{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6607/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6607","id":"gutenberg_6607","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6607","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Folklore -- United States"],"text":"Produced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\n                           MYTHS AND LEGENDS\n                                   OF\n                              OUR OWN LAND\n\n                                   By\n                           Charles M. Skinner\n\n                                Vol. 2.\n\n\n                   THE ISLE OF MANHATTOES AND NEARBY\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS:\n\nDolph Heyliger\nThe Knell at the Wedding\nRoistering Dirck Van Dara\nThe Party from Gibbet Island\nMiss Britton's Poker\nThe Devil's Stepping-Stones\nThe Springs of Blood and Water\nThe Crumbling Silver\nThe Cortelyou Elopement\nVan Wempel's Goose\nThe Weary Watcher\nThe Rival Fiddlers\nWyandank\nMark of the Spirit Hand\nThe First Liberal Church\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE ISLE OF MANHATTOES AND NEARBY\n\n\n\nDOLPH HEYLIGER\n\nNew York was New Amsterdam when Dolph Heyliger got himself born there,--a\ngraceless scamp, though a brave, good-natured one, and being left\npenniless on his father's death he was fain to take service with a\ndoctor, while his mother kept a shop. This doctor had bought a farm on\nthe island of Manhattoes--away out of town, where Twenty-third Street now\nruns, most likely--and, because of rumors that its tenants had noised\nabout it, he seemed likely to enjoy the responsibilities of landholding\nand none of its profits. It suited Dolph's adventurous disposition that\nhe should be deputed to investigate the reason for these rumors, and for\nthree nights he kept his abode in the desolate old manor, emerging after\ndaybreak in a lax and pallid condition, but keeping his own counsel, to\nthe aggravation of the populace, whose ears were burning for his news.\n\nNot until long after did he tell of the solemn tread that woke him in the\nsmall hours, of his door softly opening, though he had bolted and locked\nit, of a portly Fleming, with curly gray hair, reservoir boots, slouched\nhat, trunk and doublet, who entered and sat in the arm-chair, watching\nhim until the cock crew. Nor did he tell how on the third night he\nsummoned courage, hugging a Bible and a catechism to his breast for\nconfidence, to ask the meaning of the visit, and how the Fleming arose,\nand drawing Dolph after him with his eyes, led him downstairs, went\nthrough the front door without unbolting it, leaving that task for the\ntrembling yet eager youth, and how, after he had proceeded to a disused\nwell at the bottom of the garden, he vanished from sight.\n\nDolph brooded long upon these things and dreamed of them in bed. He\nalleged that it was in obedience to his dreams that he boarded a schooner\nbound up the Hudson, without the formality of adieu to his employer, and\nafter being spilled ashore in a gale at the foot of Storm King, he fell\ninto the company of Anthony Vander Hevden, a famous landholder and\nhunter, who achieved a fancy for Dolph as a lad who could shoot, fish,\nrow, and swim, and took him home with him to Albany. The Heer had\ncommodious quarters, good liquor, and a pretty daughter, and Dolph felt\nhimself in paradise until led to the room he was to occupy, for one of\nthe first things that he set eyes on in that apartment was a portrait of\nthe very person who had kept him awake for the worse part of three nights\nat the bowerie in Manhattoes. He demanded to know whose picture it was,\nand learned that it was that of Killian Vander Spiegel, burgomaster and\ncurmudgeon, who buried his money when the English seized New Amsterdam\nand fretted himself to death lest it should be discovered. He remembered\nthat his mother had spoken of this Spiegel and that her father was the\nmiser's rightful heir, and it now appeared that he was one of Heyden's\nforbears too. In his dream that night the Fleming stepped out of the\nportrait, led him, as he had done before, to the well, where he smiled\nand vanished. Dolph reflected, next morning, that these things had been\nordered to bring together the two branches of the family and disclose the\nwhereabouts of the treasure that it should inherit. So full was he of\nthis idea that he went back to New Amsterdam by the first schooner, to\nthe surprise of the Heer and the regret of his daughter.\n\nAfter the truant had been received with execrations by the doctor and\nwith delight by his mother, who believed that spooks had run off with\nhim, and with astonishment, as a hero of romance, by the public, he made\nfor the haunted premises at the first opportunity and began to angle at\nthe disused well. Presently he found his hook entangled in something at\nthe bottom, and on lifting slowly he discovered that he had secured a\nfine silver porringer, with lid held down by twisted wire. It was the\nwork of a moment to wrench off the lid, when he found the vessel to be\nfilled with golden pieces. His fishing that day was attended with such\nluck as never fell to an angler before, for there were other pieces of\nplate down there, all engraved with the Spiegel arms and all containing\ntreasure.\n\nBy encouraging the most dreadful stories about the spot, in order to keep\nthe people wide away from it, he accomplished the removal of his prizes\nbit by bit from their place of concealment to his home. His unaccounted\nabsence in Albany and his dealings with the dead had prepared his\nneighbors for any change in himself or his condition, and now that he\nalways had a bottle of schnapps for the men and a pot of tea for the\nwomen, and was good to his mother, they said that they had always known\nthat when he changed it would be for the better,--at which his old\ndetractors lifted their eyebrows significantly--and when asked to dinner\nby him they always accepted.\n\nMoreover, they made merry when the day came round for his wedding with\nthe little maid of Albany. They likewise elected him a member of the\ncorporation, to which he bequeathed some of the Spiegel plate and often\nhelped the other city fathers to empty the big punch-bowl. Indeed, it was\nat one of these corporation feasts that he died of apoplexy. He was\nburied with honors in the yard of the Dutch church in Garden Street.\n\n\n\n\nTHE KNELL AT THE WEDDING\n\nA young New Yorker had laid such siege to the heart of a certain\nbelle--this was back in the Knickerbocker days when people married for\nlove--that everybody said the banns were as good as published; but\neverybody did not know, for one fine morning my lady went to church with\nanother gentleman--not her father, though old enough to be--and when the\ntwo came out they were man and wife. The elderly man was rich. After the\nfirst paroxysm of rage and disappointment had passed, the lover withdrew\nfrom the world and devoted himself to study; nor when he learned that she\nhad become a widow, with comfortable belongings derived from the estate\nof the late lamented, did he renew acquaintance with her, and he smiled\nbitterly when he heard of her second marriage to a young adventurer who\nled her a wretched life, but atoned for his sins, in a measure, by dying\nsoon enough afterward to leave a part of her fortune unspent.\n\nIn the lapse of time the doubly widowed returned to New York, where she\nmet again the lover of her youth. Mr. Ellenwood had acquired the reserve\nof a scholar, and had often puzzled his friends with his eccentricities;\nbut after a few meetings with the object of his young affection he came\nout of his glooms, and with respectful formality laid again at her feet\nthe heart she had trampled on forty years before. Though both of them\nwere well on in life, the news of their engagement made little of a\nsensation. The widow was still fair; the wooer was quiet, refined, and\ncourtly, and the union of their fortunes would assure a competence for\nthe years that might be left to them. The church of St. Paul, on\nBroadway, was appointed for the wedding, and it was a whim of the groom\nthat his bride should meet him there. At the appointed hour a company of\nthe curious had assembled in the edifice; a rattle of wheels was heard,\nand a bevy of bridesmaids and friends in hoop, patch, velvet, silk,\npowder, swords, and buckles walked down the aisle; but just as the bride\nhad come within the door, out of the sunlight that streamed so\nbrilliantly on the mounded turf and tombstones in the churchyard, the\nbell in the steeple gave a single boom.\n\nThe bride walked to the altar, and as she took her place before it\nanother clang resounded from the belfry. The bridegroom was not there.\nAgain and again the brazen throat and iron tongue sent out a doleful\nknell, and faces grew pale and anxious, for the meaning of it could not\nbe guessed. With eyes fixed on the marble tomb of her first husband, the\nwoman tremblingly awaited the solution of the mystery, until the door was\ndarkened by something that made her catch her breath--a funeral. The\norgan began a solemn dirge as a black-cloaked cortege came through the\naisle, and it was with amazement that the bride discovered it to be\nformed of her oldest friends,--bent, withered; paired, man and woman, as\nin mockery--while behind, with white face, gleaming eyes, disordered\nhair, and halting step, came the bridegroom, in his shroud.\n\n\"Come,\" he said,--\"let us be married. The coffins are ready. Then, home to\nthe tomb.\"\n\n\"Cruel!\" murmured the woman.\n\n\"Now, Heaven judge which of us has been cruel. Forty years ago you took\naway my faith, destroyed my hopes, and gave to others your youth and\nbeauty. Our lives have nearly run their course, so I am come to wed you\nas with funeral rites.\" Then, in a softer manner, he took her hand, and\nsaid, \"All is forgiven. If we cannot live together we will at least be\nwedded in death. Time is almost at its end. We will marry for eternity.\nCome.\" And tenderly embracing her, he led her forward. Hard as was the\nordeal, confusing, frightening, humiliating, the bride came through it a\nbetter woman.\n\n\"It is true,\" she said, \"I have been vain and worldly, but now, in my\nage, the truest love I ever knew has come back to me. It is a holy love.\nI will cherish it forever.\" Their eyes met, and they saw each other\nthrough tears. Solemnly the clergyman read the marriage service, and when\nit was concluded the low threnody that had come from the organ in key\nwith the measured clang of the bell, merged into a nobler motive, until\nat last the funeral measures were lost in a burst of exultant harmony.\nSobs of pent feeling and sighs of relief were heard as the bridal party\nmoved away, and when the newmade wife and husband reached the portal the\nbell was silent and the sun was shining.\n\n\n\n\nROISTERING DIRCK VAN DARA\n\nIn the days when most of New York stood below Grand Street, a roistering\nfellow used to make the rounds of the taverns nightly, accompanied by a\nfriend named Rooney. This brave drinker was Dirck Van Dara, one of the\nlast of those swag-bellied topers that made merry with such solemnity\nbefore the English seized their unoffending town. It chanced that Dirck\nand his chum were out later than usual one night, and by eleven o'clock,\nwhen all good people were abed, a drizzle set in that drove the watch to\nsleep in doorways and left Broadway tenantless. As the two choice spirits\nreeled out of a hostelry near Wall Street and saw the lights go out in\nthe tap-room windows they started up town to their homes in Leonard\nStreet, but hardly had they come abreast of old St. Paul's when a strange\nthing stayed them: crying was heard in the churchyard and a\nphosphorescent light shone among the tombs. Rooney was sober in a moment,\nbut not so Dirck Van Dara, who shouted, \"Here is sport, friend Rooney.\nLet's climb the wall. If the dead are for a dance, we will take partners\nand show them how pigeons' wings are cut nowadays.\"\n\n\"No,\" exclaimed the other; \"those must perish who go among the dead when\nthey come out of their graves. I've heard that if you get into their\nclutches, you must stay in purgatory for a hundred years, and no priest\ncan pray you out.\"\n\n\"Bah! old wives' tales! Come on!\" And pulling his friend with him, they\nwere over the fence. \"Hello! what have we here?\" As he spoke a haggard\nthing arose from behind a tombstone, a witchlike creature, with rags\nfalling about her wasted form and hair that almost hid her face. The\ntwain were set a-sneezing by the fumes of sulphur, and Rooney swore\nafterwards that there were little things at the end of the yard with\ngrinning faces and lights on the ends of their tails. Old Hollands are\nheady. Dirck began to chaff the beldam on her dilapidation, but she\nstopped his talk by dipping something from a caldron behind her and\nflinging it over both of her visitors. Whatever it was, it burned\noutrageously, and with a yell of pain they leaped the wall more briskly\nthan they had jumped it the other way, and were soon in full flight. They\nhad not gone far when the clock struck twelve.\n\n\"Arrah! there's a crowd of them coming after,\" panted Rooney. \"Ave Mary!\nI've heard that if you die with witch broth being thrown over you, you're\ndone for in the next world, as well as this. Let us get to Father\nDonagan's. Wow!\"\n\nAs he made this exclamation the fugitives found their way opposed by a\nwoman, who looked at them with immodest eyes and said, \"Dirck Van Dara,\nyour sire, in wig and bob, turned us Cyprians out of New York, after\nducking us in the Collect. But we forgive him, and to prove it we ask you\nto our festival.\"\n\nAt the stroke of midnight the street before the church had swarmed with a\nmotley throng, that now came onward, waving torches that sparkled like\nstars. They formed a ring about Dirck and began to dance, and he, nothing\nloth, seized the nymph who had addressed him and joined in the revel. Not\na soul was out or awake except themselves, and no words were said as the\ndance went wilder to strains of weird and unseen instruments. Now and\nthen one would apply a torch to the person of Dirck, meanly assailing him\nin the rear, and the smart of the burn made him feet it the livelier. At\nlast they turned toward the Battery as by common consent, and went\ncareering along the street in frolic fashion. Rooney, whose senses had\nthus far been pent in a stupor, fled with a yell of terror, and as he\nlooked back he saw the unholy troop disappearing in the mist like a\nmoving galaxy. Never from that night was Dirck Van Data seen or heard of\nmore, and the publicans felt that they had less reason for living.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PARTY FROM GIBBET ISLAND\n\nEllis Island, in New York harbor, once bore the name of Gibbet Island,\nbecause pirates and mutineers were hanged there in chains. During the\ntimes when it was devoted to this fell purpose there stood in Communipaw\nthe Wild Goose tavern, where Dutch burghers resorted, to smoke, drink\nHollands, and grow fat, wise, and sleepy in each others' company. The\nplague of this inn was Yan Yost Vanderscamp, a nephew of the landlord,\nwho frequently alarmed the patrons of the house by putting powder into\ntheir pipes and attaching briers beneath their horses' tails, and who\nnaturally turned pirate when he became older, taking with him to sea his\nboon companion, an ill-disposed, ill-favored blackamoor named Pluto, who\nhad been employed about the tavern. When the landlord died, Vanderscamp\npossessed himself of this property, fitted it up with plunder, and at\nintervals he had his gang ashore,--such a crew of singing, swearing,\ndrinking, gaming devils as Communipaw had never seen the like of; yet the\nresidents could not summon activity enough to stop the goings-on that\nmade the Wild Goose a disgrace to their village. The British authorities,\nhowever, caught three of the swashbucklers and strung them up on Gibbet\nIsland, and things that went on badly in Communipaw after that went on\nwith quiet and secrecy.\n\nThe pirate and his henchmen were returning to the tavern one night, after\na visit to a rakish-looking vessel in the offing, when a squall broke in\nsuch force as to give their skiff a leeway to the place of executions. As\nthey rounded that lonely reef a creaking noise overhead caused\nVanderscamp to look up, and he could not repress a shudder as he saw the\nbodies of his three messmates, their rags fluttering and their chains\ngrinding in the wind.\n\n\"Don't you want to see your friends?\" sneered Pluto. \"You, who are never\nafraid of living men, what do you fear from the dead?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" answered the pirate. Then, lugging forth his bottle, he took a\nlong pull at it, and holding it toward the dead felons, he shouted,\n\"Here's fair weather to you, my lads in the wind, and if you should be\nwalking the rounds to-night, come in to supper.\"\n\nA clatter of bones and a creak of chains sounded like a laugh. It was\nmidnight when the boat pulled in at Communipaw, and as the storm\ncontinued Vanderscamp, drenched to the skin, made quick time to the Wild\nGoose. As he entered, a sound of revelry overhead smote his ear, and,\nbeing no less astonished than in need of cordials, he hastened up-stairs\nand flung open the door. A table stood there, furnished with jugs and\npipes and cans, and by light of candles that burned as blue as brimstone\ncould be seen the three gallows-birds from Gibbet Island, with halters on\ntheir necks, clinking their tankards together and trolling forth a\ndrinking-song.\n\nStarting back with affright as the corpses hailed him with lifted arms\nand turned their fishy eyes on him, Vanderscamp slipped at the door and\nfell headlong to the bottom of the stairs. Next morning he was found\nthere by the neighbors, dead to a certainty, and was put away in the\nDutch churchyard at Bergen on the Sunday following. As the house was\nrifled and deserted by its occupants, it was hinted that the negro had\nbetrayed his master to his fellow-buccaneers, and that he, Pluto, was no\nother than the devil in disguise. But he was not, for his skiff was seen\nfloating bottom up in the bay soon after, and his drowned body lodged\namong the rocks at the foot of the pirates' gallows.\n\nFor a long time afterwards the island was regarded as a place that\nrequired purging with bell, book, and candle, for shadows were reported\nthere and faint lights that shot into the air, and to this day, with the\ngreat immigrant station on it and crowds going and coming all the time,\nthe Battery boatmen prefer not to row around it at night, for they are\nlikely to see the shades of the soldier and his mistress who were drowned\noff the place one windy night, when the girl was aiding the fellow to\nescape confinement in the guard-house, to say nothing of Vanderscamp and\nhis felons.\n\n\n\n\nMISS BRITTON'S POKER\n\nThe maids of Staten Island wrought havoc among the royal troops who were\nquartered among them during the Revolution. Near quarantine, in an old\nhouse,--the Austen mansion,--a soldier of King George hanged himself\nbecause a Yankee maid who lived there would not have him for a husband,\nnor any gentleman whose coat was of his color; and, until ghosts went out\nof fashion, his spirit, in somewhat heavy boots, with jingling spurs,\noften disturbed the nightly quiet of the place.\n\nThe conduct of a damsel in the old town of Richmond was even more stern.\nShe was the granddaughter, and a pretty one, of a farmer named Britton;\nbut though Britton by descent and name, she was no friend of Britons,\nalbeit she might have had half the officers in the neighboring camp at\nher feet, if she had wished them there. Once, while mulling a cup of\ncider for her grandfather, she was interrupted by a self-invited\nmyrmidon, who undertook, in a fashion rude and unexpected, to show the\nlove in which he held her. Before he could kiss her, the girl drew the\nhot poker from the mug of drink and jabbed at the vitals of her amorous\nfoe, burning a hole through his scarlet uniform and printing on his burly\nperson a lasting memento of the adventure. With a howl of pain the fellow\nrushed away, and the privacy of the Britton family was never again\ninvaded, at least whilst cider was being mulled.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL'S STEPPING-STONES\n\nWhen the devil set a claim to the fair lands at the north of Long Island\nSound, his claim was disputed by the Indians, who prepared to fight for\ntheir homes should he attempt to serve his writ of ejectment. Parley\nresulted in nothing, so the bad one tried force, but he was routed in\nopen fight and found it desirable to get away from the scene of action as\nsoon as possible. He retreated across the Sound near the head of East\nRiver. The tide was out, so he stepped from island to island, without\ntrouble, and those reefs and islands are to this day the Devil's\nStepping-Stones. On reaching Throgg's Neck he sat down in a despairing\nattitude and brooded on his defeat, until, roused to a frenzy at the\nthought of it, he resolved to renew the war on terms advantageous\nentirely to himself. In that day Connecticut was free from rocks, but\nLong Island was covered with them; so he gathered all he could lay his\nhands on and tossed them at the Indians that he could see across the\nSound near Cold Spring until the supply had given out. The red men who\nlast inhabited Connecticut used to show white men where the missiles\nlanded and where the devil struck his heel into the ground as he sprang\nfrom the shore in his haste to reach Long Island. At Cold Spring other\nfootprints and one of his toes are shown. Establishing himself at Coram,\nhe troubled the people of the country for many years, so that between the\ndevil on the west and the Montauks on the east they were plagued indeed;\nfor though their guard at Watch Hill, Rhode Island, and other places\noften apprised them of the coming of the Montauks, they never knew which\nway to look for the devil.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPRINGS OF BLOOD AND WATER\n\nA great drought had fallen on Long Island, and the red men prayed for\nwater. It is true that they could get it at Lake Ronkonkoma, but some of\nthem were many miles from there, and, beside, they feared the spirits at\nthat place: the girl who plied its waters in a phosphor-shining birch,\nseeking her recreant lover; and the powerful guardians that the Great\nSpirit had put in charge to keep the fish from being caught, for these\nfish were the souls of men, awaiting deliverance into another form. The\npeople gathered about their villages in bands and besought the Great\nSpirit to give them drink. His voice was heard at last, bidding their\nchief to shoot an arrow into the air and to watch where it fell, for\nthere would water gush out. The chief obeyed the deity, and as the arrow\ntouched the earth a spring of sweet water spouted into the air. Running\nforward with glad cries the red men drank eagerly of the liquor, laved\ntheir faces in it, and were made strong again; and in memory of that\nevent they called the place the Hill of God, or Manitou Hill, and Manet\nor Manetta Hill it is to this day. Hereabouts the Indians settled and\nlived in peace, thriving under the smile of their deity, making wampum\nfor the inland tribes and waxing rich with gains from it. They made the\ncanal from bay to sea at Canoe Place, that they might reach open water\nwithout dragging their boats across the sand-bars, and in other ways they\nproved themselves ingenious and strong.\n\nWhen the English landed on the island they saw that the Indians were not\na people to be trifled with, and in order to properly impress them with\ntheir superiority, they told them that John Bull desired a treaty with\nthem. The officers got them to sit in line in front of a cannon, the\nnature of which instrument was unknown to them, and during the talk the\ngun was fired, mowing down so many of the red people that the survivors\ntook to flight, leaving the English masters at the north shore, for this\nheartless and needless massacre took place at Whale's Neck. So angry was\nthe Great Spirit at this act of cruelty and treachery that he caused\nblood to ooze from the soil, as he had made water leap for his thirsting\nchildren, and never again would grass grow on the spot where the murder\nhad been done.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRUMBLING SILVER\n\nThere is a clay bank on Little Neck, Long Island, where metallic nodules\nare now and then exposed by rain. Rustics declare them to be silver, and\naccount for their crumbling on the theory that the metal is under a\ncurse. A century ago the Montauks mined it, digging over enough soil to\nunearth these pellets now and again, and exchanging them at the nearest\nsettlements for tobacco and rum. The seeming abundance of these lumps of\nsilver aroused the cupidity of one Gardiner, a dweller in the central\nwilderness of the island, but none of the Indians would reveal the source\nof their treasure. One day Gardiner succeeded in getting an old chief so\ntipsy that, without realizing what he was doing, he led the white man to\nthe clay bed and showed him the metallic spots glittering in the sun.\nWith a cry of delight Gardiner sprang forward and tore at the earth with\nhis fingers, while the Indian stood by laughing at his eagerness.\n\nPresently a shade crossed the white man's face, for he thought that this\nvast treasure would have to be shared by others. It was too much to\nendure. He wanted all. He would be the richest man on earth. Stealing\nbehind the Indian as he stood swaying and chuckling, he wrenched the\nhatchet from his belt and clove his skull at a blow. Then, dragging the\nbody to a thicket and hiding it under stones and leaves, he hurried to\nhis house for cart and pick and shovel, and returning with speed he dug\nout a half ton of the silver before sunset. The cart was loaded, and he\nset homeward, trembling with excitement and conjuring bright visions for\nhis future, when a wailing sound from a thicket made him halt and turn\npale. Noiselessly a figure glided from the bush. It was the Indian he had\nkilled. The form approached the treasure, flung up its arm, uttered a few\nguttural words; then a rising wind seemed to lift it from the ground and\nit drifted toward the Sound, fading like a cloud as it receded.\n\nFull of misgiving, Gardiner drove to his home, and, by light of a\nlantern, transferred his treasure to his cellar. Was it the dulness of\nthe candle that made the metal look so black? After a night of feverish\ntossing on his bed he arose and went to the cellar to gloat upon his\nwealth. The light of dawn fell on a heap of gray dust, a few brassy\nlooking particles showing here and there. The curse of the ghost had been\nof power and the silver was silver no more. Mineralogists say that the\nnodules are iron pyrites. Perhaps so; but old residents know that they\nused to be silver.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CORTELYOU ELOPEMENT\n\nIn the Bath district of Brooklyn stands Cortelyou manor, built one\nhundred and fifty years ago, and a place of defence during the Revolution\nwhen the British made sallies from their camp in Flatbush and worried the\nneighborhood. It was in one of these forays on pigs and chickens that a\ngallant officer of red-coats met a pretty lass in the fields of\nCortelyou. He stilled her alarm by aiding her to gather wild-flowers, and\nit came about that the girl often went into the fields and came back with\nprodigious bouquets of daisies. The elder Cortelyou had no inkling of\nthis adventure until one of his sons saw her tryst with the red-coat at a\ndistance. Be sure the whole family joined him in remonstrance. As the\ngirl declared that she would not forego the meetings with her lover, the\nfather swore that she should never leave his roof again, and he tried to\nbe as good, or bad, as his word. The damsel took her imprisonment as any\ngirl of spirit would, but was unable to effect her escape until one\nevening, as she sat at her window, watching the moon go down and paint\nthe harbor with a path of light. A tap at the pane, as of a pebble thrown\nagainst it, roused her from her revery. It was her lover on the lawn.\n\nAt her eager signal he ran forward with a light ladder, planted it\nagainst the window-sill, and in less than a minute the twain were running\ntoward the beach; but the creak of the ladder had been heard, and\ngrasping their muskets two of the men hurried out. In the track of the\nmoon the pursuers descried a moving form, and, without waiting to\nchallenge, they levelled the guns and fired. A woman's cry followed the\nreport; then a dip of oars was heard that fast grew fainter until it\nfaded from hearing. On returning to the house they found the girl's room\nempty, and next morning her slipper was brought in from the mud at the\nlanding. Nobody inside of the American lines ever learned what that shot\nhad done, but if it failed to take a life it robbed Cortelyou of his\nmind. He spent the rest of his days in a single room, chained to a staple\nin the floor, tramping around and around, muttering and gesturing, and\nsometimes startling the passer-by as he showed his white face and ragged\nbeard at the window.\n\n\n\n\nVAN WEMPEL'S GOOSE\n\nAllow us to introduce Nicholas Van Wempel, of Flatbush: fat, phlegmatic,\nrich, and henpecked. He would like to be drunk because he is henpecked,\nbut the wife holds the purse-strings and only doles out money to him when\nshe wants groceries or he needs clothes. It was New Year's eve, the eve\nof 1739, when Vrouw Van Wempel gave to her lord ten English shillings and\nbade him hasten to Dr. Beck's for the fat goose that had been bespoken.\n\"And mind you do not stop at the tavern,\" she screamed after him in her\nshrillest tone. But poor Nicholas! As he went waddling down the road,\nsnapping through an ice-crust at every step, a roguish wind--or perhaps\nit was one of the bugaboos that were known to haunt the shores of\nGravesend Bay--snatched off his hat and rolled it into the very doorway\nof the tavern that he had been warned, under terrible penalties, to\navoid.\n\nAs he bent to pick it up the door fell ajar, and a pungency of schnapps\nand tobacco went into his nostrils. His resolution, if he had one,\nvanished. He ordered one glass of schnapps; friends came in and treated\nhim to another; he was bound to do as much for them; shilling by shilling\nthe goose money passed into the till of the landlord. Nicholas was heard\nto make a muttered assertion that it was his own money anyhow, and that\nwhile he lived he would be the head of his own house; then the mutterings\ngrew faint and merged into snores. When he awoke it was at the low sound\nof voices in the next room, and drowsily turning his head he saw there\ntwo strangers,--sailors, he thought, from their leather jackets, black\nbeards, and the rings in their ears. What was that they said? Gold? On\nthe marshes? At the old Flatlands tide-mill? The talkers had gone before\nhis slow and foggy brain could grasp it all, but when the idea had fairly\neaten its way into his intellect, he arose with the nearest approach to\nalacrity that he had exhibited in years, and left the place. He crunched\nback to his home, and seeing nobody astir went softly into his shed,\nwhere he secured a shovel and lantern, and thence continued with all\nconsistent speed to the tumbledown tide-mill on the marsh,--a trying\njourney for his fat legs on a sharp night, but hope and schnapps impelled\nhim.\n\nHe reached the mill, and, hastening to the cellar, began to probe in the\nsoft, unfrozen earth. Presently his spade struck something, and he dug\nand dug until he had uncovered the top of a canvas bag,--the sort that\nsailors call a \"round stern-chest.\" It took all his strength to lug it\nout, and as he did so a seam burst, letting a shower of gold pieces over\nthe ground. He loosed the band of his breeches, and was filling the legs\nthereof with coin, when a tread of feet sounded overhead and four men\ncame down the stair. Two of them he recognized as the fellows of the\ntavern. They saw the bag, the lantern, then Nicholas. Laden though he was\nwith gold until he could hardly budge, these pirates, for such they were,\ngot him up-stairs, forced him to drink hot Hollands to the success of\ntheir flag, then shot him through the window into the creek. As he was\nabout to make this unceremonious exit he clutched something to save\nhimself, and it proved to be a plucked goose that the pirates had stolen\nfrom a neighboring farm and were going to sup on when they had scraped\ntheir gold together. He felt the water and mud close over him; he\nstruggled desperately; he was conscious of breathing more freely and of\nstaggering off at a vigorous gait; then the power of all the schnapps\nseemed to get into his head, and he remembered no more until he heard his\nwife shrilling in his ears, when he sat up and found himself in a\nsnow-bank close to his house, with a featherless goose tight in his\ngrasp.\n\nVrouw Van Wempel cared less about the state of her spouse when she saw\nthat he had secured the bird, and whenever he told his tale of the\npirates she turned a deaf ear to him, for if he had found the gold why\ndid he not manage to bring home a few pieces of it? He, in answer, asked\nhow, as he had none of his own money, she could have come by the goose?\nHe often told his tale to sympathetic ears, and would point to the old\nmill to prove that it was true.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WEARY WATCHER\n\nBefore the opening of the great bridge sent commerce rattling up\nWashington Street in Brooklyn that thoroughfare was a shaded and\nbeautiful avenue, and among the houses that attested its respectability\nwas one, between Tillary and Concord Streets, that was long declared to\nbe haunted. A man and his wife dwelt there who seemed to be fondly\nattached to each other, and whose love should have been the stronger\nbecause of their three children none grew to years. A mutual sorrow is as\nclose a tie as a common affection. One day, while on a visit to a friend,\nthe wife saw her husband drive by in a carriage with a showy woman beside\nhim. She went home at once, and when the supposed recreant returned she\nmet him with bitter reproaches. He answered never a word, but took his\nhat and left the house, never to be seen again in the places that had\nknown him.\n\nThe wife watched and waited, daily looking for his return, but days\nlengthened into weeks, months, years, and still he came not. Sometimes\nshe lamented that she had spoken hastily and harshly, thinking that, had\nshe known all, she might have found him blameless. There was no family to\nlook after, no wholesome occupation that she sought, so the days went by\nin listening and watching, until, at last, her body and mind gave way,\nand the familiar sight of her face, watching from a second floor window,\nwas seen no longer. Her last day came. She had risen from her bed; life\nand mind seemed for a moment to be restored to her; and standing where\nshe had stood so often, her form supported by a half-closed shutter and a\ngrasp on the sash, she looked into the street once more, sighed\nhopelessly, and so died. It was her shade that long watched at the\nwindows; it was her waxen face, heavy with fatigue and pain, that was\ndimly seen looking over the balusters in the evening.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RIVAL FIDDLERS\n\nBefore Brooklyn had spread itself beyond Greenwood Cemetery a stone could\nbe seen in Martense's Lane, south of that burial-ground, that bore a hoof\nmark. A negro named Joost, in the service of the Van Der\nSomething-or-others, was plodding home on Saturday night, his fiddle\nunder his arm. He had been playing for a wedding in Flatbush and had been\ndrinking schnapps until he saw stars on the ground and fences in the sky;\nin fact, the universe seemed so out of order that he seated himself\nrather heavily on this rock to think about it. The behavior of the stars\nin swimming and rolling struck him as especially curious, and he\nconceived the notion that they wanted to dance. Putting his fiddle to his\nchin, he began a wild jig, and though he made it up as he went along, he\nwas conscious of doing finely, when the boom of a bell sent a shiver down\nhis spine. It was twelve o'clock, and here he was playing a dance tune on\nSunday. However, the sin of playing for one second on the Sabbath was as\ngreat as that of playing all day; so, as long as he was in for it, he\nresolved to carry the tune to the end, and he fiddled away with a\nreckless vehemence. Presently he became aware that the music was both\nwilder and sweeter than before, and that there was more of it. Not until\nthen did he observe that a tall, thin stranger stood beside him; and that\nhe was fiddling too,--composing a second to Joost's air, as if he could\nread his thought before he put it into execution on the strings. Joost\npaused, and the stranger did likewise.\n\n\"Where de debble did you come frum?\" asked the first. The other smiled.\n\n\"And how did you come to know dat music?\" Joost pursued.\n\n\"Oh, I've known that tune for years,\" was the reply. \"It's called 'The\nDevil's joy at Sabbath Breaking.'\"\n\n\"You're a liar!\" cried the negro. The stranger bowed and burst into a\nroar of laughter. \"A liar!\" repeated Joost,--\"for I made up dat music dis\nvery minute.\"\n\n\"Yet you notice that I could follow when you played.\"\n\n\"Humph! Yes, you can follow.\"\n\n\"And I can lead, too. Do you know the tune 'Go to the Devil and Shake\nYourself?'\"\n\n\"Yes; but I play second to nobody.\"\n\n\"Very well, I'll beat you at any air you try.\"\n\n\"Done!\" said Joost. And then began a contest that lasted until daybreak.\nThe stranger was an expert, but Joost seemed to be inspired, and just as\nthe sun appeared he sounded, in broad and solemn harmonies, the hymn of\nVon Catts:\n\n\"Now behold, at dawn of day, Pious Dutchmen sing and pray.\"\n\nAt that the stranger exclaimed, \"Well, that beats the devil!\" and\nstriking his foot angrily on the rock, disappeared in a flash of fire\nlike a burst bomb. Joost was hurled twenty feet by the explosion, and lay\non the ground insensible until a herdsman found him some hours later. As\nhe suffered no harm from the contest and became a better fiddler than\never, it is supposed that the recording angel did not inscribe his feat\nof Sabbath breaking against him in large letters. There were a few who\ndoubted his story, but they had nothing more to say when he showed them\nthe hoof-mark on the rock. Moreover, there are fewer fiddlers among the\nnegroes than there used to be, because they say that the violin is the\ndevil's instrument.\n\n\n\n\nWYANDANK\n\nFrom Brooklyn Heights, or Ihpetonga, \"highplace of trees,\" where the\nCanarsie Indians made wampum or sewant, and where they contemplated the\nGreat Spirit in the setting of the sun across the meeting waters, to\nMontauk Point, Long Island has been swept by the wars of red men, and\nmany are the tokens of their occupancy. A number of their graves were to\nbe seen until within fifty years, as clearly marked as when the warriors\nwere laid there in the hope of resurrection among the happy hunting\ngrounds that lay to the west and south. The casting of stones on the\ndeath-spots or graves of some revered or beloved Indians was long\ncontinued, and was undoubtedly for the purpose of raising monuments to\nthem, though at Monument Mountain, Massachusetts, Sacrifice Rock, between\nPlymouth and Sandwich, Massachusetts, and some other places the cairns\nmerely mark a trail. Even the temporary resting-place of Sachem\nPoggatacut, near Sag Harbor, was kept clear of weeds and leaves by\nIndians who passed it in the two centuries that lapsed between the death\nof the chief and the laying of the road across it in 1846. This spot is\nnot far from Whooping Boy's Hollow, so named because of a boy who was\nkilled by Indians, and because the rubbing of two trees there in a storm\ngave forth a noise like crying. An older legend has it that this noise is\nthe angry voice of the magician who tried to slay Wyandank, the\n\"Washington of the Montauks,\" who is buried on the east end of the\nisland. Often he led his men into battle, sounding the warwhoop, copied\nfrom the scream of the eagle, so loudly that those who heard it said that\nthe Montauks were crying for prey.\n\nIt was while killing an eagle on Block Island, that he might use the\nplumes for his hair, that this chief disclosed himself to the hostiles\nand brought on a fight in which every participant except himself was\nslain. He was secretly followed back to Long Island by a magician who had\nhopes of enlisting the evil ones of that region against him,--the giants\nthat left their tracks in \"Blood-stone Rock\" and \"Printed Rock,\" near\nNapeague, and such renegades as he who, having betrayed his people, was\nswallowed by the earth, his last agony being marked by a stamp of the\nfoot that left its print on a slab near the Indian burial-ground at\nKongonok. Failing in these alliances the wizard hid among the hollows of\nthe moors, and there worked spells of such malice that the chief's hand\nlost steadiness in the hunt and his voice was seldom heard in council.\nWhen the haunt of this evil one was made known, a number of young men\nundertook to trap him. They went to the hills by night, and moved\nstealthily through the shrubbery until they were almost upon him; but his\nfamiliars had warned him of their approach, though they had wakened him\nonly to betray him for a cloud swept in from the sea, fell about the\nwretch, burst into flame, and rolled back toward the ocean, bearing him\nin the centre of its burning folds. Because of the cry he uttered the\nplace long bore the name of Whooping Hollow, and it used to be said that\nthe magician visited the scene of his ill-doing every winter, when his\nshrieks could be heard ringing over the hills.\n\n\n\n\nMARK OF THE SPIRIT HAND\n\nAndover, New Jersey, was quaint and quiet in the days before the\nRevolution--it is not a roaring metropolis, even yet--and as it offered\nfew social advantages there was more gathering in taprooms and more\ndrinking of flip than there should have been. Among those who were not\naverse to a cheering cup were three boon companions, Bailey, Hill, and\nEvans, farmers of the neighborhood. They loved the tavern better than the\nchurch, and in truth the church folk did not love them well, for they\nwere suspected of entertaining heresies of the most forbidden character.\nIt was while they were discussing matters of belief over their glasses\nthat one of them proposed, in a spirit of bravado, that whichever of the\ntrio might be first to die should come back from the grave and reveal\nhimself to the others--if he could--thus settling the question as to\nwhether there was a future.\n\nNot long after this agreement--for consent was unanimous--Hill departed\nthis life. His friends lamented his absence, especially at the tavern,\nbut they anticipated no attempt on his part to express the distinguished\nconsideration that he had felt for his old chums. Some weeks passed, yet\nthere was no sign, and the two survivors of the party, as they jogged\nhomeward to the house where both lived, had begun to think and speak less\nfrequently of the absent one. But one night the household was alarmed by\na terrible cry. Bailey got a light and hurried to the bedside of his\nfriend, whom he found deathly white and holding his chest as if in pain.\n\"He has been here!\" gasped Evans. \"He stood here just now.\"\n\n\"Who?\" asked Bailey, a creep passing down his spine.\n\n\"Hill! He stood there, where you are now, and touched me with a hand that\nwas so cold--cold--\" and Evans shivered violently. On turning back the\ncollar of his shirt the impression of a hand appeared on the flesh near\nthe shoulder: a hand in white, with one finger missing. Hill had lost a\nfinger. There was less of taverns after that night, for Evans carried the\ntoken of that ghostly visit on his person until he, too, had gone to\nsolve the great secret.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST LIBERAL CHURCH\n\nIn 1770 the brig Hand-in-Hand went ashore at Good Luck, New Jersey. Among\nthe passengers on board the vessel, that it would perhaps be wrong to\ncall ill fated, was John Murray, founder of Universalism in America. He\nhad left England in despair, for his wife and children were dead, and so\nbroken was he in his power of thought and purpose that he felt as if he\nshould never preach again.\n\nIn fact, his rescue from the wreck was passive, on his part, and he\nsuffered himself to be carried ashore, recking little whether he reached\nit or no. After he had been for half an hour or so on the soil of the new\ncountry, to which he had made his entrance in so unexpected a manner, he\nbegan to feel hungry, and set off afoot along the desolate beach. He came\nto a cabin where an old man stood in a doorway with a basket of fish\nbeside him. \"Will you sell me a fish?\" asked Murray.\n\n\"No. The fish is all yours. I expected you.\"\n\n\"You do not know me.\"\n\n\"You are the man who is to tell us of God.\"\n\n\"I will never preach of Him again.\"\n\n\"I built that log church yonder. Don't say that you will not preach in\nit. Whenever a clergyman, Presbyterian, Methody, or Baptist, came here, I\nasked him to preach in my kitchen. I tried to get him to stay; but no--he\nalways had work elsewhere. Last night I saw the brig driven on the bar,\nand a voice said to me, 'In that ship is the man who will teach of God.\nNot the old God of terrors, but one of love and mercy. He has come\nthrough great sorrow to do this work.' I have made ready for you. Do not\ngo away.\"\n\nThe minister felt a strange lifting in his heart. He fell on his knees\nbefore the little house and offered up a prayer. Long he staid in that\nplace, preaching gentle doctrines and ministering to the men and women of\nthat lonely village, and when the fisherman apostle, Thomas Potter, died\nhe left the church to Murray, who, in turn, bequeathed it, \"free, for the\nuse of all Christian people.\"","title":"Myths and Legends of Our Own Land \u2014 Volume 02 : the Isle of Manhattoes and nearby","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":8177}