—Faugh! Allah preserve
me from such beauties, who contaminate their pure
blood with noxious recipes; who impiously sacrifice the
best gifts of Heaven to a preposterous and mistaken
vanity. Ere long I shall not be surprised to see them
scarring their faces like the negroes of Congo, flattening
their noses in imitation of the Hottentots, or like the barbarians
of Ab-al Timar, distorting their lips and ears out
of all natural dimensions. Since I received this information,
I cannot contemplate a fine figure, without thinking
of a vinegar cruet; nor look at a dashing belle,
without fancying her a pot of pickled cucumbers? What
a difference, my friend, between those shades and the
plump beauties of Tripoli,—what a contrast between an
infidel fair one and my favourite wife, Fatima, whom I
bought by the hundred weight, and had trundled home
in a wheelbarrow!
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But enough for the present; I am promised a faithful
account of the arcana of a lady's toilette—a complete initiation
into the arts, mysteries, spells and potions, in that
the whole chemical process, by which she reduces herself
down to the most fashionable standard of insignificance;
together with specimens of the strait waistcoats, the lacings,
the bandages, and the various ingenious instruments
with which she puts nature to the rack, and tortures herself
into a proper figure to be admired.
Farewell, thou sweetest of slave drivers! The echoes
that repeat to a lover's ear the song of his mistress are not
more soothing than tidings from those we love. Let thy
answer to my letters be speedy; and never, I pray thee,
for a moment, cease to watch over the prosperity of my
house, and the welfare of my beloved wives. Let them
want for nothing, my friend, but feed them plentifully
on honey, boiled rice, and water gruel; so that when I return
to the blessed land of my fathers, if that can ever be,
I may find them improved in size and loveliness, and sleek
as the graceful elephants that range the green valley of
Abimar.
Ever thine,
Mustapha.
AUTUMNAL REFLECTIONS.
When a man is quietly journeying downwards into the
valley of the shadow of departed youth, and begins to contemplate
in a shortened perspective the end of his pilgrimage,
he becomes more solicitous than ever that the remainder
of his wayfaring should be smooth and pleasant,
and the evening of his life, like the evening of a summer's
day, fade away in mild uninterrupted serenity. If haply
his heart has escaped uninjured, through the dangers of
a seductive world, it may then administer to the purest of
his felicities, and its chords vibrate more musically for the
trials they have sustained—like the viol which yields a
melody sweet in proportion to its age.
To a mind thus temperately harmonized, thus matured
and mellowed by a long lapse of years, there is
something truly congenial in the quiet enjoyment of
our early autumn, amid the tranquillities of the country.
There is a sober and chastened air of gaiety diffused over
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the face of nature, peculiarly interesting to an old man;
and when he views the surrounding landscape withering
under his eye, it seems as if he and nature were taking a
last farewell of each other, and parting with a melancholy
smile—like a couple of old friends, who, having sported
away the spring and summer of life together, part at the
approach of winter with a kind of prophetic fear that they
are never to meet again.
It is either my good fortune or mishap to be keenly
susceptible to the influence of the atmosphere; and I can
feel in the morning, before I open my window, whether
the wind is easterly. It will not, therefore, I presume
be considered an extravagant instance of vainglory when
I assert, that there are few men who can discriminate
more accurately in the different varieties of damps, fogs,
Scotch-mists, and north-east storms, than myself. To
the great discredit of my philosophy I confess, I seldom
fail to anathematize and excommunicate the weather,
when it sports too rudely with my sensitive system; but
then I always endeavour to atone therefore, by eulogizing
it when deserving of approbation. And as most of my
readers, simple folk! make but one distinction, to wit, rain
and sunshine—living in most honest ignorance of the various
nice shades which distinguish one fine day from another—
I take the trouble from time to time, of letting them
into some of the secrets of nature,—so will they be the
better enabled to enjoy her beauties, with the zest of connoisseurs,
and derive at least as much information from
my pages as from the weather-wise lore of the almanack.
Much of my recreation, since I retreated to the Hall,
has consisted in making little excursions through the
neighbourhood; which abounds in the variety of wild, romantic,
and luxuriant landscape that generally characterizes
the scenery in the vicinity of our rivers. There is
not an eminence within a circuit of many miles but commands
an extensive range of diversified and enchanting
prospect.
Often have I rambled to the summit of some favourite
hill, and thence, with feelings sweetly tranquil as the
lucid expanse of the heavens that canopied me, have noted
the slow and almost imperceptible changes that mark the
waning year. There are many features peculiar to our
autumn, and which give it an individual character: the
“green and yellow melancholy” that first steals over the
landscape—the mild and steady serenity of the weather,
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and the transparent purity of the atmosphere, speak not
merely to the senses but the heart,—it is the season of
liberal emotions. To this succeeds fantastic gaiety, a
motley dress, which the woods assume, where green and
yellow, orange, purple, crimson and scarlet, are whimsically
blended together.—A sickly splendour this!—like
the wild and broken-hearted gaiety that sometimes precedes
dissolution, or that childish sportiveness of superannuated
age, proceeding, not from a vigorous flow of
animal spirits, but from the decay and imbecility of the
mind. We might, perhaps, be deceived by this gaudy
garb of nature, were it not for the rustling of the falling
leaf, which, breaking on the stillness of the scene, seems
to announce, in prophetic whispers, the dreary winter
that is approaching. When I have sometimes seen a thrifty
young oak changing its hue of sturdy vigour for a
bright but transient glow of red, it has recalled to my mind
the treacherous bloom that once mantled the cheek of a
friend who is now no more; and which, while it seemed
to promise a long life of jocund spirits was the sure precursor
of premature decay. In a little while, and this
ostentatious foliage disappears—the close of autumn
leaves but one wide expanse of dusky brown, save where
some rivulet steals along, bordered with little stripes of
green grass—the woodland echoes no more to the carols of
the feathered tribes that sported in the leafy covert, and
its solitude and silence are uninterrupted except by the
plaintive whistle of the quail, the barking of the squirrel,
or the still more melancholy wintry wind, which, rushing
and swelling through the hollows of the mountains, sighs
through the leafless branches of the grove, and seems to
mourn the desolation of the year.
To one who, like myself, is fond of drawing comparisons
between the different divisions of life and those of
the seasons, there will appear a striking analogy which
connects the feelings of the aged with the decline of the
year. Often as I contemplate the mild, uniform, and
genial lustre with which the sun cheers and invigorates
us in the month of October, and the almost imperceptible
haze which, without obscuring, tempers all the asperities
of the landscape, and gives to every object a character
of stillness and repose, I cannot help comparing it
with that portion of existence, when the spring of youthful
hope and the summer of the passions having gone by,
reason assumes an undisputed sway, and lights us on
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with bright but undazzling lustre, adown the hill of life.
There is a full and mature luxuriance in the fields that
fills the bosom with generous and disinterested content.
It is not the thoughtless extravagance of spring, prodigal
only in blossoms, nor the languid voluptuousness of summer,
feverish in its enjoyments, and teeming only with
immature abundance—it is that certain fruition of the
labours of the past—that prospect of comfortable realities,
which those will be sure to enjoy who have improved the
bounteous smiles of Heaven, nor wasted away their
spring and summer in empty trifling or criminal indulgence.
Cousin Pindar, who is my constant companion in
these expeditions, and who still possesses much of the
fire and energy of youthful sentiment, and a buxom hilarity
of the spirits, often indeed draws me from these half-melancholy
reveries, and makes me feel young again by
the enthusiasm with which he contemplates, and the animation
with which he eulogizes the beauties of nature
displayed before him. His enthusiastic disposition never
allows him to enjoy things by halves, and his feelings are
continally breaking out in notes of admiration and ejaculations
that sober reason might perhaps deem extravagant.
But for my part, when I see a hale hearty old man, who
has jostled through the rough path of the world, without
having worn away the fine edge of his feelings, or blunted
his sensibility to natural and moral beauty, I compare
him to the evergreen of the forest, whose colours, instead
of fading at the approach of winter, seem to assume additional
lustre when contrasted with the surrounding desolation.
Such a man is my friend Pindar;—yet sometimes,
and particularly at the approach of evening, even he
will fall in with my humour; but he soon recovers his
natural tone of spirits; and, mounting on the elasticity of
his mind, like Ganymede on the eagle's wing, he soars to
the etherial regions of sunshine and fancy.
One afternoon we had strolled to the top of a high hill
in the neighbourhood of the Hall, which commands an
almost boundless prospect; and as the shadows began to
lengthen around us, and the distant mountains to fade
into mists, my cousin was seized with a moralizing fit.
“It seems to me,” said he, laying his hand lightly on
my shoulder, “that there is just at this season, and this
hour, a sympathy between us and the world we are now
contemplating. The evening is stealing upon nature as
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well as upon us;—the shadows of the opening day have
given place to those of its close; and the only difference
is, that in the morning they were before us, now they are
behind; and that the first vanished in the splendours of
noon-day, the latter will be lost in the oblivion of night.—
Our `May of life,' my dear Launce, has for ever fled: our
summer is over and gone:—but,” continued he, suddenly
recovering himself and slapping me gaily on the shoulder,—
“but why should we repine?—What though the capricious
zephyrs of spring, the heats and hurricanes of
summer, have given place to the sober sunshine of autumn—
and though the woods begin to assume the dappled livery
of decay! yet the prevailing colour is still green—gay,
sprightly green.
“Let us then comfort ourselves with this reflection;
that though the shades of the morning have given place
to those of the evening,—though the spring is past, the
summer over, and the autumn come,—still you and I
go on our way rejoicing;—and while, like the lofty
mountans of our Southern America, our heads are covered
with snow, still, like them, we feel the genial warmth
of spring and summer playing upon our bosoms.”
THE FAMILY OF THE LAMBS.
The family of the Lambs had long been among the most
thriving and popular in the neighbourhood; the Miss
Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and every body
was pleased when Old Lamb had made money enough to
shut up shop, and put his name on a brass plate on his
door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs
had the honour of being a lady in attendance on the Lady
Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on which occasion
she wore three towering ostrich feathers on her head.
The family never got over it; they were immediately
smitten with a passion for high life; set up a one horse
carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand boy's hat,
and have been the talk and detestation of the whole neighbourhood
ever since. They could no longer be induced to
play at Pope-Joan or blind-man's-buff; they could endure
no dances but quadrilles, which no body had ever
heard of in Little Britian; and they took to readimg novels,
talking bad French, and playing upon the piano.
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Their brother too, who had been articled to an attorney,
set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown
in these parts, and he confounded the worthy
folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the Opera and
the Edinbro' Review.
What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball,
to which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbours;
but they had a great deal of genteel company from
Theobald's Road, Red-lion Square, and other parts towards
the west. There were several beaux of the brother's
acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and Hatton
Garden; and not less than three Aldermen's ladies with
their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven.
All Little Britian was in an uproar with the
smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and
the rattling and jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips
of the neighbourhood might be seen popping their
night caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles
rumble by; and there was a knot of virulent old
crones, that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the
retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every one
that knocked at the door.
This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the
whole neighbourhood declared they would have nothing
more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb,
when she had no engagements with her quality acquaintance,
would give little hum-drum tea junkettings to some
of her old cronies, “quite,” as she would say, “in a
friendly way:” and it is equally true that her invitations
were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to
the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted
with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would
condescend to strum an Irish melody for them on the
piano; and they would listen with wonderful interest to
Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family
of Port-soken-ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich
heiresses of Crutched-Friars; but then they relieved their
consciences and averted the reproach of their confederstes,
by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation every
thing that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and
their rout all to pieces.
The only one of the family that could not be made fashionable
was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb,
in spite of the meekness of his name, was a rough hearty
old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a head of black
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hair like a shoe-brush, and a broad face mottled like his
own beef. It was in vain that the daughters always
spoke of him as “the old gentleman,” addressed him as
“papa” in tones of infinite softness, and endeavoured to
coax him into a dressing gown and slippers, and other
gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was no
keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would
break through all their glossings. He had a hearty vulgar
good humour that was irrepressible. His very jokes
made his sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted
in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at
two o'clock, and having a “bit of sausage with his tea.”
He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity
of his family. He found his old comrades gradually
growing cold and civil to him; no longer laughing at his
jokes; and now and then throwing out a fling at “some
people” and a hint about “quality binding.” This both
nettled and perplexed the honest butcher; and his wife
and daughters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder
sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, at length
prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon's pipe and
tankard at Wagstaff's; to sit after dinner by himself and
take his pint of port—a liquor he detested—and to nod in
his chair in solitary and dismal gentility.
The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along
the streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and
talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves
of every good lady within hearing. They even went so
far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced a French
dancing master to set up in the neighbourhood; but the
worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so
persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle
and dancing pumps, and decamp with such precipitation,
that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings.
I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all
this fiery indignation on the part of the community, was
merely the overflowing of their zeal for good old English
manners, and their horror of innovation; and I applauded
the silent contempt they were so vociferous in expressing,
for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss
Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the
infection had taken hold; and that my neighbours, after
condemning, were beginning to follow their example. I
overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let
their daughters have one quarter at French and music,
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and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille. I
even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than
five French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss
Lambs, parading about Little Britian.
BLINDMAN'S-BUFF.
After the dinner table was removed, the hall was
given up to the younger members of the family, who,
prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and
Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment,
as they played at romping games. I delight in
witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly at
this happy holiday season, and could not help stealing
out of the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals
of laughter. I found them at the game of blindman's-buff.
Master Simon who was the leader of their revels,
and seemed on all occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient
potentate, the Lord of Misrule, was blinded in the
midst of the hall. The little beings were as busy about
him as the mock fairies about Falstaff; pinching him,
plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with
straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with
her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face
in a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete
picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor; and
from the slyness with which Master Simon avoided the
smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners,
and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected
the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than
was convenient.
THE ANGLER.
On parting with the old angler I inquired after his
place of abode, and happening to be in the neighbourhood
of the village a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity
to seek him out. I found him living in a small
cottage, containing only one room, but a perfect curiosity
in its method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of
the village, on a green bank, a little back from the road,
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with a small garden in front, stocked with kitchen herbs,
and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the
cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was
a ship for a weathercock. The interior was fitted up in
a truly nautical style; his ideas of comfort and convenience
having been acquired on the birth-deck of a man of war.
A hammock was slung from the ceiling, which, in the
day-time, was lashed up so as to take but little room.
From the centre of the chamber hung a model of a ship
of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table,
and a large sea chest, formed the principal moveables.
About the walls were stuck up naval ballads, such as Admiral
Hosier's Ghost, All in the downs, and Tom Bowline,
intermingled with pictures of sea fights, among which
the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place.
The mantle-piece was decorated with sea shells; over
which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most
bitter looking naval commanders. His implements for angling
were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the
room. On a shelf was arranged his library, containing a
work on angling, much worn; a bible covered with canvass;
an odd volume or two of voyages; a nautical almanack;
and a book of songs.
His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye,
and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated
himself, in the course of one of his voyages; and
which uttered a variety of sea phrases with the hoarse brattling
tone of a veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded
me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe; it
was kept in neat order, every thing being “stowed away”
with the regularity of a ship of war; and he informed me
he “scoured the deck every morning, and swept it between
meals.”
I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking
his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was
purring soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describing
some strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung
in the centre of his cage. He had been angling all day,
and gave me a history of his sport with as much minuteness
as a general would talk over a campaign; being particularly
animated in relating the manner in which he had taken
a large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill
and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine
hostess of the inn.
How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented
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old age; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being
tempest tost through life, safely moored in a snug
harbour, in the evening of his days! His happiness, however,
sprung from within himself, and was independent
of external circumstances; for he had that inexhaustible
good-nature, which is the most precious gift of Heaven;
spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought,
and keeping the mind smooth and equable in the roughest
weather.
On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was
a universal favourite in the village, and the oracle of the
tap-room; where he delighted the rustics with his songs,
and like Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of
strange lands, and shipwrecks, and sea fights. He was
much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighbourhood;
had taught several of them the art of angling;
and was a privileged visiter to their kitchens. The
whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being
principally passed about the neighbouring streams when
the weather and season were favourable; and at other
times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing
tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets,
and flies for his patrons and pupils among the gentry.
He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays,
though he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He
had made it his particular request that when he died he
should be buried on a green spot, which he could see from
his seat in church, and which he had marked out ever
since he was a boy, and had thought of when far from
home on the raging sea, in danger of being food for the
fishes—it was the spot where his father and mother had
been buried.
RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND.
Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of
English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets
of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic
trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp
of groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in
silent herds across them; the hare, bounding away to the
covert; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing.
The brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings, or
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expand into a glassy lake—the sequestered pool, reflecting
the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its
bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid
waters: while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown
green and dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to
the seclusion.
These are but a few of the features of park scenery;
but what most delights me, is the creative talent with
which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of
middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising
and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman
of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating
eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities,
and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile
spot grows into loveliness under his hand; and yet the
operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be
perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees; the
cautious pruning of others; the nice distribution of flowers
and plants of tender and graceful foliage; the introduction
of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep
of blue distance, or silver gleam of water; all these are
managed with a delicate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity,
like the magic touchings with which a painter finishes
up a favourite picture.
The residence of people of fortune and refinement in
the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in
rural economy, that descends to the lowest class. The
very labourer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip
of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim
hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the little flower-bed
bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against
the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the
pot of flowers in the window, the holly providently planted
about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and
to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the
fire side: all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing
down from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels
of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights
to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an English
peasant.
The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of
the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the
national character. I do not know a finer race of men
than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and
effeminacy which characterize the man of rank in most
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countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength,
a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which
I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the
open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations
of the country. These hardy exercises produce
also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness
and simplicity of manners, which even the follies and
dissipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can
never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different
orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be
more disposed to blend and operate favourably upon each
other. The distinctions between them do not appear to
be so marked and impassable, as in the cities. The manner
in which property has been distributed into small estates
and farms, has established a regular gradation from
the nobleman, through the classes of gentry, small landed
proprietors, and substantial farmers, down to the labouring
peasantry; and while it has thus banded the extremes
of society together, has infused into each intermediate
rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be
confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it
was formerly; the larger estates having, in late years of
distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the
country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers.
These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks in
the general system I have mentioned.
In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing.
It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur
and beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own
mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of
external influences. Such a man may be simple and
rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement,
therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with
the lower orders of moral life, as he does when he casually
mingles with the lower of cities. He lays aside his distance
and reserve, and is glad to wave the distinctions of
rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of
common life. Indeed the very amusements of the country
bring men more and more together; and the sound of
hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe
this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry
are more popular among the inferior orders in England
than they are in any other country; and why the latter
have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities,
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without repining more generally at the unequal distribution
of fortune and privilege.
To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British
literature; the frequent use of illustrations from rural
life; those incomparable descriptions of nature that abound
in the British Poets—that have continued down from
“the flower and the leaf” of Chaucer, and have brought
into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy
landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear
as if they had paid nature an occasional visit, and become
acquainted with her general charms: but the British poets
have lived and revelled with her,—they have wooed her
in her most secret haunts,—they have watched her minutest
caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze—
a leaf could not rustle to the ground—a diamond drop
could not patter in the stream—a fragrance could not
exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson
tints to the morning; but it has been noticed by these
impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into
some beautiful morality.
LETTER FROM MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KHAN,
To Muley Helim al Raggi, surnamed the agreeable Ragamuffin,
chief mountebank and buffo-dancer to
his Highness.
The numerous letters which I have written to our friend
the slave-driver, as well as those to thy kinsman the snorer,
and which doubtless were read to thee, honest Muley,
have in all probability, awakened thy curiosity to know further
particulars concerning the manners of the barbarians,
who hold me in such ignominious captivity. I was lately
at one of their public ceremonies, which, at first, perplexed
me exceedingly as to its object; but as the explanations of
a friend have let me somewhat into the secret, and as it
seems to bear no small analogy to thy profession, a
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description of it may contribute to thy amusement, if not to thy
instruction.
A few days since, just as I had finished my coffee, and
was perfuming my whiskers preparatory to a morning
walk, I was waited upon by an inhabitant of this place,
a gay young infidel, who has of late cultivated my acquaintance.
He presented me with a square bit of painted
pasteboard, which he informed me, would entitle me
to admittance to the city assembly. Curious to know the
meaning of a phrase which was entirely new to me, I
requested an explanation; when my friend informed me
that the assembly was a numerous concourse of young
people of both sexes, who, on certain occasions, gathered
together to dance about a large room with violent gesticulation,
and try to out-dress each other. “In short,” said
he, “If you wish to see the natives in all their glory, there's
no place like the city assembly; so you must go there and
sport your whiskers.” Though the matter of sporting
my whiskers was considerably beyond my apprehension,
yet I now began, as I thought, to understand him. I
had heard of the war dances of the natives, which are a
kind of religious institution, and had little doubt but
that this must be a solemnity of the kind—upon a prodigious
great scale. Anxious as I am to contemplate
these strange people in every situation, I willingly acceded
to his proposal, and, to be more at ease, I determined
to lay aside my Turkish dress, and appear in
plain garments of the fashion of this country, as is my
custom whenever I wish to mingle in a crowd, without
exciting the attention of the gaping multitude.
It was long after the shades of night had fallen, before
my friend appeared to conduct me to the assembly.
“These infidels,” thought I, “shroud themselves in
mystery, and seek the aid of gloom and darkness, to
heighten the solemnity of their pious orgies. Resolving
to conduct myself with that decent respect, which every
stranger owes to the customs of the land in which he sojourns,
I chastised my features into an expression of sober
reverence, and stretched my face into a degree of longitude
suitable to the ceremony I was about to witness.
Spite of myself, I felt an emotion of awe stealing over
my senses as I approached the majestic pile. My imagination
pictured something similar to a descent into the cave
of Dom-Daniel, where the necromancers of the East are
taught their infernal arts. I entered with the same
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gravity of demeanour that I would have approached the holy
temple of Mecca, and bowed my head three times as I
passed the threshold.—“Head of the mighty Amrou!”
thought I, on being ushered into a splendid saloon, “what
a display is here! surely I am transported to the mansions
of the Houris, the elysium of the faithful!”—How
tame appeared all the descriptions of enchanted palaces in
our Arabian poetry! Where ever I turned my eyes, the
quick glances of beauty dazzled my vision and ravished
my heart: lovely virgins fluttered by me, darting imperial
looks of conquest, or beaming such smiles of invitation,
as did Gabriel when he beckoned our holy prophet to
heaven. Shall I own the weakness of thy friend, good
Muley?—while thus gazing on the enchanting scene before
me, I for a moment forgot my country, and even the
memory of my three-and-twenty wives faded from my
heart; my thoughts were bewildered and led astray, by
the charms of these bewitching savages, and I sunk, for
a while, into that delicious state of mind where the senses,
all enchanted and all striving for mastery, produce an
endless variety of tumultuous, yet pleasing emotions. Oh,
Muley, never shall I again wonder that an infidel should
prove a recreant to the single solitary wife allotted him,
when even thy friend, armed with all the precepts of
Mahomet, can so easily prove faithless to three-and-twenty!
“Whither have you led me?” said I, at length, to my
companion, “and to whom do these beautiful creatures
belong? certainly this must be the seraglio of the grand
bashaw of the city, and a most happy bashaw must he
be, to possess treasures which even his highness of Tripoli
cannot parallel.” “Have a care,” cried my companion,
“how you talk of seraglios, or you will have all
these gentle nymphs about your ears; for seraglio is a
word which beyond all others, they abhor:—most of
them,” continued he, “have no lord and master, but
come here to catch one—they're in the market, as we
term it.” “Ah, ha!” said I, exultingly, “then you
really have a fair, or slave market, such as we have in
the East, where the faithful are provided with the choicest
virgins of Georgia and Circassia?—by our glorious
sun of Afric, but I should like to select some ten or a
dozen wives from so lovely an assemblage! pray what
would you suppose they might be bought for?”—
Before I could receive an answer, my attention was
attracted by two or three good-looking middle-sized men,
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who being dressed in black, a colour universally worn in
this country by the muftis and dervises, I immediately
concluded to be high priests, and was confirmed in my
original opinion that this was a religious ceremony.
These reverend personages are entitled managers, and
enjoy unlimited authority in the assemblies, being armed
with swords, with which, I am told, they would infallibly
put any lady to death who infringed the laws of the
temple. They walked round the room with great solemnity,
and, with an air of profound importance and
mystery, put a little piece of folded paper in each fair
hand, which I concluded were religious talismans. One
of them dropped on the floor, whereupon I slily put my
foot on it, and, watching an opportunity, picked it up
unobserved, and found it to contain some unintelligible
words and the mystic number 9. What were its virtues
I know not; except that I put it in my pocket, and have
hitherto been preserved from my fit of the lumbago,
which I generally have about this season of the year ever
since I tumbled into the well of Zim-zim on my pilgrimage
to Mecca. I enclose it to thee in this letter, presuming
it to be particularly serviceable against the dangers of thy
profession.
Shortly after the distribution of these talismans, one
of the high priests stalked into the middle of the room
with great majesty, and clapped his hands three times:
a loud explosion of music succeeded from a number of
black, yellow, and white musicians, perched in a kind of
cage over the grand entrance. The company were thereupon
thrown into great confusion and apparent consternation.—
They hurried to and fro about the room, and at
length formed themselves into little groups of eight persons,
half male and half female;—the music struck into
something like harmony, and, in a moment, to my utter
astonishment and dismay, they were all seized with what
I concluded to be a paroxysm of religious phrensy, tossing
about their heads in a ludicrous style from side to
side, and indulging in extravagant contortions of figure;—
now throwing their heels into the air, and anon whirling
round with the velocity of the eastern idolators, who
think they pay a grateful homage to the sun by imitating
his motions. I expected every moment to see them fall
down in convulsions, foam at the mouth, and shriek with
fancied inspiration. As usual the females seemed most
fervent in their religious exercises, and performed them
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with a melancholy expression of feature that was peculiarly
touching; but I was highly gratified by the exemplary
conduct of several male devotees, who, though their
gesticulations would intimate a wild merriment of the
feelings, maintained throughout as inflexible a gravity of
countenance as so many monkeys of the island of Borneo
at their antics.
“And pray,” said I, “who is the divinity that presides
in this splendid mosque?”—The divinity! Oh, I
understand—you mean the belle of the evening; we have
a new one every season.—The one at present in fashion
is that lady you see yonder, dressed in white, with pink
ribbons, and a crowd of adorers around her.” “Truly,”
cried I, “this is the pleasantest deity I have encountered
in the whole course of my travels;—so familiar, so condescending,
and so merry withal;—why, her very worshippers
take her by the hand, and whisper in her ear.”
“My good Mussulman,” replied my friend with great
gravity, “I perceive you are completely in an error concerning
the intent of this ceremony. You are now in a
place of public amusement, not of public worship; and
the pretty looking young men you see making such violent
grotesque distortions are merely indulging in our
favourite amusement of dancing.” “I cry your mercy,”
exclaimed I, “these then are the dancing men and
women of the town, such as we have in our principal
cities, who hire themselves out for the entertainment of
the wealthy;—but, pray who pays them for this fatiguing
exhibition?”—My friend regarded me for a moment
with an air of whimsical perplexity, as if doubtful whether
I was in jest or in earnest—“'Sblood man,” cried
he, “these are some of our greatest people, our fashionables,
who are merely dancing here for amusement.”
Dancing for amusement! think of that, Muley!—thou,
whose greatest pleasure is to chew opium, smoke tobacco,
loll on a couch, and doze thyself into the regions of the
Houris!—Dancing for amusement!—shall I never cease
having occasion to laugh at the absurdities of these barbarians,
who are laborious in their recreations, and indolent
only in their hours of business!—Dancing for amusement!—
the very idea makes my bones ache, and I never
think of it without being obliged to apply my handkerchief
to my forehead, and fan myself into some degree of
coolness.
“And pray,” said I, when my astonishment had a
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little subsided, “do these musicians also toil for amusement,
or are they confined to their cage, like birds, to
sing for the gratification of others? I should think the
former was the case, from the animation with which they
flourish their elbows. “Not so,” replied my friend,
“they are well paid, which is no more than just, for I
assure you they are the most important personages in the
room. The fiddler puts the whole assembly in motion,
and directs their movements, like the master of a puppet-show,
who sets all his pasteboard gentry kicking by a
jerk of his fingers.—There now, look at that dapper little
gentleman yonder, who appears to be suffering the
pangs of dislocation in every limb: he is the most expert
puppet in the room, and performs not so much for his
own amusement, as for that of the bystanders.” Just
then, the little gentleman having finished one of his paroxysms
of activity, seemed to be looking round for applause
from the spectators. Feeling myself really much
obliged to him for his exertions, I made him a low bow
of thanks, but nobody followed my example, which I
thought a singular instance of ingratitude.
Thou wilt perceive, friend Muley, that the dancing of
these barbarians is totally different from the science professed
by thee in Tripoll; the country, in fact, is afflicted
by numerous epidemical diseases, which travel from house
to house, from city to city, with the regularity of a
caravan. Among these, the most formidable is this dancing
mania, which prevails chiefly throughout the winter.
It at first seized on a few people of fashion, and being
indulged in moderation was a cheerful exercise; but in a
little time, by quick advances, it infected all classes of the
community, and became a raging epidemic. The doctors
immediately, as is their usual way, instead of devising a
remedy, fell together by the ears, to decide whether it was
native or imported, and the sticklers for the latter opinion
traced it to a cargo of trumpery from France, as they had
before hunted down the yellow-fever to a bag of coffee
from the West-Indies. What makes this disease the
more formidable is, that the patients seem infatuated with
their malady, abandon themselves to its unbounded ravages,
and expose their persons to wintry storms and midnight
airs, more fatal in this capricious climate, than the
withering Simoon blast of the desert.
I know not whether it is a sight most whimsical, or
melancholy, to witness a fit of this dancing malady. The
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lady hops up to the gentleman, who stands at the distance
of about three paces, and then capers back again to her
place;—the gentleman of course does the same; then they
skip one way, then they jump another;—then they turn
their backs to each other;—then they seize each other and
shake hands; then they whirl round, and throw themselves
into a thousand grotesque and ridiculous attitudes;—
sometimes on one leg, and sometimes on the other, and
sometimes on no leg at all: and this they call exhibiting
the graces! By the nineteen thousand capers of the great
mountebank of Damascus, but these graces must be something
like the crooked backed dwarf of Shabrac, who is
sometimes permitted to amuse his Highness by imitating
the tricks of a monkey. These fits continue for short
intervals of from four to five hours, till at last the lady
is led off, faint, languid, exhausted, and panting, to her
carriage;—rattles home;—passes a night of feverish restlessness,
cold perspirations, and troubled sleep; rises late
next morning, if she rises at all; is nervous, petulant, or
a prey to languid indifference all day; a mere household
spectre, neither giving nor receiving enjoyment; in the
evening hurries to another dance; receives an unnatural
exhilaration from the lights, the music, the crowd, and
the unmeaning bustle;—flutters, sparkles, and blooms for
a while, until the transient dolirium being past, the infatuated
maid drops and languishes into apathy again;—
is again led off to her carriage, and the next morning
rises to go through exactly the same joyless routine.
And yet, wilt thou believe it, my dear Raggi, these
are rational beings; nay, more, their countrymen would
fain persuade me they have souls! Is it not a thousand
times to be lamented that beings, endowed with charms
that might warm even the frigid heart of a dervise;—
with social and endearing powers, that would render them
the joy and pride of the harem;—should surrender themselves
to a habit of heartless dissipation, which preys imperceptibly
on the roses of the check; which robs the
eye of its lustre, the mouth of its dimpled smile, the spirits
of their cheerful hilarity, and the limbs of their elastic
vigour:—which hurries them off in the spring-time of
existence; or, if they survive, yields to the arms of a
youthful bridegroom a frame wrecked in the storms of
dissipation, and struggling with premature infirmity.
Alas, Muley! may I not ascribe to this cause the number
of little old women I meet with in this country, from
the age of eighteen to eight-and-twenty?
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In sauntering down the room, my attention was attracted
by a smoky painting, which, on nearer examination,
I found consisted of two female figures crowning a
bust with a wreath of laurel. “This, I suppose,” cried
I, “was some famous dancer in his time? “O, no,”
replied my friend, “he was only a general.” “Good;
but then he must have been great at a cotillion, or expert
at a fiddle-stick—or why is his memorial here?” “Quite
the contrary,” answered my companion; “history makes
no mention of his ever having flourished a fiddle-stick, or
figured in a single dance. You have no doubt, heard of
him: he was the illustrious Washington, the father and
deliverer of his country: and, as our nation is remarkable
for gratitude to great men, it always does honour to their
memory, by placing their monuments over the doors of
taverns, or in the corners of dancing-rooms.”
From thence my friend and I strolled into a small
apartment adjoining the grand saloon, where I beheld a
number of grave looking persons with venerable gray
heads, but without beards, which I thought very unbecoming,
seated round a table studying hieroglyphics. I
approached them with reverence, as so many magi, or
learned men, endeavouring to expound the mysteries of
Egyptian science: several of them threw down money,
which I supposed was a reward proposed for some great
discovery, when presently one of them spread his hieroglyphics
on the table, exclaimed triumphantly, “Two
bullets and a bragger!” and swept all the money into his
pocket. He has discovered a key to the hieroglyphics,
thought I—happy mortal!—no doubt, his name shall be
immortalized. Willing, however, to be satisfied, I looked
round on my companion with an inquiring eye; he
understood me, and informed me that these were a company
of friends, who had met together to win each other's
money and be agreeable. “Is that all?” exclaimed I;
“why then, I pray you, make way, and let me escape
from this temple of abominations, who knows but
these people, who meet together to toil, worry, and fatigue
themselves to death, and give it the name of pleasure —
and who win each other's money by way of being agreeable—
may some one of them take a liking to me, and pick
my pocket, or break my head in a paroxysm of hearty
good-will!”
Thy friend,
Mustapha.
-- 236 -- p222-241
JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND.
[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and
Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier of
their writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges
them as his masters; and, in some parts of his
poem, we find traces of similarity to their productions,
more especially to those of Chaucer. There are always,
however, general features of resemblance in the works
of contemporary authors, which are not so much borrowed
from each other as from the times. Writers, like
bees, toil their sweets in the wide world; they incorporate
with their own conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts
which are current in society; and thus each generation
has some feature in common, characteristic of the age in
which it lived.
James in fact belongs to one of the most brilliant eras
of our literary history, and establishes the claims of his
country to a participation in its primitive honours.
Whilst a small cluster of English writers are constantly
cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of their great
Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in silence; but
he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little constellation
of remote but never-failing luminaries, who shine
in the highest firmament of literature, and who, like morning
stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British
poesy.
How Peter Stuyvesant relieved the Sovereign People from the Burthen of taking Care of the Nation—with sundry Particulars of his Conduct in Time of Peace.
The history of the reign of Peter Stuyvesant furnishes a
melancholy picture of the incessant cares and vexations inseparable
from government; and may serve as a solemn
warning to all who are ambitious of attaining the seat of
power. Though crowned with victory, enriched by conquest,
and returning in triumph to his metropolis, his exultation
was checked by beholding the sad abuses that had taken
place during the short interval of his absence.
The populace, unfortunately for their own comfort, had
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taken a deep draught of the intoxicating cup of power, during
the reign of William the Testy; and though, upon
the accession of Peter Stuyvesant, they felt, with a certain
instinctive perception, which mobs as well as cattle possess,
that the reins of government had passed into stronger
hands; yet they could not help fretting, and chafing, and
champing on the bit, in restive silence.
It seems by some strange and inscrutable fatality, to be
the destiny of most countries (and more especially of your
enlightened republics,) always to be governed by the most
incompetent man in the nation; so that you will scarcely
find an individual throughout the whole community, but
who will detect to you innumerable errors in administration,
and convince you in the end, that had he been at the
head of affairs, matters would have gone on a thousand
times more prosperously. Strange! that that government,
which seems to be so generally understood, should invariably
be so erroneously administered—strange, that the
talent of legislation, so prodigally bestowed, should be denied
to the only man in the nation to whose station it is
requisite.
Thus it was in the present instance, not a man of all the
herd of pseudo-politicians in New-Amsterdam, but was an
oracle on topics of state, and could have directed public affairs
incomparably better than Peter Stuyvesant. But so
severe was the old governor in his disposition that he would
never suffer one of the multitude of able counsellors by
whom he was surrounded, to intrude his advice, and save
the country from destruction,
Scarcely, therefore, had he departed on his expedition
against the Swedes, than the old factions of William Kieft's
reign began to thrust their heads above water, and to gather
together in political meetings, to discuss “the state of the
nation.” At these assemblages the busy burgomasters
and their officious schepens made a very considerable figure.
These worthy dignitaries were no longer the fat, well-fed,
tranquil magistrates, that presided in the peaceful days of
Wouter Van Twiller. On the contrary, being elected by
the people, they formed in a manner a sturdy bulwark between
the mob and the administration. They were great
candidates for popularity, and strenuous advocates for the
rights of the rabble; resembling in disinterested zeal the
wide-mouthed tribunes of ancient Rome, or those virtuous
patriots of modern days, emphatically denominated “the
friends of the people.”
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Under the tuition of these profound politicians it is
astonishing how suddenly enlightened the swinish multitude
became, in matters above their comprehensions.
Coblers, tinkers, and tailors, all at once felt themselves
inspired, like those religious idiots, in the glorious times
of monkish illumination; and, without any previous study
or experience, became instantly capable of directing all
the movements of government. Nor must I neglect to
mention a number of superannuated, wrong-headed old
burghers, who had come over when boys, in the crew of
the Goede Vrouw, and were held up as infallible oracles by
the enlightened mob. To suppose that a man who had
helped to discover a country did not know how it ought
to be governed was preposterous in the extreme. It would
have been deemed as much a heresy as, at the present
day, to question the political talents and universal infallibility
of our old “heroes of '76”—and to doubt that he
who had fought for a government, however stupid he
might naturally be, was not competent to fill any station
under it.
But as Peter Stuyvesant had a singular inclination to govern
his province without the assistance of his subjects, he
felt highly incensed on his return to find the factious appearance
they had assumed during his absence. His first measure,
therefore, was to restore perfect order, by prostrating
the dignity of the sovereign people.
He accordingly watched his opportunity, and one evening
when the enlightened mob was gathered together, listening
to a patriotic speech from an inspired cobler the
intrepid Peter, like his great namesake of all the Russias,
all at once appeared among them, with a countenance sufficient
to petrify a millstone. The whole meeting was
thrown into consternation—the orator seemed to have received
a paralytic stroke in the very middle of a sublime
sentence, and stood aghast with open mouth and trembling
knees, whilst the words horror! tyranny! liberty! rights!
taxes! death! destruction! and a deluge of other patriotic
phrases came roaring from his throat, before he had
power to close his lips. The shrewd Peter took no notice
of the skulking throng around him but advancing to the
brawling bully ruffian, and drawing out a huge silver watch,
which might have served in times of yore as a town-clock,
and which is still retained by his descendants as a family
curiosity, requested the orator to mend it and set it going.
The orator humbly confessed it was utterly out of his
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power as he was unacquainted with the nature of its construction.
“Nay, but,” said Peter, “try your ingenuity,
man; you see all the springs and wheels, and how easily
the clumsiest hand may stop it, and pull it to pieces; and
why should it not be equally easy to regulate as to stop
it?” The orator declared that his trade was wholly different,
he was a poor cobler, and had never meddled
with a watch in his life. That there were men skilled in
the art, whose business it was to attend to those matters;
but for his part he should only mar the workmanship,
and put the whole in confusion—“Why, harkee, master
of mine,” cried Peter, turning suddenly upon him, with a
countenance that almost petrified the patcher of shoes into
a perfect lapstone—“dost thou pretend to meddle with
the movements of government—to regulate and correct,
and patch, and cobble, a complicated machine, the principles
of which are above thy comprehension, and its simplest
operation too subtle for thy understanding, when thou
canst not correct a trifling error in a common piece of mechanism,
the whole mystery of which is open to thy inspection?—
Hence with thee to the leather and stone,
which are emblems of thy head; cobble thy shoes, and
confine thyself to the vocation for which heaven has fitted
thee—But,” elevating his voice until it made the welkin
ring, “if ever I catch thee, or any of thy tribe, meddling
again with the affairs of government—by St. Nicholas, but
I'll have every mother's bastard of ye flea'd alive, and your
hides stretched for drum-heads, that ye may thenceforth
make a noise to some purpose!”
This threat, and the tremendous voice in which it was
uttered, caused the whole multitude to quake with fear.
The hair of the orator rose on his head like his own swine's
bristles, and not a knight of the thimble present but his
heart died within him and he felt as though he could have
verily escaped through the eye of a needle.
But though this measure produced the desired effect in
reducing the community to order, yet it tended to injure
the popularity of the great Peter among the enlightened
vulgar. Many accused him of entertaining highly aristocratic
sentiments and of leaning too much in favour of
the patricians. Indeed there appeared to be some grounds
for such an accusation, as he always carried himself with
a very lofty soldier-like port, and was somewhat particular
in his dress; dressing himself when not in uniform, in
simple but rich apparel; and was especially noted for
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having his sound leg (which was a very comely one)
always arrayed in a red stocking and high heeled shoe.
Though a man of great simplicity of manners, yet there
was something about him that repelled rude familiarity,
while it encouraged frank, and even social intercourse.
He likewise observed some appearance of court ceremony
and etiquette. He received the common class
of visiters on the stoop,[16] before his door, according to
the custom of our Dutch ancestors. But when visiters
were formally received in his parlour, it was expected
they would appear in clean linen; by no means to be
bare footed, and always to take their hats off. On public
occasions he appeared with great pomp of equipage (for,
in truth, his station required a little show and dignity,) and
always rode to church in a yellow waggon with flaming
red wheels.
These symptons of state and ceremony occasioned considerable
discontent among the vulgar. They had been
accustomed to find easy access to their former governors,
and in particular had lived on terms of extreme familiarity
with William the Testy. They therefore were very impatient
of these dignified precautions, which discouraged
intrusion. But Peter Stuyvesant had his own way of
thinking in these matters, and was a staunch upholder of
the dignity of office.
He always maintained that government to be the least
popular, which is most open to popular access and control;
and that the very brawlers against court ceremony,
and the reserve of men in power, would soon despise
rulers among whom they found even themselves to be of
consequence. Such at least, had been the case with the
administration of William the Testy; who, bent on making
himself popular, had listened to every man's advice, suffered
every person to have admittance to his person at all
hours; and, in a word, treated every one as his thorough
equal. By this means every scrub politician and public
busybody was enabled to measure wits with him, and
to find out the true dimensions, not only of his person,
but his mind.—And what great man can stand such
scrutiny?
It is the mystery that envelopes great men, that gives
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them half their greatness. We are always inclined to
think highly of those who hold themselves aloof from our
examination. There is likewise a kind of superstitious
reverence for office, which leads us to exaggerate the
merits and abilities of men of power, and to suppose that
they must be constituted different from other men. And,
indeed, faith is as necessary in politics as in religion. It
certainly is of the first importance, that a country should
be governed by wise men; but then it is almost equally
important, that the people should believe them to be wise;
for this belief alone can produce willing subordination.
To keep up, therefore, this desirable confidence in
rulers, the people should be allowed to see as little of
them as possible. He who gains access to cabinets soon
finds out by what foolishness the world is governed. He
discovers that there is a quackery in legislation, as well as
in every thing else; that many a measure, which is supposed
by the million to be the result of great wisdom and
deep deliberation, is the effect of mere chance, or perhaps
of hair-brained experiment.—That rulers have their whims
and errors as well as other men, and after all are not so
wonderfully superior to their fellow-creatures as he at first
imagined; since he finds that even his own opinions have
had some weight with them. Thus awe subsides into confidence,
confidence inspires familiarity, and familiarity
produces contempt. Peter Stuyvesant, on the contrary,
by conducting himself with dignity and loftiness, was
looked up to with great reverence. As he never gave his
reasons for any thing he did, the public always gave him
credit for very profound ones. Every movement, however
intrinsically unimportant, was a matter of speculation; and
his very red stocking excited some respect, as being different
from the stocking of other men.
To these times we may refer the rise of family pride
and aristocratic distinctions;[17] and indeed I cannot but
look back with reverence to the early planting of those
mighty Dutch families, which have taken such vigorous
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root, and branched out so luxuriantly in our state. The
blood which has flowed down uncontaminated through a
succession of steady, virtuous generations, since the times
of the patriarchs of Communipaw, must certainly be pure
and worthy. And if so, then are the Van Rensellaers, the
Van Zandts, the Van Hornes, the Rutgers, the Bensons,
the Brinkerhoffs, the Skermerhorns, and all the true descendants
of the ancient Pavonians, the only legitimate nobility
and real lords of the soil.
I have been led to mention thus particularly the well
authenticated claims of our genuine Dutch families, because
I have noticed with great sorrow and vexation, that
they have been somewhat elbowed aside in latter days, by
foreign intruders. It is really astonishing to behold how
many great families have sprung up of late years, who
pride themselves excessively on the score of ancestry. Thus
he who can look up to his father without humiliation assumes
not a little importance—he who can safely talk of
his grandfather is still more vainglorious—but he who can
look back to his great grandfather without blushing is absolutely
intolerable in his pretensions to family.—Bless us!
what a piece of work is here, between these mushrooms of
an hour and these mushrooms of a day!
But from what I have recounted in the former part of
this chapter, I would not have my reader imagine that the
great Peter was a tyrannical governor, ruling his subjects
with a rod of iron—on the contrary, where the dignity of
authority was not implicated, he abounded with generosity
and courteous condescension. In fact he really
believed, though I fear my more enlightened republican
readers will consider it a proof of his ignorance and illiberality,
that in preventing the cup of social life from
being dashed with the intoxicating ingredient of politics,
he promoted the tranquillity and happiness of the people—
and by detaching their minds from subjects which they
could not understand, and which only tended to inflame
their passions, he enabled them to attend more faithfully
and industriously to their proper callings; becoming more
useful citizens and more attentive to their families and fortunes.
So far from having any unreasonable austerity, he delighted
to see the poor and the labouring man rejoice, and
for this purpose was a great promoter of holydays and
public amusements. Under his reign was first introduced
the custom of cracking eggs at Pass or Easter.
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New-Years Day was also observed with extravagant festivity—
and ushered in by the ringing of bells and firing of guns.
Every house was a temple to the jolly god. Oceans of
cherry-brandy, true hollands, and mulled cider, were set
afloat on the occasion: and not a poor man in town but
made it a point to get drunk, out of a principle of pure
economy—taking in liquor enough to serve him half a year
afterward.
It would have done one's heart good also to have seen
the valiant Peter, seated among the old burghers and their
wives of a Saturday afternoon, under the great trees that
spread their shade over the Battery, watching the young
men and women as they danced on the green. Here he
would smoke his pipe, crack his joke, and forget the rugged
toils of war in the sweet oblivious festivities of peace.
He would occasionally give a nod of approbation to those
of the young men who shuffled and kicked most vigorously,
and now and then gave a hearty smack, in all honesty
of soul, to the buxom lass that held out longest, and tired
down all her competitors, which she considered as infallible
proofs of her being the best dancer. Once it is true the
harmony of the meeting was rather interrupted. A young
vrouw, of great figure in the gay world, and who, having
lately come from Holland, of course led the fashions in
the city, made her appearance in not more than half a
dozen petticoats, and these too of most alarming shortness.—
A universal whisper ran through the assembly;
the old ladies all felt shocked in the extreme, the young
ladies blushed and felt excessively for the “poor thing,” and
even the governor himself was observed to be a little troubled
in mind. To complete the astonishment of the good
folks, she undertook, in the course of a jig, to describe some
astonishing figures in algebra, which she had learned
from a dancing master in Rotterdam.—Whether she was
too animated in flourishing her feet, or whether some vagabond
Zephyr took the liberty of intruding his services,
certain it is, that in the course of a grand evolution which
would not have disgraced a modern ball room, she made a
most unexpected display—whereat the whole assembly
was thrown into great admiration, several grave country
members were not a little moved, and the good Peter himself,
who was a man of unparalleled modesty, felt himself
grievously scandalized.
The shortness of the female dresses, which had continued
in fashion ever since the days of William Kieft, had
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long offended his eye; and though extremely averse to
meddling with the petticoats of the ladies, yet he immediately
recommended that every one should be furnished
with a flounce to the bottom. He likewise ordered that
the ladies, and indeed the gentlemen, should use no other
step in dancing than shuffle and turn, and double trouble;
and forbade, under pain of his high displeasure, any young
lady thenceforth to attempt what was termed “exhibiting
the graces.”
These were the only restrictions he ever imposed upon
the sex; and these were considered by them as tyrannical
oppressions, and resisted with that becoming spirit always
manifested by the gentle sex whenever their privileges are
invaded,—In fact, Peter Stuyvesant plainly perceived, that
if he attempted to push the matter any farther, there was
danger of their leaving off petticoats altogether; so, like a
wise man experienced in the ways of women, he held his
peace, and suffered them ever after to wear their petticoats
and cut their capers as high as they pleased.
eaf222.n16[16] Properly spelled stoeb: the porch commonly built in front of
Dutch houses, with benches on each side.
eaf222.n17[17] In a work published many years after the time here treated of
(in 1761, by C. W. A. M.) it is mentioned that Frederick Philipse was
counted the richest Mynheer in New-York, and was said to have
whole hogsheads of Indian money or wampum; and had a son
and daughter, who according to the Dutch custom, should divide
it equally.
Irving, Washington, 1783-1859 [1835], The beauties of Washington Irving (Carey, Lea, & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf222].
